Filed under: birds and bees | Tags: alcohol, alexis, anastasia, boyfriends, dating, friendship, humor, kissing, relationships, sex, women
I am going to share some things with you from times that I should have called in an early night, but didn’t. This way you can learn from my mistakes and call it a night before these things happen!
1. When you wake up in someone else’s clothes and look over and see a naked hairy man snorting a line of coke off the bedside table – you probably shoulda called it a night.
2. When you wake up on a couch with your best friend’s brother who is three years younger than you, his hand down your shirt and beer bottles and pizza scattered all over the table – you probably shoulda called it a night.
3. If you wake up in the basement of a football player’s house wearing the remains of a fairy costume next to an uncircumcised man and you have to do the walk of shame through their apartment over the other football player you were previously hooking up with only to return to your home where your panties were raided and spread all over the house and blood smeared on the walls from a “wrestling” injury – you probably shoulda called it a night.
4. If you wake up next to your best friend’s ex-boyfriend lying in your bed while your best friend is in the next room – you probably shoulda called it a night.
5. If the van door suddenly jolts open to reveal your friend who is in love with you staring at you in horror because you are naked and your current lover’s parts are still inside you – you probably shoulda called it a night.
6. When you wake up and your current lover is frantically trying to find one of the condoms from your night of fun – only for the condom to reveal itself later stuck in “places” – you probably shoulda called it a night.
7. When you wake up in Coney Island on the subway train, covered in puke and have no idea how to get to Brooklyn – you probably shoulda called it a night.
Yeah when you wind up here and can't figure out how to get to Brooklyn, you must have had a rough night - because this is the last stop in BK
8. If you and your friend end up in a random apartment lying next to practical strangers and they ask you to shower with them the next morning – you and your friend probably shoulda called it a night.
9. When you wake up covered from head to toe in stale beer and you have two stamps from the location where you partied the night before, stamped on your nipples – you shoulda called it a night.
10. When you wake up cuddling with an old friend, a bloody elbow, a fat lip from being punched in the mouth and 18 text messages from a desperate man – you probably shoulda called it a night.
- Alexis Patron
Automatically when you wake up next to someone naked after a night a drinking, your mind races. You think, “what the fuck, what the fuck did I do last night?!” Well, luckily that wasn’t the case when I woke up to a naked Brandy on that Sunday. Don’t get me wrong, I was shocked she was naked, but I had nothing to do with that. She was passed out when I got home and I didn’t realize she was naked until the next morning. Brandy, gotta love her, she’s a good friend and another fellow bridesmaid, and yes I have motorboated her boobs, but I just wasn’t planning on sleeping with her naked.
My head hurt. I don’t think I had been that hung over in forever. And awesome, my mind – complete blank. Could not remember anything from the last two hours of my night. Fantastic. I know when I don’t remember a thing it means I must have done something super stupid.
It was time for the breakfast recap… I wanted to die a little bit.
At the traditional breakfast recap, it was Kaci, Brandy, Katie, two other girlfriends, Kaci’s mom, Kaci’s boyfriend and Kaci’s brother. Kaci’s mom peaced out early because she started throwing up. Which is typical after a traditional Montana wedding.
I was sitting next to Kaci’s brother, Ryan, who I hooked up with in college. Kaci freaked out at the time. Yeah, that didn’t go so well. So I knew better than to try and do that again… well, soberly knew better.
The stories began… which all of them seemed to revolve around me. Every time they told me about another person I mouth fucked at the reception, it was like a bullet to the head. You know, when you realize you did something super stupid? Yep. As I sat next to Ryan a sneaking suspicion came upon me… I think we made out. So of course one of the girls blurts that one out, “Hey Ryan, didn’t you make out with Alexis too?” “Nope!” He answered enthusiastically. I breathed a sigh of relief, Kaci would have killed me. But I still had a sneaking suspicion that we may have…
When Kaci wasn’t around, the other girls informed me that yes, in fact, I did mouth fuck her brother again. Awesome, just awesome. He’s hot though, so I’m not complaining!
So what did happen Saturday night? I’ll tell you this for sure… I am not allowed back in that town again! Well at least not until people forget about the shit show that I starred in on Saturday night.
Saturday
At 9am all of the bridesmaids met at the salon to get ready for four hours. We all complained, because who needs to get ready for four hours?! Turns out we needed that time. Jill allowed us two glasses of champagne each before the wedding. She didn’t want the priest to kick us out. Which was a definite possibility given the veracity of this group.
