The Bleeder

As I’ve mentioned a few times, I currently live in a little town in northern Utah at the end of the world.  This place is about 90% Mormon, which means the number of bars, alcoholics and women willing to fellate me is shockingly low.  As such, those of us who do like to drink, swear and fornicate have to band together.  We go to great lengths to help each other out in the pursuit of the almighty booze and the even almightier poon.

Where I work, whenever a non-Mormon from somewhere else comes to work for us I always extend an invitation to hang out, get fucked up, and hopefully find someone of the opposite sex (or the same sex, if that’s your thing) to release some tension with.  My general theory is that we’ll give anyone a shot at joining our merry band of drunkards.  Sometimes this works and we make lifelong friends.

This is not one of those stories.

I could easily turn this night’s events into a novella, but I’ll do my best to be short and to the point.  Blackout and I invited some people over to his place to do Power Hour and then see where the night went from there.  It was fairly early in the evening so we didn’t have too many takers, but among the two or three girls that came over was a new girl from work, Keeley.  Now I admit, I had high hopes for Keeley.  She was not an attractive girl by any stretch of the imagination, a pale redhead with a thoroughly average body.  But she was from California, so I figured she at least knew how to party.

The problem is, Keeley also had an inflated sense of her own ability to party.

Again, I realize where we live.  This place sucks.  The beer is 3.2%, which in a nutshell means no matter what you order you’re basically getting Bud Light.  There’s three bars in the entire town (two are beer only, all three suck).  By law you can only get one ounce of liquor in a drink (doubles are illegal), so tipping your bartenders and trying to build relationships is a waste.  Basically there’s little point in going out, so we sit around at home most nights and drink ourselves into a stupor.  Trust me, I get it, this place is hell.  But we all made a decision to come here for our own reasons (reasons most of us regret, but still), and so we try to make the best of it.

But Keeley came strutting into Blackout’s apartment with an attitude like she was better than all of us poor saps that live here.  Like she hadn’t made the same mistake as the rest of us in moving here.  She made smug comments about the 3.2% beer and what a joke it was.  She scoffed at the notion of Power Hour like anyone could do it.  She looked down her nose at all of us like we were naive Mormons who’d never been to a real city or a real party in our lives.

Basically, she was a wretched little cunt.

Whatever, I’m a certified expert at ignoring people that annoy me.  I’m gonna get drunk and have a good time, this little ginger bitch be damned.  The rest of us started doing Power Hour and having a good time.  Keeley had brought over her own rum and coke and was more or less drinking along with us, despite my best attempts to freeze her out.

The beauty of Power Hour is it forces you to get drunk fast.  Most people will sort of ease themselves into their buzz, sipping on their first couple beers and drawing out the process.  With 3.2 beer this can take half the night.  But Power Hour forces you to knock back about 7, 8 beers in the first hour.  It builds a base that you can use as a springboard to a night of true drunken debauchery.  In other words, it almost guarantees a good time.

By the end of Power Hour we were all drunk.  And, more importantly, we were all having fun and were determined to go well beyond drunk and into the choppy waters of fucked up.  We kept pounding beers, started mixing in shots of Grey Goose, and started texting more people to see if there was anymore action to be had in End Of The World, Utah that night.

Keeley, meanwhile, was struggling to keep up.  Her surly attitude had been replaced by a lot of silence and drunkenly staring off into space while the rest of us had a good time.  Her pale complexion had started taking on a grayish hue.  At one point she got up to go to the bathroom and didn’t come back.

Half an hour or so later more people showed up and we decided to hit a bar.  Keeley was still in the bathroom.  People tried knocking on the door, calling her phone, everything, but no answer.  Now, if she’d been a friend of mine, or even seemed like a halfway decent human being, I’d have shown a little more concern.  I’d have insisted we make sure she was ok.  But again, she was a wretched little cunt who had talked shit all night about how she could outdrink all of us “Utah people.”  So fuck her.  I suggested we leave her drunk ass behind.  And not even her friends put up an argument.

We went to the bar, drank the night away, and I have no idea who drove or what time we got back to Blackout’s place.  But when we did Keeley was still locked in the bathroom.  And still unresponsive.  I still don’t think anyone really cared if the girl was dead or alive, but Blackout did need to get into his bathroom as some point.  So our friend Jasmine took a quick look at the door lock and said it could be easily picked with a belt buckle.  Of course, I was so drunk I could barely get my belt off, let alone pick a lock with it, so I let Jasmine do the honors.

