Try as I might, I am not a whiskey girl

I’ve always wanted to be one of those girls who drinks whiskey straight out of the bottle and isn’t fazed. When I say “whiskey girl,“ I am picturing a beautiful woman who chugs the brown booze like it’s water, and can drink a man under the table with much aplomb. Am I one of such girls? No, no I am not. I can drink vodka until I turn into a potato, but one shot of whiskey and I have the tolerance of a Mormon school teacher.

Despite my efforts to become accustomed to this alcoholic beverage, I always become a stumbling, bumbling hot mess of a wastoid — black tears streaming down my face; red lipstick smeared around my mouth; making out with a gay man, or a woman, for that matter; starting a fight with a random man who walks by; and strutting about like Elaine Benes dances.

Mistakes that I can attribute to being whiskey-drunk:
Making out with my friend’s ex boyfriend
Puking under the bar
Illegible text messages
Calling guys who I don’t even like
Driving drunk

While I enjoy a whiskey ginger on occasion, shots are a definite no. If ever I take a whiskey shot I puke — either immediately, later on that night, or the next morning (something that I never did until whiskey entered my life.)

I should have known the moment my friend and I bought I bottle of Jamo that I was going to be in trouble. Although we only had one double before we left, we continued to drink whiskey at the drag show at X Bar, and again at Chi Chi and Cain’s wedding reception. Throughout the course of the evening, I saw my partner in crime dash into the alley to puke, I burned myself on the chin and the thumb with my own cigarette, and at one point I fell completely down on the ground outside of Club M. My friend also walked back to my house without telling me, as if she was going to somehow be able to break into the building or climb into my window.

Upon realizing she didn’t have a key, and that the dog wouldn’t let her in, she walked back to the club. We then ventured to 7-11 and drunkenly purchased two hot dogs, two pizzas, and two ice cream bars. Home girl passed out while the pizza was cooking, but then the smoke alarm starting going off, so that woke her up. We spent about 10 minutes trying to fan the air with towels and pillows and an actual fan before I finally was able to smack that fucker off the ceiling. Then she and I both passed out.

When my alarm went off this morning, I looked at my phone like you’d look at a man whose gut is hanging out of their shirt: disgusted. One thought crossed my mind: WATER! Desperate to quench my thirst, I grabbed the closest cup to me. In my still-drunken haze, I had accidentally grabbed last night’s whiskey ginger. Luckily the smell hit my nose before the liquid hit my mouth. Shivers coursed down my spine and my gag reflex awakened. I got myself water and then looked around. My apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it — a 5 foot 6, teal-haired, big-assed tornado. The thought of going to work was about as appealing as the thought of chewing on glass, eating out an asshole, or seeing another teen mom on the cover of US Weekly. I begrudgingly walked my dog (picking up dog shit while hung over [or still drunk] is especially revolting), and drove to work, somehow evading an early morning DUI (thank god drunk driving is perfectly legal during the day.)

Now I sit here at work, counting down the 6 hours, 22 minutes and 45 seconds until I get to lock the door, unfreeze the forced smile, and stop being convincingly sincere. All I can think about is greasy pizza and weed delivery and doing absolutely nothing tonight… and maybe taking a nap in my car… and being really mortified about falling down like an asshole.

“Do you do couples?”

Out of boredom the other day, I decided to bury my pride six feet under and join a typical, clichéd, and slightly frightening dating site. Considering that I recently saw the documentary Catfish, I’m not sure why I would practically solicit a prospective stalker. I guess if I had to name a reason for joining said site, I would say: A., I like to flirt; B., my ego could use the occasional validation; and, perhaps most importantly, C., it’s like shopping for sex (albeit most likely in the irregulars section.)

Dating sites are kind of like eBay, only for fucking and/or finding a relationship of any magnitude. You can check out an item (man/dong) and see if it looks damaged or weathered from use; make assumptions based on photos; and negotiate a fair price (date/casual sex/etc.) — all the while competing with other individuals for the grand prize.

In the mere three days I have had this account; I have been approached in a variety of ways. One man messaged me, “hey, you’re online, I’m online. Fuck this, let’s fuck. Dub palace is on 1390 and I have a boner,” an especially amusing offer since DJ Segue is a good friend of mine. Another guy messaged me, “Are you in love with me?” to which I sarcastically replied “head over heels.” And yet another attractive man messaged me, “Do you do couples?”

Hmm… do I do couples? I’m not completely opposed to the idea of a threesome. In fact, I may or may not have already had a threesome… and it may or may not have been with two men. Maybe yes, maybe no. But, as a woman who can be somewhat jealous at times, could I share a man, neigh, a penis with another woman? A woman who gets him full time, no less?

And, I can’t help but wonder: Could I hook up with the woman and to what extent would I be expected to do so? I’ve made out with a woman before, and I’d switch teams for Ginger Perry in a New York minute, but I’m pretty confident that tongue and tittie action is as far as I could go (although I bet a woman is better at going down on a woman than a man). Besides, I get dressed for other women, not undressed.

Then again if one was to “do” a couple, two strangers would certainly be the ideal. You could fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em and go on with your life. Whereas if I were to enter Smashville with a couple who are also my friends, I would have to think about them naked every time I’d see them from that point forward. “Oh, there’s curves to the left, and little miss three nipples,” or “Remember that guy I told you about who shouted out ‘Tammy Faye Baker!’ during sex?” And I don’t even want to know what they’d say about me.

And yet another issue, perhaps the most important one yet, is the fact that I’m an only child. As a result of this, I’m not necessarily accustomed to sharing. I don’t share my toys — be they legos or vibrators — and I don’t share my power tools either. Picture it: The other women grabs her boyfriend’s cock and I grab it away from her, “Hey, that’s mine! It’s my turn! I’m telling my mom!”

While getting down with a couple could be a complete blast, and make one hell of a story, I don’t think I could do it. With all these little hiccups and hang-ups in mind, I think that, for me, a ménage et trois with a male/female couple is a ménage et nah (but if you know two hot tattooed men who are interested, let me know.)