One D at a Time

A Present from the Past

I have a vast collection of drunken photo booth strips, but the one to the left is by far the drunkest. It was taken in 2003 at Opaline. I was with Rich (obvs) and we were with a bunch of other friends from college that I don't really talk to anymore because they moved away and had babies and stuff. Back then, I was working at BUST for very (very, very, very) little money, so I was forced to economize and cut corners on things, and I would BYOB a lot. I used to buy cheap-ass Georgi vodka, fill up a water bottle, and then just buy soft drinks at bars and spike them with my vodka water.

Well, I'd been doing that all night, but at some point during the evening, there were like two hours of open bar vodka for some reason, so loving anything free, I had little restraint. I was also intermittently stepping outside to smoke weed. Before long, I was like, Anna Nicole Smith-wasted. I was partially on autopilot, with instances of awareness of myself or my surroundings being few and far between. Like in this photo. I walked into the photo booth and plopped myself down on the stool, thinking it was a stall in the ladies room.

NYE Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

In the photo above, I'm the girl in the middle. You'd think I was wearing lipstick or something, but my lips are actually stained from the countless red jello shots I'd been spoon eating for about six straight hours. It was the only meal I had all day, which essentially made the first half of the night a time I never want to forget, and the second half of the night a time I'm glad I can't remember. (BTW, even though I was blotto by the time this was taken, I still had the wherewithal to smile with my eyes.)

I'm not really one to puke when I get trashed. Usually, I don't even know that I'm drunk until I wake up the next morning with a killer hangover. So it came as a shock to me that just as I was starting to enjoy the middle-of-the-party-not-so-secret sex I was having, I began to feel queasy. I don't know how long that dude was thrusting away on top of me. I couldn't even venture a guess, but I do remember that he started having boner issues again, from being so trashed. I closed my eyes in hopes that it would stop the room from spinning, but it only made matters worse. I think I said something to the effect of, "Are you gonna cum or what?" If he replied, I don't remember, but I got the impression that the answer was invariably no. I pushed him off me, rolled over and sat up. Words may have been exchanged, but the only thing I could focus on was the puke that was winning the fight on its way up from my stomach. I couldn't find my tights anywhere (and I never had any panties on to begin with), so I just tugged my skirt down, and stumbled out of my bedroom.

If Nothing Else, At Least I Got To Have Sex On New Year's Eve

I have to say that for all the shit that went down at my New Year's Eve party, and the expensive mess that resulted from it, one of the things I regret the most is that this is the closest thing I have of a picture of my outfit that night, which was really, really cute. The shoes aren't even in the shot.

I wasn't planning on writing about my party. I guess I'm more comfortable talking about what goes on inside of my vagina than inside my home. And I know that might seem weird. But anyway, when I woke up on New Year's Day, my house was totally trashed. And I really had expected a mess, but there was some damage, and I'd heard some tales of some shit that went down after I passed out that really pissed me off. Anyway, it's a long, story, but I ended up sending out an email to my party invite list with a hidden link I made on my site that contained pictures of the damages, a link to send me a PayPal payment, and a rant about how disappointed I was that my friends did that in my house, not strangers or party crashers. The email ended up on a couple of different websites and message boards, so now I'm just like, fuck it, lemme just spill the beans. I shouldn't have held back in the first place, like I've been doing for weeks on this site, because I've been nervous that I can't really be as brutally honest as I used to be, now that people know my name and what I look like.

But whatever, I'm over that. I'm over everything, really. So let's get to it. I'll fess up to what I can remember about who showed up, who puked, who got weird, and of course, who I fucked. Oh, and duh, the whole "contest" thing.

I <3 Drunk Sluts

I'm so happy that YouTube wasn't around for my friends to cruelly archive my sloppy, drunken confessional episodes in my early 20s. (There were plenty to choose from.) But I love stumbling across videos like these. I just have such a soft spot for this brand of party girl—slurring, swaying, and unabashedly up for any suggestions. She's alotta fun.

