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Ladies and gentlemen, I love you all dearly…well, most of you, anyway. But I find myself yet again feeling physically and emotionally drained for the multipleth time in the last several days.
And I find myself passing my typical midnight deadline with nary a word published. That shall not continue, I assure you. I LIKE having my posts ready to automatically publish at midnight. It’s neat and clean and predictable, which is virtually unlike me in every way now that I think about it.
And yeeeees, I’m going to talk about “it” again, and I’m not sure as I write this just how much I’m going to say about it. Suffice it to say that I have had more traffic to my blog in the last couple of days than I have EVER had before, and it’s all because of something that truly has nothing to do with me. At least not in any conventional way.
I don’t know why or how, but I somehow became a central point in the whole shitstorm nexus that has become the Fab/Turnbaby Event…because let’s face it, that’s what it’s become, an EVENT. It’s MORE than a happening, I fucking guarantee you that. I don’t believe that I have ever seen such monumental publicity and such ungaugeably huge fervor outside the mainstream media. And I’m not using hyperboles lightly here.
Yesterday, despite his earlier post that he’d be taking a hiatus for a while, Fab posted on his blog. You can read the post and the subsequent comments for yourself, of course, but to say that a huge brouhaha arose from that post is comparable to saying that a blue whale has a somewhat moderate pecker size.
I have YET to catch up on blogs from my 3-day Internet absence, so I’m sure I haven’t even touched the surface of what’s out there in the blogiverse. But from the posts I HAVE read, and the comments I’ve read, I am truly dumbfounded. TRULY. Most of all, I think I’m shocked and appalled at my own personal investment into the issue. I don’t know WHY I care so fucking much that I spent yesterday eating, breathing, and belching the Fab/Turnbaby twister.
I spent WELL OVER - and as Belinda is keen to say, I swear I’m not making this up, you can Google it - NINE HOURS on the phone in the last 24 hours. And that’s including my epic sleeping and nap schedule.
And yes, I took part in the comment storm on aforementioned post. I fully cop to it. I own my shit, no matter how nasty it may be. But I also maintain my stance. I back up every single word I have said about this matter, whether that be my blog posts, my comments to other blog posts, the radio show(s) that have come out the last several days…whatever. I stand behind my words, and I think I proved to a few naysayers that I have not said ANYTHING in ANY of those venues that I would not (and have not) said to Fab and Turnbaby directly.
In fact, I SPOKE with Turnbaby on the phone last night for over 2-1/2 hours. I will NOT be sharing the bulk of what we talked about because that wouldn’t be appropriate. I will say (and I think she’d be comfortable with me saying this) that she is incredibly upset and heartbroken. It is very clear to me (and I had no doubt about this before I spoke to her directly) that her feelings for Fab are sincere and earnest, and she still cares a very great deal for him.
I will say that the press release that was made on Blog Talk Radio was NOT Turnbaby’s doing. She went along with it because that’s what Fab wanted to do. It was there that they announced their engagement. That was on June 1, two weeks ago.
I will say that Turnbaby almost seems to care more about how Fab is doing than her own well-being. She loves him that much. In fact, she’s extremely upset about how people are seeing Fab, and how some people are ridiculing Fab…all this coming from a woman who has in the last 48 hours been called a harlot, a tramp, a whore, and many many worse things than that.
This is the part where I once again feel the need to state my position on something. (As if we’re all not fucking tired enough of my rhetoric to begin with.) These are REAL people involved here. They’re not play-time people, they’re not “The Sims.” Real people, real actions, real emotions. As always, I encourage and I welcome anything and everything anyone has to say. I mean it. You are always welcome at my blog and you’re always welcome to speak up. (Well, except for YOU, maybe.)
Where I DRAW THE LINE (here on MY space, anyway, which is the only place I can truly dictate the terms) is when it starts getting to be a personal attack. It bothers some people whenever there are “anonymous” comments on blogs, but that doesn’t bug me so much. It’s the NAMECALLING I don’t like. And I’m not saying I’m immune to it. I may very well have said something in anger, off the cuff, at times. But AGAIN…and this is from YEARS of way-too-much therapy…say how you FEEL and you can never be wrong. Start everything with “I don’t like” or “I like” or “I’m hurt” or “I’m pissed” or “I’m exhausted.” The “I Statements” really help keep things clear.