I do have to take a moment to share what happened with my hairstyle. I had one of the small town hairstylists do my hair, never doing that again. I should have just curled it myself. I asked for medium curls… 45 minutes later she is done, I look in the mirror. Holy fuck I looked like a French poodle on steroids. My hair stuck out past my shoulders in these tiny ringlets that went out of style in 1850. She loaded it with hairspray so there was no getting out of it… Wow, my friends were laughing so hard they had to excuse themselves to the bathroom so as to not offend the hairdresser. Good, I didn’t want to get laid anyways.
Luckily my hair is so thick, it calmed down before the wedding, but still was a disaster.
The wedding was beautiful and went off without a hitch. It really was a beautiful experience. But now for the fun part.
Once the wedding was over… it was time for debauchery!
We showed up at the reception hall after about an hour of pictures. It was time to drink. All of us bridesmaids had these bright yellow dresses that I referred to as my “Golden Ticket.” Meaning – I was going to get what I wanted, when I wanted. With both men and booze. I loved my “Golden Ticket.”
Shoving my way to the bar with my golden ticket, I commenced the inhalation process of alcohol. Drink of choice? Lime vodka and redbull. Nasty. Everyone else was doing it, so I jumped on board. Of course the treasured favorite of tequila came later.
Let’s piece the night together. Here is what I remember: most of the reception, making out with at least two guys, falling on the floor during an exquisite dance move, tequila, more kissing, more tequila, and finally pictures. Ohhhh the pictures. There is a beautiful picture of “snapper delight” in the bathroom. “Snapper delight” was my weekend nickname since I had a freshly waxed vag… I have no idea who had my camera and why they would take a picture over the bathroom stall. I actually don’t remember the actual dance move, but I slide across the floor and I believe I knocked over a child, who immediately started crying. I think I hear his mother say, “Oh honey, it’s just drunk Alexis being herself, she didn’t mean to karate chop you in the face with her heels.”
Here is what I don’t remember: Leaving the reception, going to the bar, the third and fourth guy I made out with getting home. Oh wait, I remember drinking a martini at the bar! Yes, I remember something from the bar!
Pictures put me at the bar after the reception, so I know I went. But the next thing I remember is running away from a guy’s car, freezing and trying to figure out how to get to my friend’s house. Why was I running? I think he was finger banging me and I finally came out of my drunk blackout, realized who I was with, and got the fuck out of there. Fast.
The guys:
1) Aaron – yes I do remember making out with him. Picture to prove it.
2) Oh shit I forgot his name… I swear I knew it before. Ok well he is like three years younger and I made out with his brother also.
3) Josh – brother of “no name” listed above. Also, the same guy who I remember running away from his car. What is my thing with brothers? This is the fourth set of brothers. My god. Plus I have made out with two of my best friend’s brothers. Jesus. That is a weird phenomenon. Gotta love similar DNA.
4) Kaci’s brother – which to this day we will both deny… and I cannot 100% guarantee it, but the girls say I did. And I have a lot of pictures with him, so I’m assuming I did.
The recap breakfast was very informative. I spent most of the time shaking my head. And saying “yep, yep, I did do that.” But that wasn’t the worst part. It was going to Jill’s mom’s house for presents and seeing all the adults from the wedding. I was greeted with laughter and “oh shit, you were tanked last night.” Lets just say, I made an impression.
-Alexis Patron
Ever find yourself in an awkward social situation where the conversation starts fading with a new acquaintance. You start uncomfortably sipping your beverage at a dangerous rate, as they respond with “ha, yeah..” to the flustered string of words shooting out of your mouth. We’ve all been there. It’s awkward and it sucks. This can be avoided by asking boring get-to-know-you questions, like where are you from, what do you do, etc etc. But I hate answering those questions. No one wants to hear about my boring job and unless you’re from NASA or buying me alcohol, most of the time I don’t give a shit where you went to college and why New York is the place for you. There are better ways to get to know people.
Since I eliminated small talk from my repertoire, I had to come up with another way to get basic information out of people. Get paper and a pen, friends, because you’ll want to remember this one. Next time you meet someone, when it’s appropriate, ask them if their life was a book what the title would be. Sounds stupid, right? Well, you’re wrong.
A few things will happen after you ask. People will laugh and think you’re adorably witty. I’ve asked it a hundred times and have yet had someone laugh AT me for saying it. They will say something like “Wow! what a question!” You’ll be able to tell a lot about a person based on their answer. A quick response may represent a certain amount of arrogance or a definite life goal. Slow responses could mean indecision or apprehension. Anything you get will speak volumes about someone’s life.
This question kind of set the tone for my night one night. I went to a reading that my friend stage managed. We celebrated with boatloads of alcohol after, which turned into a mini college reunion for the group. I went to a different school and spent most of the night mingling and sharing cigarettes with friends of friends. Towards the end of the night, the conversation I was having with a lovely young actress began to fade. I started sipping my gin a little too fast and awkwardly looked for an exit. But rather than abruptly leaving to smoke my fiftieth cigarette of the night, I tossed out my signature life-is-a-book question to her.
