Saturday night began with buying Sprite in a gas station and ended with me inexplicably naked next to a very not naked flight attendant. Let us attempt to unravel the mystery of yet another fucked up night in the big city together, shall we?
The evening began with a very strong martini. I normally do not drink heavily prior to group pre-gaming, but I was feeling slightly anxious about the impending outing, the second in the week with the flight attendants, as well as the insinuation that there might be illicit substances involved. (Despite a relatively intimate history with las drogas, the thought of them still makes me nervous.) The idea of spending yet another evening with near-strangers was weighing heavily, a sentiment with which most transients/emigrés can empathize. One such empathizer was Flight Attendant Nick, who despite his man-child sweetness was actually rather acute at picking up on my reticence while msn-ing that afternoon. I felt much better after going all whiny bitch on his ass, emo-ing on and on about missing the comfort of long term friendships. In hindsight, I probably would have bailed were it not for this oversharing, so that and the martini were justifiable courage in getting my ass out the door.
ID: Hello, Rationalized Alcoholism.
AC: Hello, Illustrious D.
I took the subway to where the other flight attendant, Former Hottub Mate, was living to enjoy some libation along with FAN, two goateed bears and their dog, Pilot, who I spent the majority of the night calling Tyler. I imagine I might have been corrected by one of the other four humans had my increasingly drunken slur not come out as "GHIIIBLOTR" every time I tackled the dog after it started dry humping me.
Upon arrival, FAN asked me what I take with my Smirnoff. I considered telling him Grey Goose, but realized that this might be a lost cause when the mixer I was offered turned out to be 5-Alive or Déli-Cinq to all the Frenchies. The next thing I remember is being in FHM's room belting out the Glee soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album with roughly a 2-6 of vodka in my gullet. Why Stevie Nicks continues to haunt all my weekend misadventures is beyond my conscious level of understanding. Evidently, I cannot go my own way (go my own waa-aa-ay). After that, we merged into the bears' living room to watch the end of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a childhood favourite and one of the more overlooked films in the Dick van Dyke oeuvre. It's also incredibly fucked up and manages to make Mary Poppins look like a lesson in realism. After the end credits, we moved on to play Scene It, an interactive movie trivia game, on their sixty-inch plasma, confirming the stereotype of gay desire to play with the most inches possible. By this point, I had imbibed as much as I would and felt a bit goofy, but didn't think I was anywhere in the realm of drunk. I even managed to pull off a second place finish with Scene It while embodying the hottest avitar on the screen.
ID: Hello, Small Victories.
SV: Hello, Illustrious D.
The plan was to go to Buddies, a club in the gay village known for my most acrimonious enemies, the Hollister Douchnozzle and the Over-Manicured Twink. I got up from the couch to put on my shoes...and that is the last thing I remember until arriving at the club. Evidently, Smirnoff has a new time-release formula that makes you think you're all ballin' and awesome at Scene It and then - BAM! - need to lean on a 6'2" air steward just to walk down the street.
Now, I am pretty ridiculous-looking sober. I have relatively broad shoulders, a small waist, enormous hips, accordingly disproportionate ass and perpetual stubble. Combine all that with my meandering gate and there's chuckles galore for various squeegee kids and stupid drunk trollops out on the street. The only time I don't look a bit silly is when on drugs, at which point the marginally useful muscles of my lower extremities muster all their strength and I'm somehow able to be all normal times.
ID: Hello, Reason Why David Should Always Have Access to Street Drugs.
The opposite of this occurs when I've been drinking. Now, I've been known to yell at a bouncer or two when waiting to get into a club and they ask me if I've been drinking a lot. I usually yell at them about disabilities and how they might be able to ascertain the difference between inebriation and gimpiness had they not flunked Kindergarten 4 times. While this attempt to enlighten society about the everyday struggles of the differently abled may seem admirable, the fact is I'm usually drunk as the dickens. In this sloppy mess of a state, I am generally under the impression that I'm carrying myself off rather well only to reflect the next day and realize that I was an absolute shit show. 'That night proved to be no exception. Fortunately, the line at Buddies was so long that we just walked right on by and decided to go to a local watering hole where they have soft-core porn on the TVs and weekly Best Ass competitions. And we wonder why family values coalitions exist.
ID: Hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck.
EH: The bible says that a man and anot-...
ID: You shut your stupid whore mouth.
