Weird shit happens when you drink. You meet weird people, you try weird things, and you wind up in weird places. This effect is for some reason magnified for me, and almost every time I get drunk, I wind up in situations that fall somewhere between “Project X” and “Dazed and Confused.” This past weekend was no exception.
I was out all night with my friend. Let’s call her Taylor, because that is her actual name and I am ethically opposed to censoring the truth. We both decided to go out on a limb and wear heels, which basically means that we were prepared to do some weird shit. My girl Tay and I pregamed for a few hours, finishing off a fifth of Evan Williams and one or two or seven joints. To give you a reference point of our BAC, we ended up spending a solid thirty minutes reliving an entire Boyslikegirls album and made presumptive plans to hit up an IHOP the next morning, which of course never happened.
We called an Uber around 11, and told our fabulously gay and outspoken driver to drop us off at his favorite bar. Minutes later, we wound up somewhere in the weird part of downtown, severely crossfaded and ready for some shenanigans to unfold. From there I can’t exactly say where we went. I will say that we were way too impressionable, and unfortunately entered every club that had a pushy bouncer coercing unsuspecting girls inside to bump up against other shit-canned people and do brightly colored shots out of those weird lab tubes that are way too much fun to throw back. Hours later, we found ourselves stalking horse cops and buying trucker hats in a fluorescent tourist shop. It was then that Taylor suggested we head to her friend’s apartment for some after-bar fun.
We hailed a crazy expensive van taxi and made the trip to some sketchy, motel-esque apartment on the other side of town. Taylor knew these people pretty well, so I didn’t bother worrying about the fact that the apartment looked like something straight out of a dingy horror movie. Despite the fact that I was crazy hammered, I felt out of place from this group of people, most of which had been friends since grade school. When one guy suggested we head to the balcony to hit a bowl, Taylor and I (in our drunken, disorderly state) were like, “Yes, that sounds like a very smart plan.”
So I’m out on this balcony, surrounded by total strangers, feeling crazy awkward and way too quiet. I kept telling myself to make small talk with the group, but I was too faded to think of anything interesting to contribute to the conversation. I thought maybe I was weirding people out by being completely silent, even though I now realize they probably didn’t give a fuck. I was thinking of something clever to say when a dude that looked like The Weeknd with a crooked Marlboro hanging out of his mouth handed me a bowl and a lighter. The piece was weirdly ribbed, and the design made it look like a marble Michelin Man. A thought suddenly popped into my head, and without thinking, I blurted out:
“Woah, this piece totally looks like anal beads.”
Silence. Deafening, awkward, silence. Everyone snapped out of their conversations to look at me, standing there, a dumb smile on my face and a stream of toxic smoke coming out of my nose.
“Uh, I mean, at least I think it does.”
Okay. Obviously I have never used anal beads. I’m not into #buttstuff, and I doubt I ever will be, because I just think it’s really weird. But these people had no fucking clue who I am or what I do, so they obviously assumed that I was thoroughly experienced and acquainted with anal beads. And it’s all my fault.
“No, seriously. I don’t use anal beads.”
More silence.
“Not that it’s weird, if any of you use them. I mean, like, everyone has preferences.”
So much silence that some kid from inside poked his head out to make sure we hadn’t been murdered or arrested.
“Fuck.”
I guess I can’t blame them for thinking all the dirty things they were probably thinking. If some crazy bitch shows up in your social circle out of no where and starts talking about anal beads, you’re going to assume she uses anal beads.
This story does not have any redeeming qualities. I didn’t clarify, no one thought I was funny, and I called another cab pretty quickly after this whole scenario went down. Nothing I said convinced anyone that I’m not a total freak, and the more I attempted to clear the record, the more everyone thought I was into #buttstuff. I can only imagine what sort of terrible things they said about me after I left, and I don’t really want to. That was by far one of the most embarrassing situations I’ve found myself in, and I’m never drinking again.
P.S. Seriously guys, I don’t use anal beads. .
Image via Shutterstock
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Lucky Jo
Lucky Jo is a former and current TSM writer who likes her men how she likes her coffee: way too hot and unforgivably bitter. She graduated from the University of Missouri in 2016, proving that C's do in fact get degrees. She now spends her days working for a social media marketing agency, hiking with her dachshund, and trying to bring back the scrunchie. Hate mail and goat memes can be sent to lucyjmulvihill@gmail.com.
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