The expected response came: she laughed, complimented me for being witty, debated, and apologized for not knowing the answer. She suggested we ask our stage manager friend instead.
I yelled across the bar to her. She looked up from her drink with a smile.
“Yo, if your life was a book, what would the title be?”
With absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, she responded “MY LIFE. IS A CIRCUS”
I vaguely remember her throwing her hands up in the air while responding,as if I had asked a question I should have known the answer to.
Her life, is a circus. True story. I totally feel for her, because I’ve been there, but also admire her for how she has handled it all. I won’t go into detail, but let’s compare her life to a pot of boiling water. In the last few months the water has been heating up and heating up. She has taken everything that has been thrown at her in stride. But last night, that pot of boiling water seethed when her ex returned to the city for the summer and joined us for a night on the town.
I give her the utmost credit. She kept it together in front of an ex who inflicted many open wounds. If I can borrow an ounce of her class when I see my ex in a week, it will be a great success. However, I’m pretty sure all dignity will be lost and excessive alcohol will be embraced. I’ll probably cause a scene while the remnants of smeared makeup melt down my face.
After a couple of hours of drinking, the ex tension dissipated. We continued our chain smoking and filled our bellies with cheap fleet week specials. Three a.m. rolled around and we were embraced by a crowd of sailors and straggling tourists as we drunkenly ducked and dodged out of their pictures on our way to the train.
The potential for disaster was alive and well the whole night, but everyone managed to avoid any scenes or awkward confrontation at the bar. Things changed once we got to the subway. The stage manager had the undeniable look of alcohol-induced sickness plastered on her face. She needed water and a bed, badly.
While taking care of a drunk friend at three in the morning, I have no desire to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Hence why I was so confused and slightly rude when a young man introduced himself to me at this exact moment.
“Hi, I’m Karn. K-A-R-N,” he said, introducing himself to me. Let’s pause for a moment and reflect on the fact that he actually went so far as to spell his name out to me. “Is your friend okay?”
I told him she was fine and thanked him for his concern with enough ‘tude to indicate we would have no more conversation, casual or otherwise, and he should immediately vacate my personal space. My tone went completely undetected. He continued to casually chat about his hometown of Vancouver, the cruelty of New Yorkers, and the efficiency of mass transit.
Remember that boiling pot of water? While I did my best to tone out the verbose Canadian, the water finally boiled over when the stage manager got sick on the platform. I was thankful her ex wasn’t around, and figured the fresh pile of vomit would be perfect to scare off our new “friend.”
Quite the opposite happened. He saw it as an opportunity to embrace my group closer. He moved his giant-stranger hands toward her back to offer a sympathetic pat. My protective side immediately kicked in. I boxed his ass out so fast and flashed him a look to kill, it’s a shock he didn’t drop dead right on the platform. I’m weary of the stranger who thinks he can be of better service to the vomiting drunk on the subway than her friends. You know, people who actually know and care about the person.
I wrongly assumed the creeper took note and left. Once we got on the train he was magically sitting next to us and eavesdropping as I gave friends directions to get home.
Karn asked me where I lived, which stop I got off at, which stop he should get off at, and a few other questions I completely ignored.
I’m not insensitive. I know the subway can be overwhelming to city visitors and normally I will do my best to help people get where they need to be. However, if I’m helping a drunk and sick friend, I expect visitors to move on to the next New Yorker for help.
Karn just didn’t take note. He was lucky I didn’t punch his face off his face.
-Anastasia Beam
Filed under: this and that | Tags: anastasia, friendship, humor, new york city
What was her name again? Ally, Ashley, Amber? Oh, Alexis. Hm, interesting.
I couldn’t have been more apathetic towards meeting my coworker’s cousin. I wasn’t completely sold on my coworker as it was, so when she suggested meeting her cousin one day at work, it gave me the same horrific feelings I experienced when I was six and mommy set up play dates with girls I would eventually hate in high school.
The problem wasn’t that Alexis sounded like someone I wouldn’t get along with. If anything, it was that we were way too similar. We graduated the same year with the same degree, moved to New York within weeks of each other and shared a great appreciation for alcohol and promiscuity. Her cousin put so much pressure on us meeting and becoming best friends for life, before I even agreed to go. And Christ, we both have large breasts even, a fact her cousin didn’t outright tell me; I discovered this one on my own. Strike one: too similar to myself
To this day, I don’t recall what I was thinking when I agreed to go on this awkward adult play date. More importantly, I have no fucking clue where my mind was when I agreed to a night in which the Red Sox battled the Indians in post-season glory. Our date was practically doomed before it even started.