And I also want to say this. It’s one thing to slam a particular behavior or decision; it’s another thing entirely to slam a PERSON. To wish someone ill, no matter where you may stand on any of the myriad of issues surrounding this Event, is fucking evil. I seriously hope that those of you trolls who are laughing their asses off at this shit and sending vicious flaming emails to these REAL people get a case of crotchrot that breaks all of historical crotchrot records.
Turnbaby is NOT a whore. She’s not. I am a very good judge of character (most of the time) and I spent a LONG time with her on the phone last night. She’s not a bitch, though I have no doubt that I wouldn’t ever want to cross her, and she doesn’t deserve to be viciously and brutally beaten verbally.
And if you’re reading this and I’ve talked with you at all on the phone or on Jester’s radio show, I’m not talking about YOU. I’m literally talking about trolls, evil little beings that seem to feed on misery and sorrow as if it was the most scrumptious and glorious food ever created. YOU? Yeah, the closest I come to hatred? THAT’S how I feel about you. Go back to your holes and feed on some other lot, will you? And impale yourself on a large spiked and barbed section of rebar. And maybe get anally raped by satan from here until eternity, or until Oprah goes off the air, whichever comes second.
As for those of you that believe that everyone outside of Fab, Turnbaby, and Mrs. Fab has no right to be upset, and certainly has no right to express our feelings and frustrations and anger and every other emotion we’re going through…tough fucking shit. I respectfully disagree with you.
There’s a difference in my mind between readership and friendship. Most of you are READERS of Fab’s, let’s face it. I don’t put myself in that category. I am a fan of Pointless Drivel, yes, but I’m MORE than that. At least I FEEL like I am. I may be wrong about that. That’s in Fab’s hands. Regardless, I am far more emotionally invested in Mr. Fabulous - well, let’s say it, in BRAD, because there IS a difference between Brad and Mr. Fabulous - than a mere READER. I have conversed with Brad, I have exchanged many an email with him over the last several years, we’ve traded stories and blogging advice and he’s always been most kind to me regarding questions I have about Blog Talk Radio…we’ve been on each other’s shows. I wouldn’t do that with ANYONE…I mean, that there are a select few folks I can say that about.
But, dammit, I have feelings and you’re damn right that anything that’s affecting me THIS profoundly (no matter what the rhyme or reason of it) is GOING to be coming out my mouth or my fingertips, and very likely BOTH. However, unlike some people, I am (for the most part) rather cautious and judicious in my remarks. Because, yes, like it or not, my identity extends INTO my blog, into my emails, into my comments, into virtually every aspect of my online life. And because I want to be able to stand behind anything I’m quoted as saying, to say, “Yes, I said that, and I don’t regret it.”
Granted, I’m not always successful at that, but I truly try my best to live up to it. And when I fail (and I do, every day) I’ll always be the first to say, “I fucked up, I’m sorry.”
The shit train needs to stop. I’m not saying it’s going to stop today, or even any time soon. It will cease in and of its own volition, as soon as the next big drama in the blogiverse erupts. And then we’ll all be moving along to a whole new set of drums. After all the dust settles, then the Event will fade away. Except for Brad, Liz, and Linda. They’ll still be there, navelgazing and recovering. And yes, Liz’ spouse, too (I have NOT forgot about him, much as some people think).
But here’s the thing: I KNOW Brad. I KNOW Liz. They are my only connections to this drama. I don’t really know the other parties involved…at *all*. So that’s why 99.9% of my comments are in regards to Brad and Liz. I am unqualified to speak of things of which I do not know. (Yes, I’m entirely aware that this is somewhat ironic, as I don’t KNOW a great deal of things surrounding the Event.) But what I DO know, and that’s mostly how I FEEL about this, well, THAT I feel qualified to talk about.
I just wish that the unintelligent people would shut the fuck up and leave those of us who aren’t and are trying to PROCESS THIS CRAP alone. And for the love of God, if you don’t want to READ the shitstorm, then shut off your damn computer and stay the hell away. Why the hell make yourself miserable?
Huh.
I just realized that I can’t answer that question myself.
