11 Signs You’re Drunk and a Problem

1. You order a “Grey Goose and Vodka.” The bartender looks at you weird and is all, “You mean Grey Goose and Soda?” and you reply, “THAT’S WHAT I SAID, DICK!” followed immediately by, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

2. In the wake of #1, an imaginary, miniature, and slightly translucent Full House-era Bob Saget starts hovering over your left shoulder and convinces you to leave a 100% tip, mostly out of white guilt (or something), to make up for the whole debacle.

3. Straight women: You start Katy Perry-ing and kissing each other.

4. Gay men: You also start Katy Perry-ing, kissing straight women and/or lesbians.

Well, I made it a solid two months.

Well. At least I made it two months.

5. Straight men: Ain’t nobody got time for Katy Perry, as you’re too busy Facebook status-ing impassioned rants RE: underrated athletes who are hated on by many but are in fact the BEST OF ALL TIME.

6. You spend five or more minutes meticulously fashioning a grammatically sound and typo-free text message to your [ex-boyfriend/hookup/person whom you generally wish would love you] that simply says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

7. You start answering all questions with “GENEVA CONVENTION!”

8. You’re not sure what the Geneva Convention is/was.

drunk

9. You craft what you think is the perfect Snapchat, but is in fact just a really, really dark picture of an unremarkable barstool. When sending, you speedily check off names with reckless abandon—including all the people you usually avoid Snapchatting out of fear that they’ll think you’re a loser. Which is very ironic.

10. You touch people in ALL the places.

11. You receive a response to the text sent in #6. It says, “I’m OK, you?” and you respond with, “WHdAT the FKCU Do YOU THINK, ASFKLHOLE???”

 

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I Accidentally Made Out with a Closeted Married Man, and Now I’m a Hot Mess

First and foremost, I feel the need to assure you that the events I’m about to recount actually took place. Like, in real life. Which you’ll soon realize is insane because one) I have already written extensively on the subject of falling in love with hot suited strangers during my daily commute on the Metro-North train, two) I once even blogged about a fantasy sequence in which I made out with one of them but he ended up being married, and three) that is somehow EXACTLY what happened to me last Friday night, in real life. IR-fucking-L.

There’s a lot to discuss here, so let’s just start from the beginning.

It was the end of a long week, so naturally I went out for post-work Sangria in the city with one of my best girlfriends. One pitcher turned into two, and before I knew it I was a little tipsy on a late-night train back to Connecticut. The train was delightfully empty, so I got cozy in a four-seater all by myself and prepared for the fifty-minute ride home.

Then he showed up. Hot businessman guy. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit, fancy watch, and (according to my tipsy-goggles, at least) was ruggedly handsome – kind of like Brandon Walsh from 90210. Except manlier. And thirty-something. And, again, in a suit.

I took about five seconds to observe and appreciate his hotness, texted my friend something like “OMG, this man on the train is my everything,” glanced his way again, and then went back to staring at my phone (lest he catch me looking at him and interpret my stalkerish gazes as reason to desert me and switch to another train car that wasn’t crawling with predatory gay bloggers).

As we pulled out of Grand Central, the conductor came on the intercom and was all, “Please make all seats available,” and then the hot businessman opened up a roadie Coors Light, took a swig, and responded (to everyone and no one), “Uh, the train is empty!”

In my mind: He totally just opened the floor for conversation!!! Should I respond? I should definitely respond. No. That’d be weird. Wait, but he was weird first to even make the empty train remark to begin with. OK I’m doing it! No. YES. NO. Yes.

Out loud: “I know, right? The train is so empty!”

To my surprise, he looked my way and smiled warmly as I mentally congratulated myself for being capable of putting words together quickly enough to respond to his declaration. (Even though, let’s be honest, all I did was say exactly what he said except with a “so” in front of it.)

From there, we engaged in a bout of small talk about our commutes (we live in the same town, turns out!) and jobs (we work in the same part of the city, turns out!) and interests (we both watch football, turns out!).