New York was still as foreign to me as a bra to a thirteen year old boy, so of course my roommate and I got lost on our way and showed up late. I didn’t acknowledge our tardiness, and played if off like I simply had better shit to do.
My coworker picked some crappy Wisconsin-themed bar for our night on the town. I am a Northeast snob with no desire to go west of Maryland, so I was obviously overwhelmed with joy and excitement when informed I’d be going on this twenty-year-old-heterosexual-blind date in a Wisconsin-themed bar. I anticipated cheesehead patterned wallpaper and shrines of Brett Favre, but decided the $2 Bud lights was a good enough reason to make an appearance.
My first impression of Alexis? Not the greatest. Her cousin verbally blew her so much that I half expected the second coming of Jesus Christ. As I rounded the bar, my coworker sat sipping a bud with a strange young lady and her two ginormous breasts. The low-cut sweater displayed them proudly; a blind man couldn’t miss them. Was she trying to pick me up? My coworker, a shallow attention seeking gossip, would have given me a heads up on same-sex interest, so I assumed I wouldn’t have to deal with any advances.
I wasted over a half hour of baseball to get to the bar and needed to make up for lost time. I found their table, plowed into my chair, threw my purse down almost knocking over beer, and put my finger in the air before anyone could say anything: I needed baseball updates asap and wasn’t about to let any introductions get in the way of that. The Sox were losing to the lousy Indians, and with each passing inning my mood depressed.
“Anasatasia,” my coworker said, “This is my cousin, Alexis”
Alexis extended an awkward and intimated hand for a shake.
“Hi,” I responded, probably ignoring her hand, “Do you like baseball? This is my roommate”
Alexis really wasn’t fond of baseball and informed me she preferred football. I. Hate. Football. Strike three. The night was going to be a shit show.
After two bud lights, my coworker decided the Wisconsin bar just wouldn’t do. She needed to see her flavor of the week and spent a half hour telling us about her young “artist” boyfriend. She viewed him as an artist, but we viewed him as a starving creeper who smelled bad. Six of one, I suppose…
At that time in our lives, Alexis and I shared a love of a sedentary lifestyle. Neither of us can figure out why we decided to let her cousin take the reigns and lead us into the bowels of Brooklyn that Saturday night. We both secretly wanted to stay at the Wisconsin bar, but lacked the balls to voice the opinion to our mutual friend who pushed thirty. And so the wild goose chase began.
Rather than call her mysterious artiste boyfriend, my coworker thought “two stops off the L in Brooklyn” was enough direction to lead us to the bar her man was at. False. We spent the better part of an hour in a maze of dark industrialized back alleyways that housed a litter of cats per homeless person.
Great. Lost in Brooklyn with near strangers after being set up on a blind date that would never lead to sex and missing Boston Red Sox baseball while sober, and Alexis wonders why I had ‘tude that night? Bitch, please.
Had we been in any other area that didn’t feel like rape way, I would have split well before we found the bar. But I was pretty confident a shanking, mugging, or raping was probable if I left the group. I stuck it out.
The bar had an impressive selection on draught and hard cider, but had absolutely nothing else going for it. It smelled like mildew. The bowling area, which was booked for hours, engulfed most of the bar space. The dark bathroom looked and smelled like it was covered in piss. Toilet paper wasn’t even an option, as I’m pretty sure a roll hadn’t seen the bar in years. I could have put up with the bar’s negative qualities if it had a single TV with the game, but of course not. I relied on sparse texts from friends which were uninformative. “OMG R U WATCHING?” isn’t quite the response I hoped for when asking the score.
Once the artiste boy was in the picture, the coworker exited stage left. She ignored Alexis and I, and left us to a booth of spilled beer and awkward conversation in the back of the bar. My roommate was off dirty texting a boy, so she was useless for any small talk.
We sat awkwardly avoiding eye contact. I desperately planned an exit strategy, but knew it was useless. Brooklyn was a completely foreign land to me. I never would have found my way home alone.
At this point, I made some smart ass comment about how the bar sucked. I expected Alexis to disagree and defend her cousin’s wise decision. To my surprise. she actually agreed, and we decided to spend the rest of the night milking my ex-fling for all the rum and coke his American Express could afford.
Bellies full of alcohol, we realized we shared a mutual love of using men for alcohol and became fast friends. Alexis even put up with my drunk ass petting horsies in Times Square for an hour before the night ended. At the beginning of the night, I was sure I would never see Alexis ever again. But the next day we fed our hangovers at the Olive Garden and I haven’t been able to shake her since.
