You know that moment of drunkenness that sparks the I-don’t-care-how-sweaty-I-am-I’m-still-hot-right-now-anyway confidence? Well, it’s bad news. And so is a hyphenated word that long, but I think it gets my point across nicely.
It all started one Saturday night in a gay bar (these stories never end well) when one of my favorite things in the whole wide world was destroyed. A demon-filled ravaging man charged at my innocent body and knocked out of my hand a precious gem: a bay breeze made with just the right amount of pineapple, cranberry and vodka! But like any strategizing and potential bar-fly, I flirted with the cute bartender and quickly made my way to a free refill. And that’s when the trouble began.
P.S: The man was no demon, just a clumsy guy who felt bad for knocking over my drink.
P.S.S: Correct bar etiquette says buy the person a new drink, but it’s whatever.
It’s no secret that the mother of all bad hook up, relationship and kissing excuses coming from gays and girls across
America either starts with, “but he was so, so cute!” or “I was so, so drunk!” Well, this story begins with both.
It was just after 1:30 a.m. and as the beautifully funny Margaret Cho would say, it was getting close to dick o’ clock—when all the hags at the bar need to leave and go watch Project Runway, because their gays are on penis prowl. And at that point I was finding my drunken way on to Penis Avenue, and fast! But keep in mind that my idea of Penis Avenue consists of drunken making out. I don’t know why, but I’m a sucker (no pun intended) for a sloppy make out session when I’m drunk. Even if you’re a girl, hell, I’ll probably kiss you too! Don’t get any funny ideas, ladies; I’m still a gold star gay!
Anyway, I turned around from getting my drink refilled, only to discover I was blocked in by two heavy bar chairs and a big, burly, what I think was a woman. In my drunken stupor, I started semi-pouting because I didn’t want to risk spilling my drink if I tried to move the chairs. Drunk Matt didn’t think putting his drink down safely on the bar was an option.
Right when I was about to try doing what seemed like the impossible (don’t you love what seems possible and impossible when you’re drunk?), a very cute boy with short brunette hair, perfectly trimmed facial stubble and small, black framed glasses came to my rescue and moved a chair out of the way so I could exit the bar. Well fuck, now I didn’t want to leave!
I met his glance and he shot me the most a-dork-able smile I’ve seen in a quite a long time. He’s the type who smiles at you but is too shy to keep eye contact, so he quickly turns his head in any other direction but yours. I had no choice but to study his surroundings for a couple seconds and then leave, making him think I’m “hard to get.” Why do I play these silly games? What I learned from the two seconds I spent looking in his direction is that he didn’t have a drink nearby, and he had another very cute guy by his side. I immediately assumed he was taken and we went our separate ways.
Note: Never assume a guy is taken unless he outright tells you he is. Never.
As the night progressed, I kept dancing with my friends to every top 40 song I usually despise when I hear played repetitively on the radio. Alcohol makes one do such funny things! And when I was busting out my awesome moves (probably not so awesome to sober Matt), I made eye contact yet again with Mr. A-dork-able. He hadn’t left the bar, and he stood there with who I thought was his boy toy, making swift glances in my direction. So what do I do? I meet his every other glance and start dancing harder. For some reason, I thought that might be attractive. Look at my moves and fall in love with me, cute boy!
I was obviously an intoxicated mess.
A friend I was with noticed by now that I had my sights set on this guy, and he, being as drunk as I was, tried dragging me in the guy’s direction. I immediately grabbed my friend’s shirt, yanked him close so he could hear me, and said, “He’s. So. Cute. But don’t you dare even think about it!” While missing every single beat, we were suddenly standing right next to Mr. A-dork-able closing out our checks. He looked my way again and shot me a confident, sexy smile with a slight head nod.
That was it. I had to talk to him.
And by talk to him – with every ounce of alcohol-induced adrenaline – I walked right up to him and asked if the guy he’s with is his boyfriend or if they’re dating. He replied with a flirty “no, why?” And the words that exploded from my mouth next only come from who’s known as Really Shitty Matt. I said, “Well, good, because you’re sexy as hell, and I can’t stop undressing you with my mind!” I then did not let him reply, grabbed his face and kissed him really hard. While my friend exuded one of the loudest gay gasps I’ve ever heard, I realized this guy was drunk after all, because he actually kissed me back.
I realize that this story would be considered romantic in any other situation with little or no alcohol involved, so I take full responsibility for the derogatory terms that will fly my way after people read this. But I was determined to have a drunken Gone with the Wind moment with this guy and many other drunken witnesses. Did I mention I was drunk? Like, really, really drunk?
After we kissed, I looked at him and didn’t know what to say. I realized that kissing him is all I wanted to do since I first laid eyes on him earlier in the night. Like a true single gay problem, I met my conquest and felt triumphant. What do you do at that point, anyway? Start drunken small talk? I’m sure that consists of “how large is your penis?” and “where do you live?” instead of the socially acceptable “what do you do?” and “How old are you?”
So he suggested I put his number in my phone. Seemed like a reasonable request after stuffing our tongues down each other’s throats, right? So Drunk Matt handed his phone to Mr. Who I learned is “Brenden with an E at the end,” and Drunk Matt added a new contact to his never-ending little black technological book.
Sober Matt didn’t text or call Brenden “with an E at the end.” Sober Matt knows better.