While all of this was going on, I started developing the hopeful feeling that this guy was maybe gay, maybe into me, and maybe meant to be my husband. I mean, why else would he be so friendly? But then I told myself, “No. Calm yourself down, Nic. This dude probably thinks he’s just having a man-to-man discussion about Eli Manning and meanwhile you’ve let your mind go to that ‘ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!’ place in not even five minutes. GET A GRIP.”

After a few moments, we reached a lull in conversation. And then some random ass creepy guy in a black trench coat showed up out of nowhere and took one of the seats directly in front of me in my four-seater, despite the fact that there was a whole train car of empty seats available to him! James (the hot businessman guy — fake name, FYI) and I immediately exchanged glances to acknowledge how bizarre this was.

The creepy guy must have realized that James and I were telepathically discussing his weirdness (or maybe he just had to pee), because he abruptly got up and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone to wait for him to return and maim me take his seat back.

But then.

Like a knight in SHINING fucking ARMOR, James got up, swooped over into my four-seater and asked, “Would you like me to sit here instead?”

And so of course I said, “Yes!” and officially moved on from the “ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!” place into the more confident “My life is a romantic comedy and James and I SHALL BE MARRIED AND THIS SHALL BE THE STORY WE TELL OUR ADOPTED CHILDREN’S CHILDREN!” place.

For the remainder of the ride home, James and I talked. About our educations, occupations, hometowns, hobbies, and dreams. At one point I told him how I was working toward becoming a full-time writer and he responded with, “That makes sense; you give off a crazy-creative vibe,” and I had to pinch myself to ensure that I wasn’t just train-hallucinating this whole situation.

When we got to our stop, we walked off the train together.

“Alright,” I said as we approached the escalator, “I guess I should get on my way. Got a bit of a walk home.”

Then James was like, “Do you want a ride?” and I was like, “Yes!” (Because an exclamation-pointed “Yes!” had clearly become my go-to answer to any and all of James’ questions that night.)

I know what you may be thinking: Nic just accepted a ride from a stranger? Is he fucking nuts?!

Yes, I did. And yes, I am. And this is why hot people are dangerous. Because had this dude been gross looking or even just average, there’s no way I’d have said anything other than, “No, thanks.”

Still, as we walked to his car, there was a small voice inside of me that was like, “Uh, Christian Bale in American Psycho, Nic. He was hot. He wore a suit. And he killed bitches!” But I was able to quiet it down by asking James flat-out, “You’re not a crazy American psycho, are you?”

He just laughed adorably and said, “No! Trust me, you’re in good hands. I never do this. At all. Is this weird? This is weird. But I feel comfortable with you.”

And so we hopped into the car and continued talking for the duration of the ride to my apartment while our hands almost touched on the center armrest and I realized that I still didn’t have any conclusive evidence of his gay or straightness. There was a part of me that truly wondered if James was just a really nice straight man doing me a favor… but then there was another part of me that wanted to believe we had been flirting all night long.

Either way, when we finally got to the front of my building, I didn’t want to say goodnight. I considered inviting him up to my apartment, but then I was like, “WHO ARE YOU?” (to myself, not him) and instead settled for exchanging cell phone numbers with the intention of hanging out on purpose sometime soon.

And then.

I thanked him for the ride and reached out to shake his hand goodbye.

AND THEN.

He leaned over and went in for a kiss!

And so before I knew it, I was living in a dream and we were making out. And y’all — it was good. This man clearly knew what he was doing. Which is why it was so jarring to me when he abruptly stopped mid-make-out, said, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” and freaked the fuck out.

“What?” I asked, acting as if everything about this whole situation wasn’t bizarre enough to begin with.

“I don’t do stuff like this,” he nervously responded. “I’m married.”

So then my heart kind of casually just stopped, no big deal, and I said, “Wait. You’re married?” [Dramatic pause.] “To a human?”