-Anastasia Beam
Time to share the glorious story of when Anastasia and I met.
She was a bitch.
Anastasia and I were both new to NYC; therefore we did not have many friends. Enter matchmaker. Or my cousin in this case. My do-gooder cousin, just looking out for my best interest, thought I could use a friend my age in the big city so she called me up one day and said she had a coworker that was my age, new to NYC and who didn’t have many friends. Basically she was perfect for me, so my cousin wanted to set us up on a friend date. I really hate meeting new people. Surprise, surprise, so did Anastasia. It really is a miracle that we both decided to show up at our “meet-cute” that magical evening.
So many times I thought about canceling. I had to work at the bar that day and I really had no desire to go out and be all nice to a random stranger who worked with my cousin. I have plenty of friends all across the country; I really had no desire to meet a new one in New York. After all I did have one friend already, plus my cousin and my coworkers at my new bar, why on earth would I want to play nice with a former up-stater?
Here is how my cousin convinced me: she found the only bar in NYC that is a “Wisconsin” bar. She and I grew up in Wisconsin, so you can see why I was intrigued. I hadn’t been in the city that long and I was missing some familiarity so a Wisconsin bar in the Village was just the ticket. I was hoping this other “girl” wouldn’t show up, I’d rather just hang with my cousin anyways, but unfortunately she did and she brought her roommate.
I’m pretty sure Anastasia didn’t look at me the entire time. She was so engulfed in the Red Sox game I’m guessing she couldn’t tell you today what my hair color was. At least her roommate was cool. We hung out at the Wisconsin bar for awhile and I got to know Anastasia’s roommate pretty well, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time. My cousin wanted to meet up with this guy she was dating in Brooklyn so she invited us along. A little adventure to Brooklyn never hurt anyone, so we all decided to go. Turns out, it was painful.
Lost somewhere in the middle of Williamsburg or what it looked like: abandoned alleys where we would for sure die… Anastasia was distracted getting text updates on the game, my cousin was trying to figure out where we were and Anastasia’s roommate was texting the man in her life. I would have been annoyed, but I was drunk so I just didn’t care, the night would be over soon enough and I wouldn’t have to see these people ever again.
We finally arrived at this shithole bowling alley where we met up with my cousin’s hippie friends. We couldn’t have been more out of place. At least they had pitchers of beer. While my cousin mingled with Forest and Willow, Anastasia, her roommate and I bonded over cheap pitchers. It actually wasn’t bad when we decided to ditch my cousin and head back into Manhattan. Ah… something in common, Anastasia and I both hate shady bowling alleys in nowhere Brooklyn and crazy hipsters.
The three of us headed up to Midtown to meet Anastasia’s flavor of the month at this fairly chic French bar. Not too shabby, at least she got us free booze out of the guy. Maybe she wouldn’t be so bad after all.
It could have been the booze, but Anastasia grew on me a bit throughout that evening, even though she ignored me most of the time. However, I really did not think I’d see her ever after that.
After that bar we headed back to Times Square to catch the train to our respective apartments. The final straw that secured the fact that Anastasia and I would probably not ever become friends was when her and her roommate made me hang out in Times Square for about an hour as they pet every horse that we passed. Longest. Night. Ever.
As we parted ways we exchanged phone numbers just in case. They invited me to the Olive Garden for the wonderful soup, salad and bread sticks and then we hopped on the train. Not the best first “date.” It’s like the painful blind date that you just can’t wait to be over and then when it is you have to drink a bottle of wine to try and salvage your evening, and of course you delete the phone number and hope they never call. She called. Well and here we are much, much later and who would have guessed we’d become such wonderful friends!
I’m happy you are in my life buddy!
Anastasia Beam, Drunk Detective.
I’m waiting for the arrival of my new business cards and monogrammed cigarette case. It’s only appropriate, as I’m currently spearheading the investigation of my actions during a party this weekend.
Facts, start with the facts:
1. Started drinking around 9:00pm
2. Drank a collection of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Grolsch. I like to mix crap with class, clearly.
3. Rolled and smoked between 20 and 50 cigarettes.
4. A lot of Weed was involved. A lot.
5. Abstained from funneling.
6. Went to bed at 5:00 am.
7. Woke up at 10:00 am.
8. Looked like a disaster the whole night. Facebook pictures unequivocally prove it.
10:00 am sunday. Questions, ask myself questions:
Why am I in clothing?
You passed out in your friend’s spare bedroom before changing.
Why is there an empty condom wrapper on the bed next to me?
Relax. Your friends experimented with how far they could stretch a condom over their forearms.
How did I not funnel?
No answers to this one, only theories. Perhaps rolling cigarettes all night kept my hands busy. Perhaps rolling cigarettes all night kept my hands busy. Or it could be that generating a list of bad deeds dominated my time.