Filed under 2HT Mentions, Blogging, Local Goings On, Rants, Sex, Weblogs | Comments (42)
You’d better get your ass up and go to the bathroom now, folks, because this is a long one.
Epic.
Let me tell you the tale of drunken revelry and debauchery that is TequilaCon 2008. There was so much fun it’s difficult to wrap my head around it all, particularly those hours between around 1am to whenever I went to bed Sunday morning.
First of all, it’s no great secret that I’m a touch socially phobic. I’ve described it in length before, but suffice it to say that most people don’t really know I’m inwardly freaking out in groups of people. I put on a nice little happy face and everything is fine. Such things are not required at TequilaCon, though, because I’m always happy once I get there and jump into the middle of things.
It helps me more than I can describe when Hilly is there. She’s my rock, she gets me, and loves me no matter what. And that works both ways. So even though I was basking in the glory that is Becky, Adam, Britt, NYC Watchdog, and Poppy, I was ecstatic when Hilly finally got to the hotel. When Becky drove Adam, Britt, and I from Philly airport, we knew about halfway to the hotel that the traffic was just ridiculous and we wouldn’t be able to pick Hilly up. As it was we didn’t make it to the Sheraton until 5pm and Hilly’s flight was landing at 5:30.
“How shitty of us would it be if we asked Hilly to take a cab?” Britt asked. We all agreed that while it might be a little shitty, it wouldn’t be anything that couldn’t be polished over with a lot of alcohol.
So we all chipped in and made some welcome signs for her. And we were going to go down to the lobby and hold them up and give her big cheers when she arrived. Alas, we were still busy being shitty in Adam’s room, drinking deliciously smoooth tequila that Becky brought. Hilly called us from the lobby to tell us she’d arrived and Britt screamed “Fuck!” and we all grabbed signs and ran out into the hall to greet her there and pretend we really weren’t so shitty after all.
Hilly was finally in Philly and all was right with the world. I’m telling you, seeing her twice a year is just not enough for me. We did some more shots after I reloaded by grabbing Becky’s OTHER bottle of tequila from her room. During all of this, I’m exchanging phone calls with Shelli and text messages with various other folks, plus we’re all occasionally Twatting everything for the folks back home.
We arranged to meet with Shelli, Rachel, Megan, Diana and her husband Mike for dinner. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. We decided to make them come to US at the Sheraton for dinner because that’s how we roll. We didn’t want to leave the luxury of the Sheraton. Or we didn’t want to worry about transportation when we were all getting hammered. Take your pick.
We went down to Phillip’s restaurant, which is a big seafood place. You know I hate seafood, but I know these places always have non-water-dwelling dead creatures to eat, so no biggie. We were given a private room to dine and we all haggled and bitched about the seating arrangements because the two primadonnas (who shall remain nameless but whose names rhyme with Madam and Tit) wanted to sit at the heads of the table.
When I looked at the menu I was inwardly screaming bloody murder because even the salads were $145. A fucking Guinness was $7 and it wasn’t even on tap! A bottle for frak’s sake…$7. I wound up settling for the petite filet mignon, which looks like this. No, there was no other food on the plate. This is how it showed up. $30.
Nevertheless, at TequilaCon you pretty much just have to say what the fuck and move on. It is not a time of moderation. Hilly and I split a small dish of potatoes au gratin ($6, no, you don’t get sides with your meals there, so quit your bitching). I DID, however, try a coconut shrimp and it was actually very good. People thought I was just fucking around when I said I’d try it. I’m not as stubborn as you might think…I try new things every so often because I know tastebuds change. The crab dip, however? Blecch.
Soon Shelli and her entourage showed up and the table was full of bloggity goodness. There were 14 or 15 of us altogether and we were pretty damn loud, I’m sure. Lots of laughter and photos.
That’s Christine and Jan, my rooming buddies for the weekend. I’m not linking to them because Jifferswitt asked me not to for reasons that will become clearly apparent several hours down the road when you finally finish reading this post. Hmm, maybe I should just break the story into parts. Meh, fuck it. I might feel differently in a while, though. We’ll see.
There’s Diana and Mike and Dawg and Poppy. Sorry for the blurry photos, but I prefer the ambient light to the flash. We were having a raucous good time when in walks this enormous skyscraper of a man. We were convinced that he was a bouncer to kick us out of the restaurant due to our profanity-laced shouting matches. But no, it was Delmer. What’s a Delmer look like, anyway?
