Shit, man, I lived another year? Did NOT see that one coming.
Today I turn 29. I debated writing a diatribe on the bitter desperation that so often sets in for women at this age, what with the biological clock ticking like a time bomb and all. But seeing as I have decided to have mercy on the world and not procreate, this is a moot point anyway. Ditto the feeling of lost youth, especially since I still feel 18 (and act it). So in the spirit of this day, my first sober birthday in ten years, I shall instead share a mildly amusing anecdote that doubles as a cautionary tale that can only come from a night spent genuinely confused about which bathroom one should be entering.
For my 23rd birthday my best friend Rachel and a couple of our guy friends (both gay) took me to a gay bar. I had never been to one before. At the time I was cautiously bisexual, though I really had no interest in men whatsoever, as well as a woeful misunderstanding of gay culture (whatever the hell it is). As such, they could not have picked a worse night to take me to this particular establishment. The evening's entertainment included a drag show. Though to be fair, even at the time I was merely indifferent to the idea. I hadn't the foggiest of any sociological or psychological ramifications of men dressed as exceedingly garish women. But I was on good behaviour for a long ass time, just sitting at the bar drinking Labatt Blue (ah, the carefree days of the upstart alcoholic) and watching the dudes girls performers do their thing.
The real trouble started when we stepped outside to smoke. We sat along a cold concrete wall. One of my male companions waxed nostalgic about his younger days spent snorting blow off the worn wooden railing. I was just sitting there minding my own and smoking when my friend nudged me and nodded discreetly at something on the opposite side of me. I turned to see a girl sitting really close to me, practically on my lap. She was blonde and cute--and obviously very drunk. She was smiling at me and I suddenly felt awkward. She was far more attractive than I. At the time I was resigned to the belief that no woman would ever find me attractive, so gay or no I was destined to admire women from afar. As such, her compliments were flattering but received with a very large grain of salt. She told me she loved my eyes (I wear coloured contacts that turn my eyes a very bright green; I get many compliments on them but always feel slightly disingenuous accepting them.)
Then she leaned over and kissed me. It was very quick and chaste but she still managed to knock over my mostly-full beer bottle in the process. I didn't know it because she was quick to bend over and pick it up before I noticed, but I certainly knew when I went to take another drink and cut the fuck out of my lip on the shattered bottle neck. It was dark and I was unsure just how much I was bleeding, but it quickly became a back burner issue when a very large angry woman snagged the girl up and shot me a deadly look before telling me to back the fuck off her woman or she would do something to me. They then disappeared back inside. I just sat there, befuddled, a small trickle of blood trailing across my lips, cursing my shit luck.
I went back inside before anyone could notice and ducked in the back where the restrooms were. As I encountered vaguely feminine humans exiting both rooms I found myself in a position I could genuinely say I'd never been in before and haven't been since; I had no idea which restroom I needed to go into. So I picked a door and went for the gusto. Fortunately I chose wisely, so I went to work wiping off my mouth and stopping the bleeding and returned to the bar. Rachel had already left for the evening, leaving me with the gay boys. Doug bought me a couple more beers and all was well again until closing time. The guys were chatting up the drag queens but I was more than ready to leave. I had driven myself but didn't feel right leaving without them since they were good enough to take me out, so I stuck around, finished my beer, and waited on them. I had my back to them, and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and was face to face with a statuesque drag queen who was excitedly chattering to me, until he (she?) stopped and finally looked at my face.
"Hey, you're not Brad. You go over there now." He/she then planted a beefy hand across my cheek with enough force to push me backward, almost toppling over the bar stool. I was officially over it, so I went outside and smoked until the guys were ready to leave. They both apologized profusely for the incident at the bar and asked me if I was okay. I was fine. I didn't encounter the Large Angry Lesbian or "her woman" again and the slapping incident was amusing enough (I even remember thinking "when I sober up I'm gonna write about this.") Of course when I arrived home no writing occurred; instead I spent an hour ranting on the phone to Rachel about how I would never meet a decent women, women were all psychos, I was just gonna give up and become asexual, etc. As always she refused to humour my self-loathing tendencies, told me to go watch Futurama and sober up and we'd talk more about it in the morning. She has since instituted a no RUI (ranting under the influence) rule.
There has been no shortage of drunken debacles since this incident. I won't even go so far as to say the debacles will end as I get sober, but they will surely be less frequent, though hopefully no less entertaining.