“A human, Nic?” he replied. “Yes. I’m married to a woman.”

Jaaames!!!” I whined. “WHY?”

And then I punched him. (Playfully and on the chest, but still.)

He proceeded to apologize for not telling me about his wife before kissing me, and then he got this really sad look on his face, and for a second my heart felt incredibly heavy for him. Because I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a straight life and married to a woman and have to deal with inner demons and family pressures and tempting little hot pieces of ass like me just occupying four-seaters on trains on Friday nights.

But then I felt more bad for his wife, because I’m friends with quite a few women and I know for a fact that none of them want their husbands to be repressed gay men.

But then (and maybe I should be ashamed of this?) I felt mostly bad for me. Because seriously, WTF? I meet this perfect-in-every-way man — the old-fashioned, technology-free, just-like-in-the-movies way, even! — and we hit it off tremendously, and he’s the most passionate kisser in the history of the world, and then he’s somebody’s husband? How did I forget to check his left hand for a ring? How did he think it was okay to pursue me in the first place? Do any quality, available men even exist anymore? WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE?

After about thirty awkwardly silent seconds of sitting in James’ car post-wife-confession, I decided to just start making out with him again. This was desperate and not okay, I know. But again: his kiss. It was delicious. Delicious and forbidden and sexual and hot. And I knew that he was a very dangerous person to even think about getting involved with, but I wanted to pretend for just the shortest moment that he was good and genuine and mine.

And so we kept making out in his car for about ten more blissful seconds, but then — and I think this may have been my conscience resurrecting itself from the low-self-esteem-y grave I’d just dug for it — I started wondering what his wife’s name was and what she must be doing and what she might think he was doing and what her Pinterest might look like. And so I finally mustered up the strength to say, “Dude. This is fucked up. We can’t do this.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not fighting me at all. “I understand if you want to just lose my number. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “It’s fine.”

Then I got out of his car, walked up to my apartment, and aggressively slammed my bag against the floor in a fit of rage. I ran to my window to see if his car was still on my street, but he had already driven off. Regardless of all the reasons not to, I wanted to call him right then and there to ask him to come back so we could try and recapture whatever the hell it was we had both just discovered and lost, all within the past hour.

But then I walked into my bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and realized that I really, really needed to take his advice — and just lose his number.

2014 UPDATE: We ran into each other at Dunkin’ Donuts and it was weird.

 

My Real-Life Version of ABC’s Hit Primetime Drama Nashville 

Y’all. (And I do mean y’all.)

Can we talk about how obsessed I am with the new ABC drama Nashville after having seen just two episodes?

Yes? OK, good, because this ex-Nashville resident is hooked. (Yes, I refer to myself as an ex-Nashville resident even though I only lived there for a single summer.)

This brilliant series has inspired me to reflect on the real-life version of the show that I lived through just a year and a half ago.

For anyone who wasn’t reading during that era of Keychanges – here’s what went down:

This blog was actually created in Nashville after I moved there for a summer of meetings with various music publishers to explore a potential career as a country songwriter.

After being validated by music executives in the sense that I was great but not great enough to cut the forty-thousand-aspiring-songwriters-trying-to-make-it-in-Nashville line, I got all depressed and started Keychanges (does the name make more sense now?) as a way to work through the pain of being told that I’d have to pay actual dues in the music business.

(Fun fact: to create a vague sense of anonymity, I originally added a “K” to my name and blogged under the incredibly ineffective pseudonym Nick. Clearly, that desire for anonymity was never very strong, and has since gone out the window entirely — but Nick kind of lingers on in other areas of my life. In fact, the other day I had an IM conversation with a coworker about the spelling of my name and I was all like, “You know, I was just thinking about how stressful it’s going to be to pick out what my engagement party banner will say, because of all of the potential spellings of my name! Like, do I want ‘Congratulations _____ and Nic,’ or ‘…and Nick,’ or maybe, ‘…and Nicolas?'” and then she was like “Oh! Are you engaged?” and I was forced to respond with, “No… I’m totally single,” and then she thought it was hilarious but I was kind of offended by the fact that she thought I was the kind of person who would be engaged and choose to creepily withhold his fiancé’s identity from her by putting a blank where his name should be in a hypothetical engagement party banner scenario — but I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want to come off as confrontational and/or inadvertently create a hostile work environment.)