And man am I glad I did.

Jasmine was in there for a long time (couldn’t tell you how long, I was thoroughly hammered), but when she came out she was stuck in a state somewhere between horror and humor.  Apparently Keeley was on her period, and after puking in the toilet she had decided to take her pants off and try to dispose of her tampon.  Somewhere in that whole process she had bled all over the bathroom  –“It looks like a crime scene in there,” was Jasmine’s exact quote–  before passing out wrapped around the toilet.  Jasmine, being a sympathetic female, had put her pants back on and tried to clean up as best she could, but there was still blood all around the bathroom by the time us guys got a peek at the scene.

At this point I started making just horrific jokes about the girl.  How she had been making fun of our drinking 3.2 beer and maybe if she had tried drinking some of it she wouldn’t be passed out around a toilet leaking from both ends.  No one even bothered to defend her.

But here’s the best part of the story.  Keeley’s roommate, Hailee, was absolutely intent on hooking up with Blackout that night.  Hailee was pretty much the town whore; she had a very nice body with spectacular breasts and awesome eraser-tip nipples, but she also had a face that could stop traffic.  I had hooked up with her once before passing her off to Blackout as a welcome gift to ease his transistion to life in Utah.  Later on she would actually try to get Blackout and I to double team her; I’ll tell you that story another time.  But on this night she was hell bent on having Blackout, so she literally picked up Keeley and drug her back to their apartment (about a block away) so she could race back and get a piece of Blackout.  It was so quick she had to have just thrown the poor girl on a bed and run back over.  Now that’s dedication to your whoreishness.

The aftermath of the whole “Bleeder” episode was that Keeley avoided us like the plague for about 8 months.  She wouldn’t even make eye contact at work.  Now, I understand that we all do stupid shit when we’re drunk, and if the dumb girl had just come around in the days after the incident and owned up to it all would have been forgiven.  But to just avoid all contact, to not apologize for defiling Blackout’s bathroom?  That’s just rude.  And so sometimes, just to be a dick, I would go out of my way to make some excuse to approach her about some work issue just to see her squirm and mumble uncomfortably.  Yeah, I’m kind of an asshole sometimes.

Keeley only hung out with us one more time before she got fired and moved back to California.  We wound up at some party playing a drinking game called Hockey, and somehow Keeley wound up being my partner.  I tried to be nice, I’m not one to hold a grudge for 8 months, and after a couple hours of drinking she slowly started to be a little more friendly.  But then, in the midst of our hockey game, I made reference to the “final period,” as in a period of hockey.  Keeley clearly thought I was referring to a different kind of period, she went even paler than usual, and she barely said a word the rest of the night.

I never saw her again after that night.  Good riddance.

P.S. If you just can’t get enough stories about girls on their period, check out my buddy Luis’ story about his own experience.  I think his story is more traumatizing than mine.

Advertisements

Halloween in Utah

-I’m going to Vegas next week, for four days of debauchery.  God willing, I’ll be too busy, too tired, too drunk and having too much sex to post anything.  So to tide you over for the next week-plus, here’s a novel-length story of life in End Of The World, UT.  Enjoy!

Halloween.  Those of you that know me know I’m not a fan.  I don’t like most of the big party holidays.  New Year’s, St. Patrick’s, Cinco de Mayo, they’re all what I refer to as “amateur night,” the couple times a year where the faux-partiers go out and get stupid and pretend like they’re real professional alcoholics like us.  I have 52 Fridays and Saturdays to get drunk, I don’t need some silly holiday.

But, that being said, I had hit a drinking funk in End Of The World, UT, of late.  It had reached the point where it just seemed pointless to go out and spend money to drink with the masses.  There’s no girls, no fun spots, the drinks are overpriced and watered down.  So my buddy Blackout and I had taken to just staying in, knocking back a boatload of beers in his apartment, maybe calling some girls over, but generally being reclusive alcoholics.

So Saturday night I went over to Blackout’s and we started havin’ a few.  There was talk of a party at this place called Hamilton’s, a high end (for Utah) steakhouse that apparently was turning into a nightclub for Halloween.  We had heard of quite a few people going, and since the prospect of spending another night staring at each other seemed downright depressing, we decided to give it a shot.  “But I’m not dressing up,” I said adamantly.  Blackout concurred.