He looks like that guy in the middle sitting at the end of the table. This was the bar area of the hotel, where we quickly moved to after dinner because we felt we weren’t being loud and raucous enough quite yet. More alcohol was needed, but what? No Guinness?! Ack! So I went for a whiskey and ginger ale, because they didn’t even have Jamesons.
I was feeling pretty good at this point, so when a group of us went outside to make out (totally not code for going to smoke), and left my camera on the table in the bar with all the nasty people, it didn’t come as any great shock that I found the following photos on my camera the next morning.
That’s why you should always come to TequilaCon a day early, people. Trust me, if you don’t, you’re missing out on golden moments. Even though it was a beautiful day in Philadelphia, that night it got downright chilly. Keep in mind that I live in Florida now, so I’m used to 85 degrees at night. Had to be down in the 50s, perhaps the 40s with wind chill considered. Nevertheless, you can’t let a stupid thing like frostbite on your nipples deter you from making out.
We basically shut down the bar, said our goodbyes to the non-Sheraton losers, and went upstairs to Adam’s suite, which only had one bathroom, much to Adam’s chagrin. You know, because primadonnas need TWO fucking bathrooms. The drinking continued and so did the laughter. I’m sure we were all amazingly entertaining from Adam’s point of view. He doesn’t drink these days because the last time he went on a bender, he was arrested for breaking into Sea World and molesting the dolphins. It required a lot of therapy to help those dolphins recover, and the resulting mutant pregnancies that came as a result were not pretty to look at.
Apparently, on May 1, the Sheraton went totally smoke-free. Except for Adam’s room, of course. It was grandfathered in so Britt and I could smoke. That’s how we interpreted the policy, anyway. I’m not sure what time we all left to go back to our rooms (fortunately, mine was only a door away) but it was probably at least 3 or 4.
Stop! Intermission time!
Believe it or not, I woke up at 8:45. Not one to get hangovers, I got up and found Christine already awake, typing away on her laptop. Hell, I hadn’t even broke my computer out at that point, but knew I’d have to at some point, if only to download all the photos to free up my camera for the day ahead. Christine was a fabulous roommate. She got up and made coffee for us and even brought it to me in bed, wearing a lusty pirate wench outfit that looked remarkably like sweats and a sweater.
I know I was tired because I slept on my back. Or it might have been the drunkeninity talking, I don’t know. Regardless, Jifferswitt was a little peeved because I promised her during our planning phase that I don’t snore. Which I don’t. When I’m sleeping on my stomach. She’s a very light sleeper. A mosquito woke her up when it passed by the room window. Outside. So my snoring made her want to shove a pillow over my face and then sit on the pillow and scream, “Die, you motherfucking bastard, die!” Christine thankfully restrained her.
After I drank a cup of coffee and apologized profusely to Jifferswitt while she threw daggers at my head, I went down to go make out. Pleasant surprise, Dawg came down to join me. I have to tell you, it’s a rare thing for me to feel so comfortable and close to anyone in such a short time. Dawg is just one of those guys. Genuine and welcoming and totally willing to smoke two cigs in a row with me. Truthfully, though, the weekend was filled with people I warmed to almost instantly.
Eventually, we all got our asses moving and decided to eat downstairs in the expensive-as-hell Terrace restaurant. $15 for a fucking buffet? Are you KIDDING? I couldn’t wait to go somewhere else, though. I was feeling a tad low, blood-sugar wise, and that’s not good. Diabetic, in case you didn’t know.
Adam couldn’t wait to go see “Iron Man.” He’s hardcore that way, so Dawg and Poppy went with him to the movies while Hilly, Britt, Becky, and I decided to hit the historic district. Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, Ben Franklin’s grave, all that good colonial stuff. We drove around for a while and couldn’t find any parking, so, um…
Yeah, that’s what we did. Hey, technically, I’m handicapped. OK, maybe not, but I AM on disability. Don’t judge me. We had a legitimate tag.
We wandered around Independence Hall before realizing that you had to have a ticket to get in, and they’d already given them all out for the day. You need a freaking appointment to go inside Independence Hall. That doesn’t sound like Freedom to me. A little let down, we didn’t let it stop us from wandering about.