I realize that was the longest tangent ever, and I sincerely apologize. Back to Nashville.

After a few weeks in town, I started frequenting Nashville’s (two) gay bars and realized that I’m a total prude.

Then I realized that I had unintentionally led my new found blog audience to believe that I was a virgin, so I felt the need to clarify that I would totally sleep with an ER doctor if the opportunity presented itself.

Then I started watching Heroes on DVD and blogged about how Hayden Panettiere almost makes me feel like a straight man. (Freakin’ crazy because that’s now happening again on Nashville… Full circle, anyone?)

Then I read a few books and reviewed them, which led to the revelation that I’m basically just a Mormon gal trying to find love in the Big Apple.

Then I got hit on by a drunk guy fake-named Charley and tried to quell the awkwardness by telling him a totally false, convoluted story about how I’m Jewish and sober and spent two months on a kibbutz in Isreal and couldn’t sleep with Charley because I have a Jewish boyfriend, and the whole situation somehow led to the discovery that maybe I didn’t hate New York after all.

Then I left Nashville but couldn’t find a new apartment in the city, so I lived with my mom for a month and had a severe emotional meltdown after finding a box of condoms under the bathroom sink.

Wow. Where the hell was I during the series development stages of Nashville?

Because this is all pure gold.

 

How Not to Impress a Guy on a First Date

This list is comprised purely of things that I actually did on a date last week:

1. Admit to not having ever traveled outside of North America.

2. Order a burger with a yolky fried egg on top of it.

3. Have the following conversation:

  • Date: How do you not have a passport?
  • Nic: I know, it’s crazy! But I’m working on it, I swear. Moving on… Burgers with fried eggs on them are the FREAKIN’ BEST. Have you ever had one?
  • Date: No.
  • Nic: Oh! So I’ve never traveled overseas, but you‘ve never had a burger with a fried egg on it. When it comes to that whole lack-of-culture-and-world-perspective thing, we’re obviously totally even.
  • Date: I don’t agree…

4. Attempt to eat a french fry and miss your mouth entirely, thereby dropping the fry on the table in a highly embarrassing and supremely awkward fashion. (Yes, that happened, and I actually lived to tell. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of award I deserve for going through such a traumatic experience — I’m thinking it should have the words “hero” and/or “survivor” in its title.)

Later that night, I gave my date a ride back to his apartment. As he began to emerge from my vehicle, I felt compelled to reach into my backseat and pull from a bag of free samples of Tide® Pods that I obtained from a generous friend who clearly has some valuable connections. I then went into full grandma-mode and said something to the effect of, “Take some Tide® home with you for your laundry. These fancy new Pods — they’re an innovation!”

I must have really liked him, because my brain was so cloudy at the time that I actually considered this behavior to be both normal and appealing.

In retrospect, I realize that I sent my date home with laundry detergent.

“I won’t put out on the first date, but I WILL send you home with some household cleaning products!”

Alternate titles for this post: “This is Why I’m Single,” “How to Channel Your Inner Grandmother While Trying to Not Scare Off a Potential Suitor on a First Date and Totally Failing,” or “I Dropped a French Fry on a Date — and I Survived.”

P.S. But seriously, have you tried Pods yet? They’re freakin’ amazing — a stain remover, detergent, and brightener all in ONE!

P.P.S. The saddest part about this post is that I am not affiliated with or working for Tide® and/or any branch of Procter & Gamble in any way. This is all purely my own doing.

 

The Restorative Power of Mountains, Oktoberfest, and Lots of Garlic

So, the past few weeks have not been ideal.

