Your Perception Vs. Reality During A Night Of Heavy Drinking

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Nice Move


Allow me to paint the scene. You’re pregaming with your boys before a night on the town and are struggling to hold down ten hearty pulls of Fireball and six Busch Lights. You are a walking disaster, but in your own mind, you’re fucking James Bond: cool with the ladies, untouchable on the dance floor, and unbeatable in any fight.

The following transgressions are not as they appear.

The Pregame

In Your Head:

You’re several drinks deep, but you’re just getting started. You don’t feel sick. You’re a fucking tank, and you won’t let that pussy Risk Manager, Kevin, tell you otherwise. You bust open the side of a crisp, cool can of Busch Light with your forehead and inhale the contents within half a second. Kevin and the others watch in astonishment. With a rebel yell, you lead the crew out the door and on their way to the bars.

In Reality:

Everybody at the pregame is concerned for your wellbeing. You’ve slipped into the realm of violent drunk — the type of drunk that puts you in great danger of harming yourself — but you can’t be stopped. Kevin grabs you by the arm and tries to put you on the couch, offering to sit the night out with you. “Get off meh puussayy!” you yell before shaking off Kevin, grabbing a half-empty can of Busch from the table, hitting it against your head and falling to the ground. Before you can be pinned down, the only tried and true method your brothers have for bringing your drunken rampages to a halt, you stumble out the door, headed for the bars a block away.

The Bar

In Your Head:

Weaving through the crowd with a light touch on the backs of your fellow patrons, you make your way to an empty spot at the bar. With a two-finger salute, you flag down the bartender, order a bourbon and Coke, and start scanning the vicinity for talent. Then your eyes meet. She stares straight into your soul with big, beautiful, steely blue eyes. She’s got the body of an hourglass and long, flowing blonde hair. You approach her and say, “Hey, I saw you from across the bar, and I’d be kicking myself all night if I didn’t come over and say hi.” She smiles. “Now there’s the type of smile that makes me want to be a better man.” After chatting her up for a few minutes, you gently take her by the hand and escort her to the dance floor.

In Reality:

Stumbling through the crowd and spilling the drinks of your fellow patrons, you somehow make it to the bar. After the bartenders ignore you for ten minutes, you slam an open palm on the counter to grab their attention. “Fuck off, buddy, you’ve had enough.” You find a lukewarm cranberry vodka resting on an empty table and slouch against the wall, head down, peering through sagging eyelids at the hazy crowd in front of you. Then your eyes meet. Not literally — a terrible bout of strabismus keep her eyes permanently locked in opposite directions — but nevertheless, it seems as though she’s staring straight into your soul. She has the body of a potato and a short, tight bowl cut. You approach her and say, “Heeyyy, I you saw me … hup … across the disssco club and want to make you come.” She shrugs as if to say, “You’ll have to do,” and walks with you to the dance floor.

The Dance Floor

In Your Head:

You take the hand she’s holding and twirl it over her head. Then you twirl her back around. Cradling the small of her back, you dip her just low enough that her long blonde locks hang barely an inch from the floor. You didn’t even know you could dance this well, but everything is coming naturally. She’s feeling it, too. You bring her close, tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, and kiss her. “Want to get out of here?” you ask. She bites her lip and nods.

In Reality:

You go to twirl your potato-shaped princess and elbow her in the nose. While she holds her face in her hands, you bust it out solo, flailing your arms like windmills, humping the air, and making obscene tongue gestures at nearby women. You spin your girl around and start ramming your pelvis into her backside, howling and beating your chest like a chimpanzee. “Let’s just get out of here,” she insists. You oblige.

The Physical Altercation

In Your Head:

As you make your way to the exit with the beautiful woman on your arm, a burly, bearded man confronts you. “Hey buddy, where do you think you’re going with my girlfriend?” he says. “Go away, Michael! We’ve been broken up for a year!” she cries, tears starting to well in the corners of her pretty blue eyes. No one makes your girl cry. You square up to the dangerous foe. He throws a punch. You knock it away with a forearm and send a fist straight into his hairy jaw. He crumples to the ground. Your girl kisses you hard on the mouth. The two of you walk hand in hand out of the bar.

In Reality:

You trip and sprawl head first into a girl, knocking her over. “Hey buddy, apologize to my girlfriend,” a burly, bearded man says. You throw a punch at his face, miss, and fall backwards. Your girl helps you to your feet, slings your arm over her shoulder, and walks you out of the bar and into a cab.

The Bedroom:

In Your Head:

Carrying her in your arms, you take her to the bedroom and throw her on the bed. She squeals with laughter. You climb on top of her, kissing her face, then her neck. As you work your way down to the warm rise of her breasts, she starts to breathe heavier and heavier. Then you enter her, slowly at first, building into faster, more powerful thrusts. She screams and cries in ecstasy as you climax, your face buried into the side of her neck. You drift to sleep holding one another tightly.

In Reality:

You make it into the bed, take off your pants, and start mashing your soft penis against her vagina. You vomit on her chest. She runs screaming and crying into the bathroom. You roll over and pass out.

The Next Morning

In Your Head And In Reality:

A splitting pain shoots down the center of your skull as a blinding light escapes through the edges of the tapestry hanging on your window. Vomit cakes your sheets. Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Kevin telling you to stay late next chapter for judicial review.


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