That Time I Got High & Didn't Sleep With The Bartender.

I hate weed.

Anyone who knows me knows that. I can't stand the smell and I don't like to be around people who are altered (drunk people are a little easier for me, but if I'm sober, sometimes they're a bit much). Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of friends who smoke regularly. They aren't bad people or necessarily potheads, even. And I love them and for the most part, don't make a big deal out of the fact that they smoke, I just prefer they not do it around me... it also kinda sucks to ride in their cars afterwards, so I often make them roll down ALL the windows if we have to go somewhere together.

But yeah, I really hate weed and I'm pretty vocal about it. Which is why it surprises them to know that I have in fact been high. And not just sorta stoned. I was baked like a fucking cake. Here's how it all went down.

I was drinking myself through my breakup with my military ex, which is around where I started hanging out at my Usual Bar and making friends with the group of misfits that populated my life for a few years. There's a bartender at this bar that a lot of people find initially attractive... he's just your generic scallywag: longish shaggy brown hair, skinny, shorts, a hat. You know, that kinda slacker-looking type. But either way.

We were sitting outside on the patio and I was on drink number.... well, at least two past too many. I was gently swaying to the rhythm of my poor decision-making skills. Suddenly, I became aware that the Scallywag was sitting next to me. RIGHT next to me. His legs were touching mine, in fact. And he was sorta leaning into me, kinda rubbing his shoulder against my shoulder. It's like the face-to-face equivalent of sending a text message that only says "sup" at two thirty in the morning. It's a universal preamble for a hook-up. In spite of the fact that I was sort of seeing someone at the time (someone he'd met before, in fact, since eventually I subject all of my would-be paramours to my Usual Bar, typically sooner than later), I totally responded with the appropriate stupid-ass-grin and rubbed my shoulder right back on his.

About five minutes after the bar closes, I offer him a ride home. Now, as we mentioned before, I was gently swaying. And I mean that literally. I could barely drive my barstool, I should never have been behind the wheel of a vehicle. But I was and thank God it was like five blocks away in the same neighborhood. I had to make L's with my hands up to tell left from right as he gave me directions to his house... which I had been to before.... and I still got it WRONG. That kinda drunk is never going to lead to making the right choice to not hook up with your bartender while you're involved with someone else. Something had to happen or else I was going to be forever awkward at the bar and somebody was gonna end up hurt.

So we meander back to his bedroom. We're making out. And he sits up and grabs a little pipe. He asks me, "So do you smoke?" And, turning my back on my entire philosophy, I say, "You know what? Tonight I do." He takes a huge puff, keeps some smoke into his mouth and blows it into mine. I hear this is called "shotgunning" and lemme say, it was rather smecksy when I was in this condition.
But much to his disappointment, the bomb was about to drop.

During the kissing, right around the time where he was trying to snake his hands up my shirt, suddenly I felt tingly all over. It was that fast, just one second to the next, I was high. As a fucking kite. It felt FANTASTIC. It was incredible. It felt like the best part of being drunk. I suddenly realised why people do this so often. I realised how they fall in love with it.

I also realised that were about eight buttons and two zippers away from making a mistake that did NOT need to happen. Because as Bob Marley says, marijuana introduces yourself to yourself. And apparently when I am both drunk and high, I am a LOGIC MACHINE.

I sat straight up and said, wait. Why are we doing this. And he gave the reasons everyone gives for hooking up: he had just gotten out of a relationship and wanted a simple hook-up. He picked me because he thought I would understand that nothing more would come of it. To which I immediately responded with, "Uh huh, that's what I thought. So, listen, if I'm going to cheat on the guy I'm seeing, it should be for better reasons than that. So I'm gonna go to sleep now. You do whatever it is you need to do and let me know what time you need me to leave in the morning."

And that's the story about how I didn't fuck the Scallywag bartender.

Resignation.

It struck me today that I am no longer MVP of the Ho Superbowl. In fact, I may have officially retired. I have slept with exactly one person since December. Hell. I haven't even kissed or made out with anyone new this year. Past Me would be super disappointed.

Well. I guess I can always hope this is just the off season. Here's to Farvre-ing the shit outta the Ho Superbowl? Maybe.

More like here's to hoping that whoever I pass the crown on to is as lucky as I was--no diseases, no babies, no problems.
Good luck, aspiring hos. Just remember: through low self-esteem, no standards and a heap of sass, you too can play in the big leagues!