Is there a possibility I made an ass of myself?
Always. Likely. Definitely.
How?
Two opportunities: 1. During my pretentious-better-than-thou-eyebrow-raising conversation about music, in which I casually name dropped the most obscure list of Canadian indie bands while chain smoking. How much more douche baggy does it get? 2. Or possibly when I drunkenly explained to a group of men that I am, in fact, straight. Inconceivable as it may seem, it is possible for straight and gay women to drink together without ending the night in a mass fingerbanging, a difficult concept for the drunk male to grasp.
Is there vomit anywhere?
No. Thank god.
I’m starting to piece it all together, days later, and so far so good. I didn’t have sex. Sad, but all parties who would have been involved can agree that’s for the best. I have been in such a dry spell lately, I’ll admit that the thought of fucking anyone at that party crossed my mind once or twice or the whole night.
I suffered only one contusion to the knee, a minor war wound I undoubtedly gave myself during an attempt to prove I could dance better than everyone else; an effort I failed, shamefully.
Despite all the drunken urges I felt, I kept all of my clothes on, huzzah! My friend removed his pants to reveal tight boxer briefs as he ran up and down the street because he “enjoyed the feel of the wind on his bare legs and chest” I watched in admiration and pined for the same breeze across my skin, but thought better of actually stripping down.
After five PBRs I officially stopped counting and caring how much alcohol I consumed. Five beers isn’t that much, when consumed over a whole night. I, on the other hand, took full advantage of my uncanny ability to never turn down a beverage and drank five of them in an hour. Hooray! Hangover here I come!
A delicious treat for all
With five alcoholic beverages of any breed, my filter is gone. Thankfully, when I’m drunk I’m usually happy and complimentary, so my unfiltered thoughts have yet to really get me in trouble. One of the few conversations I remember from Saturday evening was probably the most interesting one.
A little history first: the first time I met my friend, who happens to be a lesbian, I went off on an alcohol-induced rant about the state of baseball. She in no way is a baseball fan but listened attentively and humored me with questions. That little diatribe, apparently, did not bode well for my heterosexuality.
Well, on Saturday night, knee-deep in beer and weed, we retreated to the porch for cigarettes and fresh air, a perfect combination. Somehow we started talking about the first time we met.
“You know,” she said as she took a drag from the crappy cigarette I rolled, “I was pretty sure you were gay the first time we met.”
I laughed and asked if it was all the baseball talk.
“Yeah, partially” she responded.
Partially. Partially? “Partially” intrigued me. What else was I doing that radiated gay?
Had I been sober I probably would have had a good laugh with a friend and let the conversation die. But because an overabundance of beer and illegal substances floated freely through my veins, I opened my big mouth.
“So…does that mean you would have fucked me?” I asked.
Awesome. Good work, Anastasia. Way to make a lovely drunk evening on a porch real awkward. She laughed, answered affirmatively, we high fived and the rest of the party spilled out onto the porch with funnels and bowls.
Let it be known, if you drink with me, you inadvertently put yourself in the line of fire for inappropriate conversation and flirting. It doesn’t matter who you are or what our relationship is, it’s bound to happen.
All in all, I consider the parts of the party I can remember to be a great success. The rest will be left for the guessing.
-Anastasia Beam
I had a nightmare last night about my first job; my first glimpse into the real world. The job that not only taught me how to stalk celebrities on Lexis Nexis (hugh jackman you’re going to be getting a visit from me very soon!! eeee.) but also to use alcohol as a coping mechanism.
I won’t waste your time with the story of how I moved to NYC and the agonizing process of finding a job. Better to skip that story and sum it up in a quick sentence: graduated, packed my shit, bought a lot of beer and moved to NYC.
I lackadaisically applied to this one job and then forgot about it entirely. Over a month later, when I was half drunk at a Mets game, my future boss called me and invited me in for an interview. Sweet. I had only planned to have 4 beers at the Mets game but decided to treat myself with 8 overpriced yet delicious beers in mini celebration.
Fast forward to me getting all dolled up for my job interview.
In no way was I used to a 50 minute commute on a hot train in which I was seated next to a sweaty man wearing a track suit, but I tried to stay optimistic because I knew I had to try and impress.
I found my future office building but was not impressed. I pictured a lavish lobby with beautiful Persian rugs and chandeliers, I mean this was right across from city hall for christ sake. Instead, there was an old-milk scent and a “security” guard doubling as doorman who was more concerned with his sidekick than, you know, securing the building.