I stopped dating (and consequently, blogging), the Pats lost for two weeks in a row, and I had to deal with some other life drama that is totally blog-inappropriate (although, my definition of blog-appropriate includes some pretty questionable things — so there’s a good chance that my other life drama is actually totally apropos by normal-people standards).

In light of the above, I decided to drop everything on Friday and spontaneously join two of my best friends on a trip up to the Catskills for a long weekend of nature, Oktoberfest, and garlic — three of my favorite (totally non-questionable) things.

It was awesome and pretty much fixed my life.

Our first morning there, we engaged in an rousing session of moving wood from a big pile in the yard to a neatly organized stack on the side of a shed.

                                                      Bringing lanky back.

Yeah, I’m basically a glumberjack. (That means “gay lumberjack,” for those of you who don’t spend much time in glumberyards.)

…Or maybe I’m just Big Ang. (This is what happens when I obnoxiously try to display my buff chest while my friend struggles to take a picture that actually includes my face.)

Later that day, we encountered a random group of horses quietly standing still in the middle of a circle.

I know, right? It was weird to me too.

                     “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just chillin’ with our saddles on.”

Naturally, I felt compelled to loudly declare, “THOSE ARE NOT REAL HORSES!” So I did.

And then my friends looked at me like I was the weird one. And then the horses moved and I stood corrected. And then I tried to explain to my friends that those horses were freakin’ bizarre — because a brilliant Mariah Carey music video from 1997 taught me that real horses, when left to their own devices, like to run wild and free with abandon into the sun.

And then they looked at me like I was weird again, and I was like, “Listen, y’all, if we weren’t in the mountains right now and had cell service, I’d settle this immediately by YouTubing ‘Butterfly’ and this whole argument would be moot.”

And then we all stopped caring about horses because we realized it was time for Oktoberfest.

After a glorious afternoon of beer and German food, we decided that the best way to end the day would be with some good old fashioned cigars while overlooking the mountains from the house we were staying in.

           Gangsta. (Or just nerdy gay man with a cigar and a chalice. Either one.)

For some reason (and by that I mean, “probably because of all the beer”), I felt compelled to try to be a tough guy and inhale all of my cigar smoke for the first time ever. So I did.

And then I proceeded to throw up three times.

Frazzled, I thought I was dying and promptly took to Google while my friends watched A Time to Kill starring Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock and insisted that I was just having a bad reaction to the fact that I inhaled an entire cigar.

Thankfully, Google agreed with my friends. Turns out that inhaling cigar smoke is totally okay if you’re a chain-smoking professional. If you’re a glumberjack who only smokes on special occasions such as Oktoberfest, New Year’s Eve, and Carrie Underwood album release days, then you should avoid it at all costs. (You’re welcome for the warning, glumberjacks.)

By the way, did I mention that there was lots of foliage already and I freakin’ love being in nature?

                                         Fresh mountain air heals everything.

Our final day in the mountains involved hitting up my first-ever garlic festival. And it was heaven.

Turns out I’m a big fan of garlic burgers, garlic fries, garlic pancakes, garlic ice cream in garlic waffle cones, garlic sausage, and (non-garlic) bottled water.

At the end of it all, I feel like the trip (combined with Sunday’s incredible Pats win) really put life back into perspective.

And I didn’t even have to watch Titanic this time!

But I did have to move some wood, throw up a little, and eat probably nineteen cloves of garlic.

Totally worth it.

 

Portrait of a Gay Blogger

Until last weekend, I had always held the belief that it would be impossible for a photograph to ever truly capture the essence of who I am. Such a picture would require all kinds of random elements that rarely end up all in one place.

Such as:

  • A healthy dose of blurriness, so as to mask my various physical faults and create an illusion of attractiveness
  • A feather boa (for divaliciousness)
  • A classic Connecticut outfit — complete with khaki pants, a navy blazer, and a mild air of pretentiousness
  • A prop microphone (for divaliciousness)
  • A light beer
  • A straight woman on either side of me (for divaliciousness)

Apparently divaliciousness is a word. And also a big part of my life.

