Under The Wagon

True life phone conversation with a friend, 8am Friday morning:

Me (still drunk) : “Dude, I totally got laid last night.”

Friend (long suffering, at work) : “Yeah? Anyone I know?”

Me (cracking open a beer) : “Um…Well, I checked some magazine address labels he had lying around…I think his name is Steve.”

Silence

Me (examining a thumbprint shaped bruise on my thigh) : “But he gave me a ride home this morning, and I didn’t even ask him to.”

Friend (still suffering) : “Sounds like quite the gentleman.”

Me (polishing off the can of Busch, debating whether to make some toast or just grab another beer) : “I know, right? And he had abs you coulda grated cheese on!”

Friend (waving off a co-worker with important work related issues to discuss) : “That’s nice. Hey, I gotta get back to work here. Are you going to sleep now, or what?”

Me (already planning next phone call to brag about getting laid) : “Eventually. Probably gonna watch a movie first. I hope those are his magazines, ya’ know…What if they’re his dad’s or a friend’s or something?”

Friend (looks at the pile of work on her desk, thinks about what it’d be like to not work during the week, and spend all of one’s time lazing around the house drinking beer, staying out late, and having casual, anonymous sex): “Yeah. That’d…Yeah. I gotta go.”

Me: “Okay. I’ll call you later, if I’m still awake.”

Friend: “Right.”

Hey, at least I got a ride home.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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I turn 28 in February.

Since most of my friends are in their mid-30s, I mostly get “fuck you” reactions when I bitch about getting older, but I still feel the grim specter of Three-Oh looming over the bar.

Upside to getting older:
My alcohol tolerance has increased. It takes longer for me to get stinking-drooling-fall-down-drunk.

Downside to getting older:
My alcohol tolerance has increased. It costs a lot more for me to get stinking-drooling-fall-down-drunk.

Downside to it costing more/taking longer for me to get…
I get laid less.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have more sex than most people I know. I’m a chick with no discernible morals. I could be twice my weight, half my height, and triple the ugly, and still get laid. That’s the beauty of having a vagina. You guys desperately need it, and most girls act like they don’t want the one they have. So it works out well for me.

But with me spending more time upright at the bar, my standards have unfortunately gone up. Now, there’s really nowhere else for my standards to go than up…I’ve always been an equal opportunity trollop. I’m hardly a bottom feeder, but “average” guys (and the occasionally uggo) are just so wonderfully grateful. I’m not pretty enough to intimidate them, but I’m still a step better than what most of them are used to. Plus, few can believe it’s really that easy to get into my britches.

And I’d rather have an awestruck Joe Pony-Keg eating me out until I say so than the All-American personal trainer watching himself in the mirror over his bed while he plugs me.

But with decreased blood alcohol content, comes a) decreased “potential.” Guys I’d normally be naked with in a minute are suddenly…Mmm, not so much. And b) My drunken confidence level is also significantly reduced, so guys I might hunt down faster than Bambi’s mom are suddenly a little beyond me.

A few years ago I quit drinking. I started again not from rampant alcoholism, but because of the rampant I’m-not-getting-laid-to-save-my-life-ism.

Right now, I’m just trying to figure out why…given I’m currently as gin-riddled as I’ve ever been…aren’t I getting laid as much?

I’m blaming it on February.

Stupid 28. I didn’t sign on for this.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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