We took a nice little horse carriage tour for 30 minutes and had a great driver, who filled us in on all sorts of stuff that I only halfway paid attention to. She was very personable, though, which is good, because we’re kind of a rowdy bunch to be around.
We wandered by the Liberty Bell. Outside in the courtyard there was a big Free Tibet rally. I don’t know who Tibet is, but apparently he’s a big fucking deal. People were chanting and singing and standing around with signs and shit. This dude is very popular. Whoever Tibet is, I say let him the fuck out already!
Oh, did I neglect to mention that I walked all around historic Philadelphia wearing a crown the entire day? Yeah, I did. We got lots of weird looks and smiles and after a while I forgot about the thing on my head. Hell, I’ve blogged NAKED, people. I can do ANYTHING.
There was much Twattering going on, of course. I am not going to like my cell phone bill next month, that’s for sure. I used the damn thing more than I think I’ve EVER used it. Here are my lovely posse girls doing their thing.
I didn’t feel like waiting on the huge honking line to get in to see the Liberty Bell up close, so here it is. Take a picture, it’ll last longer.
I brought some Super Glue with me so I could see about repairing the damn thing, but security got all uppity on my ass, so I backed off. Geez, you try to be a patriotic citizen and they get all pissed.
So we wandered along a bunch of streets, with Britt insisting the entire time that she knew where we were going, back and forth and up and down. I was getting a little dizzy from all the walking. After all, I was severely dehydrated. Finally, we found ourselves in front of Christ Church, where Ben was living. I was a little shocked to see this sign:
I thought we did away with the slavery a long time ago. I mean, hello? Does World War II ring a bell?
They even had some incredible historical documents on exhibit, evidenced here.
See? They even SAY “Historical Documents!”
So we paid our two dollars (”Two dollllars!”) to get in and wandered around for about an hour. It was a beautiful old cemetery, with the bulk of the gravestones and markers from the 1700’s and 1800’s. Naturally, we gravitated first toward Ben Franklin who is, in fact, dead. Who knew?
We had to throw pennies on his grave because apparently Zombie Ben comes out at night and gathers up his winnings for the day before heading down to the local pub. They say if your penny lands heads up, it’s good luck. If it lands heads down, Zombie Ben will come up and bite your face off. So Britt was scrambling to throw a shitton of pennies on the grave, saying, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” at every little clink. She managed to get one heads up, finally, but I’m still concerned for her pretty little face.
Then there was Benjamin Rush, a signer of the Declaration of Independence - which was when America told England to suck it, bitches! - but more importantly…
The Father of Modern Psychiatry. I owe this man my life. Seriously, I’ve seen more therapy than all of you put together. So Dr. Rush? Thanks, dude. I never knew how fucked up I was before seeing therapists. Plural. Multiple.
Upon seeing this, Hilly said, “Look, it’s a big pump!” She was talking about that cross-like thing on the left which, in fact, is a cross. I responded with a big laugh…we all did, before I said, “Yes, because that’s how Jesus died, crossified on a big pump!” What spooked me out was the baby bed looking thing next to it. Eeeeeery.
Naturally, we were totally inappropriate during our trek through the tombstones. Hilly was laughing, saying, “Wouldn’t it be fucked up if I touched one of these gravestones and they broke?” Which is why, by the way, there’s a big sign saying “DO NOT TOUCH THE GRAVESTONES OR WE’LL KICK YOUR SORRY ASS!”
We next walked our asses off to the Free Quaker house, where you get a Free Quaker with every $10 purchase. Hey, these are the jokes, people. Laugh it up. He was actually a very nice guy, even though he said upon my entering, “Hey! We don’t like kings in here!” He also did call Britt a selfish bitch. “What?” she screamed from the balcony. “Did a Quaker just call me a selfish bitch?” Yes, yes, he did. Course, the shirt she was wearing might have had something to do with it.
We asked a lot of questions about the Quakers and the Declaration of Independence, which apparently has three errors in it. There’s a sign that tells you that, and says “See if you can find the errors.” Fuck you, assholes! Find your OWN fucking errors. I get paid for my editing and writing skills, bitch. I’m not working for free, even if you ARE Quakers.