A quick scan of the other offices in the building and I learned it was filled with bail bonds offices. As I was waiting for the elevators, most of which were broken, I prayed that Dog the Bounty Hunter and his fat bitch wife would walk up behind me and head to one of the bond offices. I would ask him where he gets his sunglasses and if the feathers in his hair are absolutely necessary. He would tell me about the bounty hunter/bail bond convention that happened to take place in the exact building of my job interview.
When I finally got to the thirteenth floor (bad, bad fucking omen, trust) I didn’t know if I should knock on the door or just walk in, so naturally I decide to awkwardly half knock and pray someone heard me. When that didn’t work I knocked slightly louder and opened the door just enough to peak my head in. An absolutely gorgeous young man welcomed me. Finally, I caught a break. Now I could think of his gorgeous green eyes and what it would take to have an affair with him instead of Dog the Bounty Hunter.
Green Eyes said my boss was out on a break, but would be back shortly. Lesson number one: If you boss takes a break during your scheduled interview, you might want to keep up with the job search. I took a seat and studied a group of maps on the table in front of me, quite possibly the most retarded option for passing time and trying to calm the nerves.
As I investigated the maps, I heard a low panting coming from one cubicle.
At this point, I am actually disappointed with the whole concept of working and my an interview hadn’t even started yet. In no way was I impressed with being an adult, and believe me my standards are always low.
The panting quickly turned into a loud moans and shrieking.
“He’s NEVER going to marry me!” a panicked voice howled out.
I no longer can hide the sheer terror that is raping my face. Green eyes noticed and headed to tend to the shrill noises coming from the cubicle behind his. The neurons in my brain started firing faster than ever, desperately telling my body to move my legs and commence the fleeing process.
If only I had listened.
Two things became blatantly clear to me at that moment: green eyes was gayer than the day long when his voice turned to soothing tones that repeated “It will be okay honey. Don’t worry, girl, everything will be fine,” and the girl in the cubicle obviously was an attention-seeking whore or completely batshit insane. Possibly a lethal combination of both.
Green eyes calmed down crazy and she finally stopped weeping right as my future boss entered the room in a panic. He flung the door open, looked around like he needed to find the bomb he was about to diffuse, and rubbed his hands through his hair before addressing me.
“John,” he said and extended his hand for a shake. I introduced myself, shook his hand, and attempted to mask my disgust when I felt his wet hand in mine.
I’ll admit it, my imagination usually runs rampant all day long and apparently worked overtime that day. I had imagined my interview going infinitely different. My interviewer would be a smoking’ hot man who found me so insanely attractive that he would fumble his words the entire time. Finally, when we both couldn’t take it anymore, our bodies would meet on his desk in a fit of passion. I would moan “No! I can’t! I have a man waiting for me!” but he wouldn’t listen and would ravage my body. We would share a cigarette in post-coital bliss and he’d tell me the job was mine.
We sat awkwardly in silence for a minute. “You’ve probably been researching our website.” he said finally.
False.
“You’ll know by now that we put together a directory of judges,” he exited the room and returned with the shabbiest pieces of shit “book” on earth. I browsed the pages and practiced my most interested and impressed face.
“You’d be helping us with the second edition, but first why don’t you tell me about yourself,”
Ugh, the dreaded question. I went into my normal interview monologue about law school ambitions, the importance of real world experience, and my willingness to work my way to the top. Blah blah blah.
My future boss interrupted me for a lecture about why skipping law school was the best decision of my life. He told me of the three years he wasted in law school, and about the boatload he owes from loans. Feigning interest at this point, I just prayed his diatribe would end quickly so I could make my exit. Once I heard that the job paid an hourly rate of $12 without health insurance, I was pretty confident I could make more money reading tarot cards in the street.
As I left the interview, I had to fight back tears. I was so disheartened by the interview and the hour I had to spend on the train to get home. When I got home I called boyfriend and picked a fight. Awesome.
A few days later, as I sat suckling a bud light with my jobless roommate, John called me and monotonously offered me the position. I accepted, only because my bank account was frighteningly drained and I had a big weekend of drinking coming up. I promised myself I’d continue looking for a better job.
It was an empty promise, like every Sunday morning I spend with a nasty hang over I promise myself I’m going to stop drinking. I spent a miserable year at that job.
I retained nothing I was supposed to learn from that job. I only remember some of the questionable antics of my coworkers, locking the door to keep a violent man with a restraining order out, and that lovely time I saw a stripper on my lunch break a week before Christmas.
And if that doesn’t scream Happy Holidays, well I just don’t know what does.
-Anastasia Beam
Most of my relationships haven’t worked out. I’m quite picky and I like the chase, neither of which bode well for my marriage chances. It’s one thing to pick up a man at a bar for free drinks and making out, but when it comes to relationships I’m highly selective. I’m not quite Harvard selective, but if I’m gong to be spending months of my life being dedicated to one person, I’m going to be ivy-league selective at least.