Now, I don't really recall what happened next. Something went down that I didn't see, but FAN, who had been all but letting me piggy back him as we walked far behind the other three, apparently saw someone making fun of me. Again, I didn't see this and frankly if I saw myself that night I probably would be making fun of me too, but regardless, we got into a cab and took it back to my apartment without telling the others. In retrospect, this seems strange. He kept saying stuff like, "I don't care about it. I just like you for you," and all this other noble stuff, which was all very well and good except that it was just kind of making things worse. God knows that if the whole 7 Deadly Sins thing really exists, I'm going down for all of them, but Pride, I suspect, would be the main culprit. I'm okay with feeling bad about myself; I don't need you to. I'm also inwardly suspicious of anyone that makes the 'it doesn't matter to me' assessment without really knowing me very well. Perhaps I'm overly cynical, but the ability to overlook something as fundamental as physical capability without having the affection that comes with time seems odd to me. It tends to place people in the Too Good To Be True folder.
So we arrive outside my apartment and get out of the cab when I realize that I left my coat at the bears' house. My coat with my keys in it. I full on drunk dialed my friend in the building and it went a little something like this:
Slumbering Jessica: Mmmm, hello...?
SJ: Um, hello?
ID: Are jhou hawm?
SJ: No, I'm at the boyfriends'.
ID: FAAAAAWWWK. Sorwy, were shjou ashleep?
ID: Oh sit, I'm shorry. I left my shjacket at bye.
Oh yes, internet friends. You can proceed to be jealous of the people in my real life any time now.
I had this crazy notion that perhaps the initial martini had impaired me enough that I had forgotten to lock my apartment door, so after a few minutes we covertly (read: stumbley)followed someone else into the building and walked to my place only to find that Stupid Slighty Buzzed David had, in fact, had enough sense to lock his door. I suggested we jimmy the lock. FAN thought this was unwise. I considered breaking in from the outside by cutting the screen on the window I'd left open. He told me that this, too, was probably not my best move.
We got into another cab and returned to the bar where our earlier companions had wound up. My previous history with bouncers came full circle when I was told with no uncertainty that I would not be going inside. Rather than deriding his education and/or assumed tininess of genitalia, I slunk down onto the steps and waited outside while FAN went in to find the others. It is at moments like these that I feel like a small child again. Nicholas is the same age as I and yet the entire night I felt like his little brother or something, and now I was planted on the stoop outside a bar with his hoody, big woe-is-me eyes and an urge to pee very badly. Eventually, the others filed out and one of the bears went to get the car. Or both of them. They were gone a very long time so let's go with both of them. Meanwhile, FHM had picked up some groady Italian guy and they were sloppily making out on the sidewalk. For the record, watching two unattractive people kiss while you're drunk is a better laxative than Metamucil.
Finally, the auwhora borealis came back with the vehicle and all six of us piled in, with me perched on FAM's lap, hearkening back to my child-like awareness where I also forget that I am nearly 6' tall and weigh close to 160 lbs. My sullenness was lifted when the Disney sing-a-long begins and we all start wailing along to Les Poisons in various degrees of ability. FAN told me I had a nice voice, as if I needed more proof of his inebriation. While it is nice when I'm sober and beautiful when I'm high, my drunk voice sounds like the love child of Peewee Herman and Cookie Monster.
ID: Hello, Further Proof That I Was Raised By 80's Television.
FPTIWRB8T: Hello, Illustrious D.
After dropping off the aesthetically challenged couple and Bear #1, Bear #2 drove us back to FAN's place, all the while talking about the drama that befalls two tops in love and his massive junk. It was very skeezy and reminded me that I am so not of that hyper-gay reality and am probably just a straight guy with daddy issues. We went inside and I promptly stripped to my skivvies, poured myself a glass of water that I regrettably did not drink and and fell asleep in his bed. When I woke up, we were spooning and hung over. We talked for about half an hour, at which point I realized that I was naked. I do not know how or why this happened, though he was quite the gentleman about it, curling into a hedgehog ball while I covered my shame.
The adventure concluded around 2pm in the consumption of greasy pizza, delicious chicken bites and a limp of shame home to catch up on backlogged episodes of Brothers & Sisters until well past eleven that night. It may not have been my perfect night, but at least I didn't wind up with a nauseating guido. So there's that.
NEXT TIME: David ponders whether or not he wants to make good on his acceptance into the University of Toronto's consecutive bachelor of education program. For those who are of the opinion that I should never under any circumstances be permitted exercise influence around children, it's not looking good for you.
It's 6:00pm. Do you know where your crotch fruit are?