We knocked back a few more while we tried to find someone to drive us, but it wasn’t looking good.  So I suggested we take a quick shot of vodka, hop in the car and drive over, and worry later about how to get home.  Good plan, right?

I was just starting to feel my buzz by the time we got to Hamilton’s, and we could immediately tell we had made a good choice.  Even the parking lot was cooler than just about any night at the bars we’ve ever seen in this shithole we call home.  There was giant pickup truck next to us and some drunken rednecks in full on costumes hollered at us, “Hey!  Y’all wanna do a whipper??”  I politely blew them off and started towards the bar when the drunkest one of the bunch got downright indignant that we were turning him down.  “Well what the hell kinda man passes on a whipper?!?!”  There was a look in his eyes (beneath the makeup) that actually made me think we might have to fight about this.  Blackout was a little more tipsy than me, and so he sauntered over towards the guys and asked, “What’s a whipper?”

I must admit, I thought the guy meant a “whippet,” y’know, like when you take a can of whip cream and snort the compressed gas in the can?  (Check out Denis Leary’s first album if you don’t know what I’m talking about.)  But apparently a “whipper” is a hidden cooler-full of booze that you keep in the back of your souped-up, jacked-up 4-wheel drive pick-up truck and hit before you go into a bar.  In other words, free booze!

So I made my apologies, put my arm around the belligerent redneck and claimed I was just a dumb city boy who didn’t know such things.  One of the guys handed Blackout a bottle of Bacardi, which he started to take a swig of, when the belligerent one yanked it away from him and hollered, “No, no, no!  Give him the good shit!”  And out came a bottle of chilled Jager, which we all passed around and took giant swigs from.  The Jager didn’t even burn on the way down.  It was going to be a good night.

On our way in we ran into Hailee.  (Hailee works with us.  She has the best breasts I’ve ever seen, with eraser tip nipples that stick out like a full inch, but she has a face that could stop traffic.  One drunken night this girl took her pants off in Blackout’s apartment, we think in attempt to get tag-teamed by the two of us.  We didn’t take the bait.)  She was dressed up as Matt Hasselbeck, minus the herniated disk and broken ribs.  Apparently her friends were all inside already, but she had been turned away for trying to sneak a flask in.  You gotta admire the girl’s intensity.  She claimed the bouncers weren’t frisking guys, just checking bags, so she asked if one of us would sneak her flask in.  Blackout looked at her skeptically, but I figured it would get me a free shot so I stuffed it in my pocket.

The cover to get in was $15 apiece.  Outrageous in End Of The World, UT.  Blackout had no cash on him and I had exactly one dollar.  So we agreed that Blackout would put our covers on his card and I would open a tab at the bar.  (It seemed like a good idea at the time, it’s pretty rare that we can spend much more than $30 on a bar tab here, especially seeing as it was almost 11 and most places in town have last call sometime around 12:30.)

Inside it was a madhouse.  Imagine a nice restaurant, with all the tables hauled out to make room for dance floors, hanging out areas, even a “Mormon room” (where they were handing out free soda and water).  It was pretty cool, except for one problem: besides the regular restaurant bar (which was probably designed to seat 20-30) there was no place else to get real drinks.  There had to be 150 people trying to claw their way to the bar.  There weren’t enough bartenders, and the feeble attempts at creating lines had broken down into total chaos.  As we were trying to fight our way up to the bar I took a quick shot from Hailee’s flask before returning it, then dove headlong into the crowd.  Scrawny Blackout got lost in the mass of humanity, but before he got too far back we decided we needed shots as well while I was up there.

Unfortunately, the state of Utah doesn’t like to make things easy.  So when I finally got my order in 10 minutes later, the bartender told me he couldn’t legally give me two shots unless there was a second person present.  So I had to stand up on the foot railing of the bar, crane my neck around to find Blackout in the chaos, wave frantically to get his attention, then mime to him that he should wave at the bartender, who reluctantly gave me the shots.

Blackout was still trying to pace himself at this point, drinking beer, but I had decided to move on to vodka on the rocks.  We knocked back our shots (Jager, in keeping with the spirit of our redneck parking lot friends) and started doing a lap of the restaurant.  I had known this would be a tricky night, that many of our athletes would be there (I work for an athletic department, and it is somewhat frowned upon to be out drinking amongst the “impressionable” young athletes), so I had worn my floppy bucket hat to stay relatively incognito.  And thank God I did, because our entire gymnastics team was there (slutted out to the max), along with most of the basketball team (including our 7-foot bank robber freshman), and by the end of the night most of the football team as they got back from their road trip.  I just kept pulling my hat lower and trying to avoid recognition.