The Free Quaker was quite nice, though. When (I think) Becky asked him where we could find the best Philly Cheesesteaks, he gave us directions to Sonny’s Famous Steaks. Of course we went. Hey, would a Free Quaker steer us wrong?
I thought the sandwich rocked, even though I was trepidatious about putting Cheez Whiz on anything edible. But I trusted the man behind the counter (and the Free Quaker) and he didn’t steer me wrong. Britt wasn’t thrilled with hers, but that’s because she’s pretty much hi-may. That’s when Shiny showed up and we got to hang for a while before we ditched his ass to head back for the hotel. Hey, women need prep time before TequilaCon. I dig that. I know they wanted to look hot for me. Understandable.
And they did not disappoint. I was ready to stick my tongue in Britt’s mouth, but thought she might take that the wrong way, so I focused more on Becky, who spurned my every advance. We all headed out (Britt, Becky, Adam, Christine, Jifferswitt, Hilly, and me) in Becky’s car and parked once again in the handicapped spot in front of the North Bowl. To be fair, we did drive around the block once to find parking.
Hey, Jifferswitt has a broken leg!
We met up with Jenny and Dave and Vahid and Dustin and Jessica and her husband (dammit!) and grabbed our free schwag and schweet lanyards. And I finally wandered over to the bar for my first beer. What? No Guinness? Is there a conspiracy or what? How can a bar not have Guinness? On tap. So I grabbed a Yuengling with Becky and we started the binging.
Not really. I had two beers, then a margarita, then another margarita, and was very disappointed to not even have a buzz.
Mmm, a Karl sandwich. Yummy. That’s Shelli and Lisa, by the way, two of the sweetest and kindest yet raunchiest women I’ve ever met. I loved hanging with them both, as I did fucktons of other people I probably can’t squeeze in here. You can always look at the photos in the Flickr pool. As it is, there’s less than 90 minutes for me to finish this freaking thing and I’m starting to panic.
Sandra, who I’ve been reading since the Lost Blogs book project two years ago. We hooked up for brunch a couple years back in San Francisco and she totally rocks. She was smooching me and jamming with the crown. And Karl does love a crown, as I think we’ve established. Uh oh, Karl is talking in 3rd person. Karl hates when people do that. So he’ll stop.
Then there was the beautiful Sarah and Metalmom. I’m still always a tad surprised when someone tells me they read my blog. I don’t know why. I’m fucking amazing. So when Sarah (a brilliant photographer, check her on my Flickr contacts) said she’s seen MY photos…wow. And Metalmom, well, she was so excited to pinch my ass that she could barely keep her eyes open. I was disappointed she had to leave so early, but hey I can be a lot to drink in in one dose.
There’s Dave, Becky, Adam, and Jenny (don’t change your number!). So like I was saying a while back, I still wasn’t buzzing and it was irritating. Between 10 and 11 I decided to do something about it.
Stop! Intermission Time!
I grabbed Victoria, our sweet and energetic waitress, and ordered two shots of tequila and two Jamesons and ginger ales. I was finished fucking around. No more froo-froo drinks for me, dammit. This is TEQUILACON. Christine sat down next to me and shook her head in concern. Or maybe it was disgust. But bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Downed them all in less than three minutes.
And I went back for more. “Another shot of tequila and another Jamesons…”
“And ginger ale?” Victoria said.
I loved that woman. She got me. She really got me. Plus I was ordering the GOOD Tequila. I am not sure when it happened, but I suddenly found myself with a very good buzz, but I did NOT slow down. No sir. I know this because this morning, when I pulled out the receipt from my jeans pocket, I had, um, a $125 bar bill. What? I totally had a corndog and tots somewhere in there.
That’s where the pictures for the evening end. At least from me. I’m pretty sure there are all sorts of other ones out there. I remember bits and pieces. Kind of. I remember stumbling down the stairs at 2 o’clock when the North Bowl assholes wanted to lock up and harsh my wicked buzz. I remember kissing Lisa right on the mouth at some point as we exchanged drunken I Love You’s. I remember promising someone sex in a totally joking but semi-serious manner. And stumbling around to Becky’s car.