                                        You’re welcome, world.

 

How a Bill Becomes a Law

The title of this post is admittedly deceptive, because it’s not really about how a bill becomes a law at all — I just wanted to create blog-intrigue with a governmental headline. But then again, it kind of is about how a bill becomes a law (in a strange, abstract way). But really it’s more about my penchant for over-analysis on all levels of dating, like every other post.

So. I went out with this guy last week. I’m going to refer to him as Mason, because that’s kind of an uncommon first name, and his real first name is a more common first name, and I’m thinking that maybe giving him an uncommon first name will ensure anonymity, which I MUST do this time, because Mason is kind of a political figure and I don’t want to get assassinated. (So many commas in my life.)

With that in mind, here are some random details about Mason that may or may not be totally false, but that I would like to include anyways purely to create confusion:

  • He is from Indonesia.
  • Our date took place in Missouri.
  • His favorite musical artist is Susan Boyle.
  • He was once a contestant on the classic nineties Nickelodeon game show Legends of the Hidden Temple, where he played for the Blue Barracudas and made it all the way to the final round but was dramatically captured by a Temple Guard in the Shrine of the Silver Monkey and was forced to relinquish his Pendant of Life moments before the clock ran out. He regards this as the worst day of his life.
  • He has purplish-beige hair.

So now that I’ve muddied the identifying-characteristic waters, let’s discuss.

I had a great time on our date. The conversation was natural, witty, and fun — unsurprising given that Mason is good-looking, smart, funny, and generally husband-able with a great career that makes me want to emulate Michelle Obama.

The next day, while taking a break for lunch, I discussed our date with my work-wife Jenny and ex-work-wife Kaci (“ex” in that she now works elsewhere, but was still available via instant message). I shared with them that, while I see serious potential with Mason, I’m worried that my lack of political knowledge may lead him to believe that I’m an idiot.

I’m used to always feeling adequately intelligent when it comes to most conversational topics, but political discussions tend to make me feel like a total dumbass who shouldn’t be allowed to vote — so I usually avoid them altogether, knowing that I can’t back up any of my arbitrary opinions with anything more substantial than Mariah Carey lyrics or the fluctuation of ice cream prices.

However, I am obsessed with sounding like a smart person, so I have always intended to eventually wrap my head around politics. I figured Mason was the perfect excuse to finally take action. I did some Internet research and then had this (abridged, composite) conversation with Jenny and Kaci:

  • Nic: So I just read the entire Wikipedia entry of “Politics of the United States.” Should I text Mason and let him know that I’m now prepared to have a legitimate conversation of sorts?
  • Kaci: Yes. Perhaps you can talk about how a bill becomes a law.
  • Nic: Crap, I don’t know how a bill becomes a law! I must have skipped that part in Wikipedia when I got distracted re: the etymology of “suffrage.” That word is so misleading.
  • Jenny: Click here!

The link that Jenny provided was to a YouTube video of a classic Schoolhouse Rock episode about a singing bill that dreams of someday becoming a law. I construed this as a genius move and proceeded to watch the video in its entirety while making a mental note to send Jenny a “can I have your babies?” e-mail later in the afternoon.

I then of course browsed other politically-themed Schoolhouse Rock videos and started bombarding both Kaci and Jenny with links to them via IM like a five year old type-screaming, “I’m gonna be SO GOOD AT POLITICS!” until I realized that Schoolhouse Rock could only teach me the basics of government policy, and that I’d need to read something vaguely current to be able to contribute meaningfully to a discussion about Obama’s approval ratings or the civil implications of Chick-fil-A’s stance on gay rights.

Then I remembered that one of my favorite authors, Helena Andrews, used to work for Politico.com, so I Googled everything she ever wrote for them.