After an unproductive lap (I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to hit the dance floor yet) we found ourselves back in the bar, where if possible it had gotten even more crowded.  I didn’t see any way I’d be able to push my way to the bar, and considering it was getting to be about 11:30 I wasn’t even sure we would get another drink tonight.  And then an odd thing happened.  I was bitching to Blackout about how I’d have to go up there at least once more to close out my tab, when a pretty blonde girl overheard me and came right up to us.  “Did you say you have a tab?  I can go up and get you drinks if you’ll get a round for me and my friends.”

I eyed her suspiciously.  She was quite good looking by End Of  The World, UT standards (probably an 8 in Logan, which would make her about a 6.5 in the rest of the world).  This seemed like a sure disaster waiting to happen, but by this point my vodka was gone and I didn’t see many alternatives.  I glanced briefly at her friends.  One was very average but friendly.  The other was an absolute knockout but almost painfully shy.  But the best thing about the girls was that, as far as I could tell, they were the only three people in the bar besides me and Blackout that were not wearing costumes.

The gears started turning about as fast as mine can when liquored up.  I gave Blackout a glance and he had a devilish twinkle in his eye, so I turned to the girl and said, “Sure!  But make sure you get a round of shots too!”

Next thing I know the girl was at the front of the bar (actually halfway around behind the bar, practically holding the bottles for the bartender), shouting back at me to get my name for the tab, then making me wave at the same prick bartender who had refused to give me two shots without a partner.  And then drinks started getting passed back to us.  Five drinks, five shots of tequila.  Ugh.  But this hardly seemed like an appropriate time to start admitting that I’m a little bitch when it comes to tequila.  So I threw my lime on the ground, cheers’d our new hero, said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t puke, and knocked back the tequila.

And like that, the girls were gone.  Not that Blackout and I cared.  It was an expensive round, to be sure, but at least we were drinking instead of standing in line.  We left the bar and wandered out to the waiting area of the restaurant, which had become the hangout for those who didn’t want to go clubbing in the main room.  Ran into Hailee and her friends, ducked my head at a couple of athletes, and basically pounded my vodka rocks like it was water.

As if by magic, at the very moment my drink went empty and I turned longingly toward the bar, those three girls appeared out of nowhere.  I flagged them down, caught the aggressive one, and sent her back up to get another round.  By now she knew my whole name (from my yelling it across the bar to her), so she said, “Hi, Single White Alcoholic!  Want another round?”

I held my empty drink aloft.  “Well yeah!”

“Shots too?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

It took her a minute to get that one (damn Mormons), but at last the light bulb went off, she smiled and said, “Ok, Single White Alcoholic, be right back!”

Now, at this point I must give my usual disclaimer that my blackout was beginning to take hold, so details get a little sketchy.  As does my ability to decipher reality from drunken hallucination.  I must also admit that my judgment was probably somewhat impaired, so these girls may not be quite as hot as I think they were.  And Blackout, God love that kid, is part Native American and can hold his liquor about as well as a freshman sorority girl, so he can’t be counted on as a reliable backup witness.  So everything from this point on must be taken with a grain (or maybe a whole shaker) of salt.

But, having said that, I’m telling you the shy girl in the group was a stunner.  I’m giving her a full 10 on the Utah Hot Scale, which makes her at least an 8.5 in the real world.  She was average height, but very petite, and blonde with a rockin’ body.  It was mind-boggling that someone that hot could be so shy.  Blackout started talking up the very average one, who was quite friendly and outgoing.  I should have probably gone after the extremely outgoing one, the one who clearly wanted alcohol and wasn’t ashamed to admit it (and who already had access to my credit card!).  But again, we all know I’m not very smart when I’m sober, and downright stupid when I’m drunk.  So I started working on the shy one.

