I am drunk, but I think I can remember this story properly.
I knew I would be meeting some friends tonight. It would be late, post 11 definitely. I decided to go have a drink around the corner at the Beauty Bar, because my favorite bartenders would be working tonight.
"They've got my back," I thought. "Even in the mess the East Village must most certainly be tonight, they've got my back."
I walked in, and it was packed with people dressed in costumes. Somehow I found a seat at the bar, and made eye contact with bartender. Again, he served me before he took care of others who had been waiting much longer than I.
I ordered a Bud. That was all I could afford tonight. I drank it fast, because I realized quickly I didn't really want to be there.
A couple walked in and sat next to me. He was fucked up. She was cheesy. He could barely stand. My guess was he had just picked her up somewhere else. Her hair was piled high on her head. He started talking to me because was I there. He told me he had just snorted heroin.
"But don't tell her," he said.
At some point in the night I heard him say to her, "So how do you feel about women? I mean, do you like women, you know, that way?"
I looked desperately for others to talk to as I finished my beer, and I spotted two men hovering. They both made eye contact with me, and I felt like I was playing tennis for a few minutes, as I looked back and forth. They knew each other. They were both trying to find a way to talk to me. Finally, one of them made a move, and began to chat me up. The other one took off.
He was a senior editor at a news bureau. Somewhere in there he bitched to me about how stupid young writers are. Somewhere in there he asked me to guess how old he was. I was polite about my guess. Somewhere in there he lied about his age.
He offered to buy me a drink. I accepted. I told him it was almost my birthday, and he mentioned it to the bartender.
I was just waiting to go meet my friends. That's all I wanted tonight.
The bartender heard that it was my birthday and started pouring me shots of Jack, big ones. He wouldn't stop. I love the Beauty Bar bartender on Tuesday night. He's sort of fabulous.
Anyway, the editor and I chatted. I told him about the first draft of a short story I had finished today. I mentioned oral sex, as it was a plot point in the story. (I swear it was relevant.) As it approached midnight, I readied myself to leave.
"I've got to go," I said.
"What time is it?"
"How about I offer to be your oral sex slave at midnight? Come on, it's your birthday. "
Here is what flashed through my head:
(1) Do I really want someone I've known for less than an hour to lick my pussy? No. (2) If it were three years ago, I would have said yes, flat out. But it's not three years ago, it's now, and I'm different. (3) Am I attracted to him? Maybe if we were both sober, but drunk, probably not. I know he's smart, but I can't tell it right now. (4) Do I really want to get into this tonight? Nope. I've got shit to do tomorrow. (5) How do I leave as quickly as possible?
"It's an enticing offer, but I have friends to meet."
"I would say yes if it were me," he said.
"Well, of course you would," I said.
I walked to the center of the bar and bid the bartender and the DJ farewell. They both told me to have a happy birthday. I walked out of the bar and waved goodbye to all of the drunk fucks who had been trying to get me into bed for the past hour. I walked to the next bar. I saw my friends. They hugged me. They wished me well as I entered my 29th year. I left an hour later. I went home. I am 29. Thank God.
On a side note, good lord I hope Gore wins because I really don't have enough money right now to move to Europe.