Oh, yes. The "One Glass Too Many."
We were devastatingly acquainted with it. Shortly after that glass arrived, spirits still high, jovial and flirtatious, maybe two or three sips in, I could look at my best girl; she would look at me. "We're done," but 'done' rarely meant that it was time to pack it in.
"Done" did not go home. "Done" did not signify having to drink water for the rest of the night. "Done" didn't mean you weren't going to slam some black guy in the bathroom (you didn't have to be "done" for that to happen). "Done" meant we have opened and stepped through the door of "Beyond Drunk: The Point of No Return."
Always an interesting place to be, depending on the crew that you were with. Some would pick aggressive challenges with straight hotties on the pool tables. The gay guy insisting that the überhot bouncer, Patch would have to kiss a boy. Patch, a bald, beast built like a brick house was always confident he would win. He used to say that if he lost, he would pick the gay boy who could grope and kiss on him for 30 seconds. But if he won, he could pick the girl in our crew that we would set him up with. We never won, but my best girl won herself a pimped date with her.
On the night of that date, like any good friend would, I instructed that she didn't have to fuck him, but she had to get a look at It. The next day over coffee at Café Wim, she told me how their passion dragged them to the floor, not even able to make it to the bed. And when Patch released his stuff, she was awed. They tried, and tried, but there was no way she could accommodate all of it. He became my priority jack off fantasy fodder after that. In fact, I think the next time I saw him I handed him a jack and coke and said, "You know. I could do it. I wouldn't stop you," even though I wasn't even a bottom. He graciously declined.
Some of my posse would dance even wilder than the last time. Even during a slow, sexy jam. All the power to you if it compelled you enough to have to force us to claw them down from atop a flimsy table. I rarely did. I did however have a five very basic rules for the ladies in my life who would let that poison take over their joy and brain cells. I've never forgotten them, and I assure you, they still know them today.:
- Do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.
- No falling down on the floor.
- No lifting your dress over your head.
- No screaming.
- No fighting. If you get into a fight, you're on your own.
Each week, any combination of these rules would be broken. Strangely, the defiance would happen in specific establishments and in any number of combination. For example, one night at Market Station, a long lost friend showed face (poor bastard), only to be greeted by screams and an onslaught of hugs. So much so, he fell to the ground, buried under these drunken girls. He looked up at me, buried under boobs and pussies and wine breath, and all I could do was say, "Hey. 'Sup?" I'd return to sipping on my B52 on ice, and resumed picking up the bartender, Tony, who would have, I'm sure, let me tear him apart.
Another night, every single rule was broken. A crew of three girls sounded like an army of 10, screaming and carrying on. They climbed up on chairs, lifted their shirts and flashed the bar. One friend, who had just got her "tramp stamp" tattoo on the small of her back, lifted her full length dress almost over her head to show her new ink. Later, one was found screaming at a girl in the ladies room; the culprit moving in on a man that my friend was ready to set free, but needed their relationship to end with a big, dramatic "Fuck Off!" and some silly nothing whore was going to take that away from her.
There were a couple of punches, but in keeping with "Kevin's 5 Rules," I walked off to the DJ booth to request some CFM or Jamiroquai so I could keep dancing.
Finally, it was closing time and I stepped out to score a cab for our crew. While I was doing that, they drunkenly stumbled out of The Well/Market Station, tripping, tumbling and getting their limbs entwined up on the ground.
I walked back and just stood there. "HELP US!"
I reminded them..."You're on your own."
They tried to get up, but when one used the ground to leverage themselves, the other would feel their elbow or knee or head get jammed further into the concrete. Finally, after so much screaming, I tossed my cigarette, recruited the sexy Patch and we lifted them simultaneously. While they stumbled around laughing and reminiscing, I jumped into the waiting cab and as it took off, I yelled out, "see you at Wedges!"
Part 3 to follow...
If I was anyone but Kris, Alison or Danny, being safe from elimination this week would be no great feat.