And then a truly odd thing happened.  She responded to me.  She came to life a little bit, opened up and started letting her guard down.  In a stroke of good fortune, the restaurant was staying open later than the usual bars here, so we even had a little time to get to know each other.  The five of us requisitioned a tiny table in the corner of the bar and just hung out the rest of the night.  Every once in awhile the forward one would go get us a round of drinks, always accompanied by a round of shots.  We discovered all three of the girls had kids; the forward one (Nicole) had four (and yet was still pretty good looking), the friendly-yet-average one (Felicia, I think) had one (and was also the only one still married), and the super hot girl (Jen) had three.  She had been raised Mormon, gotten married around 19, had her first kid at 20, and was now 28.  I choked down my fear of children and pretended like I was interested in her ramblings about the kids.  I’ll admit, I was a little mesmerized at her beauty.  (I was also insanely drunk by this point).  Even her friend Nicole noticed our vibe, and when she had a chance she pulled me aside to feel me out for her friend.  I have no recollection of this, but at some point I pulled my usual drunken bitch move of giving the girl my card and telling her to call me some time.  Because we all know I’m too stupid and too much of a pansy to go straight for the digits.

As the night wore on more and more people started showing up.  Our assistant tennis coach was hammered with his friends and good for a few laughs.  Our favorite waitress from the local sports bar, Jasmine, and her roommate (who we’ve had quite a few drunken nights with) showed up late and joined us.  As the crowd grew, it became harder and harder to keep the lovely Jen to myself.  Blackout was beyond drunk at this point, so much so that he was still hitting on the married Felicia.  There were a ton of athletes too, who I had to hide from.  At some point I lost track of Jen and Nicole, and when I saw them again Jen was flirting with this guy I kind of know.  He’s a notorious scoundrel and always getting in fights.  And he was hitting on my girl.  Worse yet, she seemed to be responding.

I was devastated.

And we all know what the Single White Alcoholic does when he’s devastated.  He drinks.  (Ok, ok, so that’s how I respond to all situations and emotions.  But this time it was because I was devastated.)  By now it was sometime after 1am and the crowd was beginning to thin out, so I could actually get to the bar, and I was pounding vodka rocks like they were water.  The night was beginning to fall apart, despite my best efforts to keep my spirits up.  I was pissed at my foolishness at thinking I had a shot with such a hottie, but I was even more pissed that I would allow my failure to affect my good drunken spirits.  So I drank harder.

By now the combination of drunkenness and bitterness was fermenting into a devastating cocktail of dark thoughts.  I considered picking a fight with the guy who was working on my girl.  He’s a small guy but likes to mix it up, so I figured I could both draw him into a fight and whip his ass.  I also knew the bouncer so I figured I couldn’t get beat up too bad if I was drunker than I thought (which I assure you I was).  But those were merely peripheral thoughts.  My main focus was on how much my bar tab was going to be.  It occurred to me that I would have no idea if Nicole had been buying drinks all night for everyone in the bar on my dime.  She seemed like a trustworthy sort, but now doubts were starting to creep in.

At last call the bar quickly filled back up to overflowing.  Nicole said she would go close out my tab, but then she never brought it back to me, just signed it and didn’t even bring back a receipt.  I interrogated her about my receipt, how much she had tipped, the total, everything.  She said the bill was about $140.  I was too drunk to figure out if that was too high (we do live in End Of The World, UT after all), or too low (did I mention how many shots of tequila we did?).  I just decided to roll with it.

Outside the bar, the parking lot was a mob scene.  All the people we knew had combined with everyone they knew, so there were something like 30 people milling around trying to figure out where to go next, who was driving, all that.  I finally found Jen again, and by this point I was so drunk I honestly have no idea what transpired between us.  I’m pretty sure we kissed in the parking lot, but I don’t think it was anything spectacular, not one of my usual drunken make outs that would make me the butt of jokes for weeks to come.  But I have no idea what I said to her.

Once Jen and her friends were gone, there was still the problem of how we were going to get home.  I swear there were 30 people trying to figure out how to fit in 4 or 5 cars.  I was feeling a little better about myself after getting some action in the parking lot, so I wasn’t pissed anymore, but I still didn’t have the patience to stand around trying to figure out whose clown car I was going to have to pile into.  “Fuck it, I’m walking home,” I announced.  Blackout argued with me briefly (he had been arrested about six months earlier because he drunkenly wandered off one night and got picked up passed out on a slide in the park), but I assured him I knew where I was going and I’d meet him back at the apartment.

It’s about two miles from Hamilton’s to my apartment, and it was probably mid-40s out, but fortunately I was drunk enough to feel no pain.  I’d guess I got about half a mile before Blackout called and said he had us a ride, our friend Jasmine was on the way.  I kept walking until the car showed up, and though I can’t remember who all was in the car I remember being pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t too too crowded.