The beautiful thing about me as a drunk is (1) I’ve never thrown up from drinking. Not ever. And I kept my record intact, thank God. Though Becky sure was worried about me puking in her car. (2) I never get hangovers. For me, a hangover is dry mouth. But that’s easily fixable. Just water up and keep the water coming.
The not-so-beautiful thing about me as a drunk is (1) I now have a two-for record for sleepwalking while hammered. Last year I woke up outside my hotel room wearing nothing but my boxers. (2) Apparently I get kind of sexed up when I’m seriously drunk because…well.
Let’s first talk about hanging out in Adam’s room when we got back to the hotel. I was WAY drunk, people. If you don’t believe it, go check out my phone conversation with Jester. It’s 45 minutes long so don’t go there YET. But I told him about 243 times that I wished he were there. He kept saying he wanted to see pictures of my ass and I slurred, “I have no problem with that.”
Next thing you know, woop! I dropped trou all the way to the floor and hung out in all my glory. I fully expected someone to take my picture so Jester could see my ass. Since Hilly was sitting on the floor, my junk was pretty much right there at eye level. “WHOA!” she screamed. And Becky was laughing hysterically. Well, everybody was. Except for Britt, who was passed out on the bed. My ass was right in Becky’s face and she’s on the phone with Jester telling him the play-by-play as he screams, “Oh, for the love of God! SOMEONE better be taking photos!”
Not to worry, people. There IS evidence. Over at Avitable’s place. WAIT! Don’t leave yet! I’m not finished.
That’s not even close to the best part.
I fell over a bunch of times and have a scar to prove it. Didn’t notice it until last night, in fact.
But THAT’S not the best part.
The next thing I remember is waking up near my bathroom. Totally naked. This is the part where I remind you that I’m rooming with two women who I’d not met before. Fortunately, they were sleeping. So I pulled on a pair of shorts and all was fine.
Until a few hours later when I awoke to a couple of embarrassed faces. Jan got out of bed and said, “Hey, why is the floor wet between the beds?”
I quickly thought back to last year, when I found myself in my boxers in the inner hotel hallway. Not one of my prouder moments, people, but I peed on the floor right there in the hall. I couldn’t wait and I was locked out of my room.
“Um,” I said, “I might have peed on the floor?”
“Ewww!”
“I think you did more than that,” Christine said. “Not even the worst part.”
“WHAT?” How can THAT not be the worst part?
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“I want to know.”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“I REALLY want to know.”
The girls just laughed and kind of cringed and it took me 90 fucking minutes to get it out of them. I’m thinking I must have had sex with a sheep or something.
“You were kind of, um, worked up.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were sort of…” Giggle, giggle.
“WHAT?”
“Playing with yourself.”
That’s right, people, as drunk as I was…barely able to stand, let alone walk…I laid there on my bed and jerked off right in front of Christine and Jifferswitt.
But THAT’s not the worst part. I know!
I couldn’t finish myself off. Yes, I rejected MYSELF.
Now you know why they don’t want me linking to them in this post.
When I told Adam, he died laughing. When I told Britt, Hilly, and Becky THEY died laughing. And when Christine came into their room to see about heading down for breakfast, they died laughing again.
I profusely apologized again and again because, yes, even I can get embarrassed. But I’m almost more upset that I couldn’t finish myself off. I’m pretty proud that I was that drunk and still able to kinda sorta jerk off. That’s fortitude, baby.
Class, however, not my forte. Not at TequilaCon.
Somehow I don’t think I’ll have the same roommates next year.
There, now I’m done.
And THAT’S how you write a recap, baby.
Filed under Blogging, Local Goings On, Sex, TequilaCon | Comments (69)
This is a post meant for the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). You can visit the GBBMC page for all the information you need about RAINN and the campaign. More links available at the end of the post. Please donate!
So here I was having sex for the first time and loving every minute of it. Literally. I may have lasted 90 seconds, tops. It was the best feeling I’d ever had, being inside Betty, and I didn’t want it to end.
Before I “finished,” however, Betty started crying. Yes, crying. Now, you might think that something like that would put a guy off, maybe make him wonder what the hell was going on. I did ask if she was okay; I’m not that big an asshole. She said she was and I was feeling so good that that was enough for me to keep on going.
Then she said, “Karl, you’re not going to leave me?”
