After spending so much money on my $1,600 piece of equipment, it was only fitting that I attend a party that was free of charge. Ladies entered free before 11pm. Naturally, I was there by 10:15pm. Ladies were also allowed free drinks for the entire night.
It is so great to have a hole between my legs. Party sponsors treat me so nicely. It almost takes away the sting of getting 75 cents for every dollar the piggy-bearers earn. And if the concept of free partying doesn’t take away the sting completely, the actual alcohol will.
And it certainly did.
I would like to make it official. This is an official statement. I have officially gotten drunk. Officially. Not so drunk that I threw up and couldn’t remember anything from the night before. But drunk enough to have absolutely no inhibitions and catch uncontrollable giggling fits.
Getting drunk was quite simple though. Firstly, my friend and I entered the party at 10:30 (after waiting 15 minutes for 2 more girls), and 15 minutes later we were drinking. Between 12pm and 10:45pm, all I had eaten was two slices of bread with butter. That’s it. After one drink, I began to get a light buzz. One drink.
The bartender was a cute fellah. When I went up to him for my second screwdriver, he gave me the once-over, and then started pouring in the vodka. He stopped. Then he poured some more again. Then he put in some juice. Then he poured in some more vodka. When I tasted it, I realised that I had been given juice flavoured vodka. I let my friend have a sip of it and she exclaimed:
“That’s alcohol with yellow colouring!”
So naturally, I returned to the same bartender for every drink I had for the entire night.
It might have been the 6th screwdriver I was asking for when the cute bartender looked at me and said:
“You sure you want another one?”
And I started giggling. And I couldn’t stop. I nodded my head yes, and giggled some more. I took the drink and giggled again.
For the rest of the night, I was distinctly aware that people were staring at me, and it wasn’t just because my breasts were spilling out of my top.
I must have been acting drunk or something, because I do remember guys coming up to me. One was whispering into my ear. I cannot remember what he said, but I do remember his last words:
“When you sober up, I will take a dance with you.”
Some other guy did not possess the patience to wait until the alcohol had run its course. He started grinding his erection on me, and telling me shit that I really was not lending an ear to. All I remember is me saying:
“No. Move away. I’m too tight to dance with you.”
And as an informational note to all of you non-Trinidadians: “tight” in that context was not meant to describe the elasticity of my pussy. It was meant to describe my then current inebriated state. “Tight” is that fine line between extremely tipsy and stone drunk. And I was walking it.
After my 6th drink, my friends banned me from alcohol. My friend, Candy took away the empty cup of my last screwdriver for the night, and put me to sit down a bench. I sprawled out on the bench laughing uncontrollably, knowing that people were staring but finding the fact impossibly funny, and therefore that only succeeded in making me laugh even more.
Oddly enough, it was Lizzy, who was fine for the night, who started throwing up in the bathroom. No one saw that coming. We had to leave early because of that. My father had picked her up and therefore he also had to drop her home.
So she threw up in the car five minutes from her house.
Luckily though, she had the presence of mind to throw up on herself, so when she finally exited the car, not a drop of semi-digested, alcohol-scented food was on the seats. Go Lizzy!
It was the best experience though. And I can’t wait to do it again. Not any time soon though – we’re planning to go and hang out at someone’s house this weekend – where the alcohol is conveniently hidden in the locked cabinets of a parent’s kitchen. ‘Tis a terrible thing.
“If life gives you lemons, make lemonade… Then find someone whose life is giving them vodka, and have yourselves a party.” – Ron White