Back at Blackout’s place, things were a total blur.   I have no idea how many people were there or how long they stayed, but at some point Jasmine and everyone else we knew left, so that all that remained were two girls I had never seen in my life.  The four of us started playing drinking games.  Beers were flowing like water.

Nicole started texting me sometime after 2.   She said, “I’ll give you Jen’s number but if you treat her badly I’ll kick your ass.”

According to my phone (which is the only evidence I have that all this took place) we exchanged texts for nearly an hour.  If I had the time and patience to retype the transcripts you would laugh your ass off at the stupidity of us two drunken idiots.  I was saying I didn’t want her number if she didn’t want to give it to me, Nicole was saying I was going to have to do the work; I said I’d do the work, I just needed a sign; Nicole answered “I am your sign!”  And that loop more or less repeated itself a couple times.  At some point she said “I have a good feeling about you, Single White Alcoholic,” which I found comical to the max.

At this point, in addition to my own drunken blackout, some of the clocks began to change with the daylight savings, so there is a span of several hours where I was in total confusion as to what time it actually was.  Some cell phones were changing, some were not.  Wall clocks were not, I don’t think.  I have no idea if Blackout’s cable had changed, so in short I have no idea what time it was.  While being retarded drunk, this was almost too much to bear.  My head was spinning.  And like I said, the only two girls left in the apartment were total strangers.  And they were chain smoking, adding to the cloudy timeless drunken haze.  I was a complete mess.

The evening kept going.  Somewhere along the way the card game became strip poker.  Now, the two girls weren’t hot by any means, but they were respectable.  Or so I thought.  Have you ever met one of those girls that looks a lot better with her clothes on than off?  Yeah, one of those.  But more on that later.

I have never played strip poker in my life.  Actually, the game kind of offends me.  Real poker is a game of skill, with bets and bluffs and all sorts of other strategies to win that are not entirely dependent on the cards you are dealt.  Strip poker might as well be “strip coin flip.”  But when in Rome, right?  (Or when intoxicated, right?)  So I did my best to invoke some strategy.  Since we were playing worst hand loses an article of clothing, it wasn’t about winning but simply not losing.  So no chasing straights or flushes, with four people playing a simple pair would usually be enough to not lose.  With everyone else chasing the big hand, I was sitting pretty.

One of the other issues I have with strip poker is that women have more clothing to begin with; bras, necklaces, earrings, it’s really a stacked deck against the dudes.  I hadn’t worn an undershirt or a jacket, so I was at even more of a disadvantage.  Looking back on it as best I can, I’m pretty sure I only had nine articles of clothing to work with, while the girls had somewhere in the neighborhood of 13 with jewelry and such.  Thank God for my floppy hat!  That one item saved me from having to show the goods!  Poor Blackout got knocked down to his boxers in a matter of minutes, but then I discreetly told him my strategy, and that combined with a hot streak kept him from having to “free willy.”

                **WARNING!  Things begin to get graphic at this point.  If you do not want to read about my sexual prowess (or lack thereof), stop here.**

So as I said, both Blackout and I made it to the end with our drawers still on.  The girl to my left (we’ll call her Blonde, because I have no idea what her name was) had looked alright while fully clothed, but as items began coming off she began to look more and more like a meth addict.  She was skinny, I’ll give her that.  But she clearly didn’t work out.  She had stretch marks from childbirth (what is it with broads in this town???  They all have fucking kids!), and her breasts sagged at an almost unnatural angle.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  And of course, she was the one who lost everything first.

Her friend (we’ll call her Brunette) was a little better.  She was a little bigger, not meth-skinny like Blonde, and had a pretty nice rack.  She had been dominating the poker game early on, so I hadn’t even paid much attention to her as she was sitting fully clothed while Blonde was losing piece after piece.  But it didn’t last long.  Once I gave Blackout some tips on how to play and he hit his hot streak, the clothes started falling off her.  The girls even accused us of cheating, it was that good of a run.

Once Blonde was completely nude, we played one more hand, which she again lost.  I had one of my only truly good hands (since I’d been playing not to lose all night), and Blackout immediately announced that that meant naked girl had to give me a lap dance.  In retrospect, this all seems a little awkward.  Me in my underwear, a naked meth head giving me a lap dance to Blackout’s bad hip hop music while a nearly naked Blackout and Brunette watched and cheered.  But soon his plan became clear, because the girl couldn’t have been more than a minute into her dance when he put his arm around Brunette and said something along the lines of “Well, that’s our cue,” and hauled her off into his bedroom.