In and out and in and out and in and out oh my God I’m having sex and in and out
“No, I’m not.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave me.”
In and out and holy shit I’m gonna cum and in and out and in and out
“I can’t promise you that.”
“Please! Just promise me!”
oh my god oh my god oh my god this is so fucking good and in and out and in
“I can’t do that, baby.” Even in my state of ecstasy I knew that the words “promise” and “never” were very dangerous when located within the same sentence.
And she’s crying but oh my god I’m cumming and - “Unhhhhh!”
I continued making love to her for a good 25 seconds or so before I stopped and then I was kissing her, but she was still crying. She indicated that I could withdraw and lay down next to her. I was breathing hard and heavy, as was she, and I knew it’d take me at least five more minutes before I’d be ready to try that again. And I DID want to try it again. And again.
We cuddled for a few minutes and then she got up to use the bathroom. When I heard the shower start, I knew she wasn’t coming back for another round. Dammit. I remember the smell of our sex, even to this day. And I remember touching my dick and our juices and bringing my fingers up to my nose to smell her more deeply. Awesome.
Then Betty was standing before me wrapped in a towel and said it was my turn. Huh? You want me to wash this OFF? But apparently that’s what you did after sex - you took a shower. So that’s what I did.
While I showered I ran through those magical 90 seconds over and over again. I had SEX! Yes! No more would I have to wonder what it felt like. It felt fantastic. How could I not have done this before?
I was in a heightened state of bliss, that’s for sure. But I also kept going back to Betty’s request in the heat of passion: Promise me you’ll never leave me. It annoyed me. It seemed in a way like some sort of trick. Trying to get me to promise something like that while I’m near orgasm, when I’ll likely agree to anything?
We kissed more after I got dressed again, told each other “I love you,” and I was out of there because her mother was due home from work. I went back to my trailer, where I was living with my buddy, Fred, and told him all about it. He was happy for me, but shared my concern over her demands for promises. The timing was very suspicious. I don’t think he was a big fan of Betty’s, anyway.
And the truth is, things went downhill really fast from there. Betty became increasingly jealous and insecure, despite my assurances that I loved her. She became incredibly scrutinizing over my friendship with Wendy and I was not about to end that friendship. Nothing had happened with Wendy and I, and nothing was GOING to happen. But that wasn’t satisfactory to Betty. She kept drilling me over and over, sure that something was going on there.
Within a week of our making love, the relationship was over. She hung up on me. TWICE. And I’d specifically told her long before that, that if she ever wanted to piss me off, all she had to do was hang up on me. I HATE that. And because she did it deliberately twice in a row, that was it. I was done.
I was tired of all the questions, of all the ridicule, of all the demands to end my friendship with Wendy. Nothing was worth that bullshit. I refused to answer all of her phone calls, even at the radio station.
We didn’t talk for quite a while after that. She waited several months and then caught me off guard at work, when she called me during a really bad day. We only talked for a few minutes. The NEXT time she called me, she’d somehow gotten my new phone number at my new apartment. And at that point, Wendy and I HAD kissed, but nothing ever came of it.
Years later, I went “home” to Alamogordo for my 10-year high school reunion. I saw Betty in church. I’d heard she was married and had children. She about fainted when she saw me in one of the pews. We hugged and talked after the service and she introduced me to her husband, who said, “So you’re Karl.”
I didn’t know what to make of that. Clearly, she’d talked about me. I was entirely over our breakup 10 years prior, not mad in any way. In fact, I was greatly at peace with it all and I chalked it up to being young and stupid.
When Betty and I met for lunch later that week, she told me she’d never gotten over me. I was the best she’d ever had. Never had a man brought her such pleasure. All of this was very surprising to me, and very flattering. Then she began describing how bad her marriage was, and I knew I needed to get out of there.
I saw her again 10 years later at the NEXT reunion and we hooked up for breakfast. Same story. It made me sad that she was in a loveless marriage. She made it clear that she wanted to go back to my hotel room, but I wasn’t having any of that. If she’d caught me right after my divorce 14 years earlier, it would have been a totally different deal. But I’d since picked up morals and scruples and all those other things that have kept my dick more dry than wet over the years.
Still, I’ll always have a special place in my heart for her. She was my first real love. My first time. I’ll never forget that.
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