Quittin' Time

Four years ago today I had the worst hangover of my life, physically and emotionally.  After more than a decade of rippin' and runnin', I was toast.  It was fun, then it was fun with problems, then it was just problems - if you consider passing out in your parents' living room with your dress hiked up to your waste a problem.

And you're not wearing panties.

Which your mother points out to you the next morning (aka: Thursday) in the photo she took of you… Right before showing you the video she captured of you trying to stumble your way to bed.

(Also you're 30 and still living with your parents.)

And that third bottle of wine you thought you didn't touch?  Come to find out you managed to polish that off, too.  Pretty impressive, considering you opened it in a blackout, which is nothing but unmitigated skill.

And by "you" I mean me.  So that's when I decided it was time to quit.

ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: The Escape Artist

It was his eyes. The eyes will do it for me, every time.

It probably also had something to do with the three or four tumblers of Vodka Tonics I'd consumed. (Bartenders are so irresponsible these days.) Honestly, at that point, I think I was seeing stars in just about everything, so I may have mistaken the Devil in his eyes for a "twinkle." All I knew is that I wanted to go skinny dipping in those eyes - eyes as blue as the deep blue sea...

They were fuckin' sexy, is what I'm trying to say, alright?

But I digress. The year was somewhere around five or so ago (give or take), and it was probably a Tuesday? In other words, the mood was just right for an evening of sweet, sweet love making.

Or super ghetto fucking, as it turned out. Dude wore a gold chain necklace that kept knocking me in the chin with every thrust he made. With each, "Oh, guuurrl" I was instantly aware that I was too conscious for this experience. And then God threw me a bone and I blacked out.

When I came to the next morning, Dude was no where to be found. I breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as I rolled over on to my side, but my bliss was cut short. That's when I saw it: his pile of clothes AND his wallet on my bedroom floor. He's still here… FUCK.

Photo courtesy of the inklingsoflife.com

But the place was quiet. Too quiet. I reluctantly rolled out of bed, and - wrapped in my bed sheet - began a room-to-room search for Mr. Thug Life, taking an inventory of any missing items… And that's when I discovered I was short (1) cat-hair covered blanket, and (1) pair of flip flops. Also, Homeboy was LONG the fuck gone.

Yes, apparently I'm that good in bed.

I never did get opportunity to thank him for breakfast...

I Love Butt Sex

There's varying degrees to which this is true, but it's an attention grabbing headline, no? Since I'm a bit hard pressed for submission material, I may as well throw myself on the cross with this one. 

(If you think this is crass, you only have yourselves to blame. Send me your stories. This is intended to be a forum of shared experiences.)

That said, here's the deal: wine did funny things to me. If I want to add a dash of accountability (choke, cough, spit), irreverence (still) does funny (totally subjective) things to me. But add alcohol to my already inherent lack of respect for all things socially appropriate, and what you end up with is an obnoxious 20-something year-old floozy sharing the intricacies and pleasures of anal penetration at a neighborhood dinner party hosted by her parents.

As recalled by my BROTHER... I have no recollection of this happening, so as far as I'm concerned, I allegedly love butt sex. My parents' neighbors, however, are fairly certain I'm a prostitute.

…I'm sorry, Dad.