Clever bastard.

I won’t sicken you with too many details, but let’s say it took about one more minute before Blonde was on her knees giving me head.  (Moderately good head, she lacked deep throat skills but did a solid job with what she could fit in her mouth).  I was still hammered at this point, and frankly I’m surprised my guy was still working, but he was up to the challenge.

After a bit of that she said she wanted to fuck, and asked if I had a condom.  Of course not.  So I went to go see if I could scavenge one from Blackout’s bathroom.  But as I passed by his bedroom the door was still wide open and I saw him, now wearing nothing but my floppy hat, going to town on Brunette.  It is an image that will forever be burned in my brain.  My poor hat!  So I grabbed Blonde and told her we needed to head over to my place.  We quickly dressed enough to make the 100 yard run to my place.  As we stepped outside I saw the sun was starting to come up.  I still had no idea what time it was, but it had to be sometime around 7.  We hustled to my door, I put the key in the lock, turned and…

…Nothing.

My key wouldn’t work!  I twisted it back the other way, tried again, still nothing.  I stepped back, took a look at the apartment number to make sure it was my place, tried to turn the key again, still nothing.  I tried to pull the key out and it wouldn’t come out, it was stuck in the lock.  If I had been sober I would have been completely embarrassed, but since I was still a trainwreck I was just angry and confused as I assured Blonde I did indeed really live here.

Totally befuddled, we went back to Blackout’s place, where he was still going at it with Brunette.  I pulled his door shut and tried to collect my drunken thoughts.  How to get into my apartment?  I told Blonde I would be right back and ran back over to my place.  I tried the key again, still no luck.  I tried the patio door, locked.  I tried to pry open my bedroom window (my DirectTV wires go through the window sill so it’s not entirely secure), but I couldn’t get my fingers wedged in deep enough to pry the window open.  I must have spent 10-15 minutes trying to break into my apartment, and by the time I came back to Blackout’s place Blonde was nowhere to be found, and Blackout and Brunette had finished their deed and were passed out.

I dug into Nash’s toolbox, found a pair of pliers and went back to my bedroom window to try and pry it open again.  It must have taken me ten more minutes with the sun rising at my back to finally get the window open enough to get my fingers inside and pull the window open, climb through into my bedroom and pass out.

Epilogue:

-Sometime around 2 in the afternoon Nicole texted me and said she had talked to Jen, and she promised to give me a chance if I called her.

-I couldn’t get out of bed until 5.

-Around 6 Nash took me to get my car.  I think he was still drunk.  He had no recollection of hooking up with Brunette.  When I pressed him for details he couldn’t be sure if he had used a condom.  He has since scheduled an appointment to get tested.

-Neither of us could recall the girls’ names or how they had wound up at our place.

-I washed my hat Monday.

-In retrospect, that broken door lock might be the surest sign of a higher power I’ve ever seen in my life.  Someone was looking out for me and making sure I didn’t hook up with a meth addict!  The Lord works in mysterious ways, but for one night at least he did indeed work for me!

-Nearly a week later, we discovered the girls were co-workers of Jasmine’s roommate, so we at least know how they wound up back at Blackout’s place.  We still don’t know their names.  We also heard through about a five-person phone tree that one of them lost an ID that night, but a search of Blackout’s apartment turned up nothing.

-Monday, when I could finally get someone from the apartment complex to take a look at my broken lock, they told me, “Yeah, we’ve been having this problem with a lot of the doors.  We’re replacing them as they go bad.”  Thanks, assholes.

-Tuesday my tab finally posted online, and Nicole was good to her word.  It was $142.66.

-Blackout also had a tab of over $100.  He has no recollection of ever opening a tab, or even ordering a drink.

-I called Jen Sunday evening.  It was a debacle from the start.  She was indeed as hot as I remembered her, but she was luggin’ around more baggage than a Southwest Airlines flight.  Between a failed marriage (I’m no expert but it was pretty clear he had abused her), three kids and a Mormon upbringing she was a complete mess.  I waivered between trying to be the nice guy (because the poor girl clearly needed emotional help) and trying to get her in the sack for a meaningless romp, and in the end wound up giving up on all accounts.  Too much effort for this guy.