Wasting Time Making Time

The idea of tanric sex always seemed so boring to me. I don't really want to do anything for six hours at a time, unless it's laying across my couch, smoking weed and watching a Top Model marathon. Well, I guess for some people, that could sort of be on the level of orgasmic.

But really, I have friends who'll talk about how they love fucking for hours, and they do it on the regular, and all I can think about is how unappealing that sounds to me. I mean, the chafing alone. But there have been like two or three times that I've engaged in a nonstop marathon sesh. Of course, every single one of those was drug-induced. And the one that took place in my bedroom this weekend was no exception. It was fun at the time, but I'm dealing with the aftermath right now. I feel like I got hit by a car and immediately underwent an episiotomy. Everything is sore—my neck, my back, my pussy and my crack.

Doll Faced

I love pills. I really do. It's the most convenient way to get fucked up. Don't get me wrong, I love being drunk, but I find it a chore to get that way because booze tastes gross. Pot rules and all, but the smell factor places restrictions on when and where you can smoke it. And coke comes with its own laundry list of complications in regards to necessary discretion—like if the bag is too chunky, making it impossible for you to do secret key bumps; or how awful the feeling of anticipation is when waiting in a super long bathroom line at Max Fish, only to have the urge to get back in it five minutes after you'd completed your task.

But I don't eat pills recreationally all that often because 1.) tolerances build up way too quickly, as in a matter of days; and 2.) it's way too expensive.

Howevs, I do keep a stash of dolls on hand to assist me in life, and I don't mean Adderall (I wish, though) or anti-depressants. I'm talking about some real, old-fashioned, shady-doctor-prescribed, Judy-style uppers and downers.

Kathleen Turner's Nose

When it comes to boozing it up, Kathleen Turner's nose is perhaps the most compelling reason to exercise moderation.

That is a case of hypertrophic rosacea if I ever saw one.

Turner claims that she pretended to be an alcoholic in order to hide her real disease—rheumatoid arthritis. You know, because arthritis is so shameful and all.

She checked herself into rehab in 1999, but we all know that she never really ever stopped sucking cocktails.

Rock bottoms up!

80 ounces and a Few Blunts

A lot of times, I like to get wasted with mah gurls and watch Strangers With Candy eps or my Golden Girls DVDs, so we can empathize with Jerri or Blanche.

Anyway, when we’re spending the night in, just trying to kick it slow mo, our standard libation is a couple of 40s. 80 oz each, to be exact. And nothing goes better with some 40s than some blunts. It’s like the party-slut equivalent to milk and cookies.

Sucking Cocktails: Red Wine & Cocaine

Red wine relaxes me, and makes me all warm and fuzzy and less cynical and hateful. Sometimes, though, red wine can be a little too relaxing, making me all sleepy. That’s when some coke comes in handy. Afterall, I don’t see nothin’ wrong with a little bump or line.

Coke makes me chatty, but it also makes me feel all horny and energetic, enabling me to fuck all night. The horniness from the coke and the, ahem, orifice relaxation from the wine creates a combination that almost always leads to the same result. Shall I do the math for you?

Several glasses (or bottles, whatevs) of red wine

several white stripes

I won't shit right for a week.

What? Were you expecting me to be some kind of a lady? Thank Christ I only take it one D at a time, otherwise I wouldn't be able to shit right for two weeks.

Vodka Tonic

So it’s been established that I like getting fucked, but I also like getting fucked up. I like booze, drugs, weed, poppers, whatevs. Each substance—or combination of substances—comes with its own type of delicious cloudiness. Sucking Cocktails is my attempt at defining those types by identifying the effects they have on my judgement.

So I’ll start with vodka tonic—a mainstay of my bar/club libation short list, as it won’t really stain my outfit if some drunk jerk knocks into me. (Or if I’m the drunk jerk and am unable to hold my glass without tipping the fluid onto myself.) Since VTs are both light and refreshing, they go down easier than, well, me on a bass player I guess. When drinking vodka tonics:

This greasy guy with pock marks,

several rounds later,

is the same as this greasy guy with pock marks.

And that, my friends, is how the ugly dudes get laid.