Somewhere in the midst of brilliant articles about which Senators make for the meanest bosses and the relevance of politically-themed feature films, I developed a genuine interest in politics that now has me compulsively checking Politico on an hourly basis. I even tweeted about the Texas Senate Runoffs last night.

Whether or not things work out with Mason, I think this is awesome — especially since this new interest has developed just in time for a presidential election. I totally plan on forming opinions and learning names of important people and using words like caucus, straw poll, and paleoconservative. Because after all — according to both Wikipedia and Schoolhouse Rock — it is my civic responsibility.

 

Boobies

Do you love how I claimed that I would start blogging once a week and then suddenly disappeared from the blogosphere for yet another month?

Again, my absence can be attributed to grad school being a needy bitch.

Honestly, if I could somehow get a written guarantee that my life would turn out just like Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman, I’d totally drop out right now and turn to prostitution — that way I could blog during the day and then hit the streets at night!

Moving on.

Two crazy things happened a few weeks ago that I have been meaning to write about.  They are:

  1. I was involved in a street fight
  2. I went to a straight strip club

(As usual, all names have been changed.)

Both of these events occurred in the same night, and as their respective descriptions imply, involved lots of fists and boobies.

Ok, “lots of fists” might be an exaggeration.  What happened was actually a senseless attack involving just two sets of fists…

…neither of which belonged to me.

A group of friends and I were walking to the subway after having enjoyed some cocktails on my rooftop, when an inebriated Marlena (my delightful classmate and beloved friend) decided to pin me up against the side of a random building and tell me how beautiful, thin, and sexy I am.

  • Explanatory side note:  throughout the evening I was regaling my friends with the high-octane thriller of a story known as Nic Gained Twenty Pounds and is Now Fat and Unlovable.

Out of the freakin’ blue, a drunk and possibly coked out twenty-ish guy came barreling towards us.  He was being loud and obnoxious.

The rest is somewhat blurry, as I was busy being validated…

What I do vividly recall, though, is that after the crazy guy passed by Marlena and me, he randomly punched my friend Steve in the face.

I KNOW, right?!

Had we been in another borough, perhaps I’d understand this random act of violence and hostility… but in safe, gentrified Manhattan?!  I was stunned.

Steve promptly proceeded to fight back and almost severely injured the attacker until someone came in and broke it up.

After this whole debacle, we migrated to a random strip club in midtown called Lace.  Steve recovered very quickly with the help of a lap dance.

And this is why straight men sometimes perplex me.

If I had been randomly punched, it would have taken a lot more than a set of boobs in the face to quell my urge to turn the entire night into a dramatic sympathy-for-Nic festival, complete with multiple retellings of the incident — each of which slightly increasing in severity with alcohol consumption.

Anyways.

As the night progressed, there were lots of boobies — perfectly shaped, oblong, saggy, perky, large, small, and in between.  All major segments of the booby market were represented at this symposium of boobies.

It should be clear by now that I love using the word “boobies,” despite my lack of interest in the actual product.

Something else I love about strip clubs: I get to play some of my favorite question games!

  • Guess the Stripper Life Story
  • If __________ knew his/her song was being stripped to right now, how would he/she react?

and my personal favorite,

  • Which straight man in here do I most wish would instantly turn gay and give ME a lap dance?

Game number one is most fun when you exhaust all of the possibilities.  After mulling through the usual broken home, daddy issues, and working-her-way-through-community-college scenarios, I finally settled on “trained gymnast out of work.”  Bitch knew how to work a pole.

As far as number two goes, I’m pretty sure two of the three members of Destiny’s Child would be appalled to know that “Jumpin’ Jumpin'” is now standard strip club fare.

I’m of course excluding Kelly Rowland — have you seen the video for “Motivation”?

Number three was the least fun, as for some reason I kept coming up with Bradley Cooper, and he wasn’t present.

Hm…

Now that I’ve relived this whole night of boobies, I suddenly have the urge to go watch some softcore gay porn.

That or Pretty Woman.

 

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