Anyways, today I purchased a flask. It’s my recession flask and will help me save money at the bar. No matter what my mother thinks it’s not an alcohol-problem flask. As I was walking home, thinking about how the flask would help me meet strangers later that night, a thought occurred to me. Which qualities would I pick out of the leading men in my favorite and coincidentally most lame romantic comedies? This obviously is the easiest way to land the perfect relationship, you know, if I ever decide to take the plunge.
- Money: I’m not saying money is the most important thing in life, but you know what? It fucking helps. I think I speak for all the poor folk out there when I say not having to worry about rent or paying for health insurance makes life a whole lot easier. That said, I need a man with Richard Gere’s money in Pretty Woman. We’ll be in love, so it won’t be a direct exchange of cash for sex. And if I keep telling myself that, it’s totally true.
Cash. Money.
- PDAs: Next on my list is a pair of steel balls, so to speak. I pretty much hate Tom Cruise and most of his movies, but at the same time it is a personal goal of mine to have sex on a train, Risky Business style. I mean, it’s bound to happen since I spend over ten hours commuting every week, at least. In the Air Tonight happens to be the song that magically plays in my head whenever I have a sexy dream. Well, that or anything by D’angelo. It’s absolutely fate. So obviously I need a man who is okay with the occasional pda that turns into sweaty sex in the public eye.
Half way through my list and I’ve already featured two movies with hookers. Yes, I agree. It’s a sign..
- Romance: Not completely lost on me, believe it or not. I have been known to disrobe for a romantic gesture. I went through a phase in college where I watched the Notebook pretty much on repeat. Ex boyfriend took note, went through his old baseball cards, found all my favorite players, and wrapped them up in string, the same way Noah’s notes were wrapped up for Allie, and gave it to me randomly one night. How. Freaking. Adorable. This got him a steady diet of blowjobs and the king treatment.
More romance is needed in my life, badly. So a little bit of Noah’s dedication to his woman is appreciated. His beard is also welcome.
I'm in love.
- Soundtrack: I think every woman at one point or another has had a Paris-related fantasy. I’ve never been but if Alexis brags about how amazing it is one more fucking time I’m going to go a little nuts. So, you know, in the spirit of that, I would like my magical movie boyfriend to come stocked with an iPod containing the entire soundtrack to the movie Amelie. Good lord, it’s amazing.
- Sex. When it comes to sex, I want it Diane Lane/Oliver Martinez Unfaithful style. Anyone who owns this movie owns it for the soft-core love scenes and nothing else. Trust me, I couldn’t resist when I saw it laying in the $5 bin at Wal Mart, just waiting for me to pick it up and bring it home. I needed to add it to my collection for the bathroom scene (probably not the safest for work), and the bathroom scene alone. It was a fine purchase, made ridiculously uncomfortable when my father told me how good of a movie it was.
Sometimes it’s fun to pretend life is a movie. I’m pretty sure I will find myself in a situation more closely related to Fatal Attraction than anything in this post.
-Anastasia Beam
No I never actually went to band camp but I did go on band retreats. And yes, I played the flute. I miss the simple days of band retreats and overnight basketball games. Especially since they were co-ed. There was always so much sexual tension; it had to be released somehow. Back then, you had to be sneaky, you couldn’t just go fucking in the back of the bus, you had to be way more clever than that.
My promiscuous ways began a long time ago. I have had many years to hone my skills.
Way back in the seemingly innocent days of basketball games and band retreats I was in this atrocious relationship. We broke up at least every few months, usually because I cheated on him. I have no idea why he decided every time to get back together with me. During the second through fourth month of our relationship, I was hooking up with my ex-boyfriend on the side. So when my boyfriend got wind of my indiscretion, we broke up. Obviously we would get back together shortly after the breakup.
I thought (and I think boyfriend hoped) that I learned my lesson and therefore would be a good girlfriend for a couple of months, which I was…
Until I went to Wisconsin.
I made out with three different men in the same night. Cue breakup. Apparently he just couldn’t get enough. We got back together. Another happy month passed.
And then I was on a four hour trip back from a basketball game. It was nice and dark on the bus when my friend John decided to come and sit next to me. Of course we all had blankets on the bus. Danger. What were our chaperones/coaches thinking?? Allowing boys and girls on a bus to sit together with blankets? You might as well just ask us to hook up.
John knew I had a boyfriend but he was persistent. I don’t even know how it happened so quickly but before I knew it his head was under the blanket and his fingers were inside of me. Try pulling that off mid conversation with another teammate. I have no idea how no one knew what was going on. After a while he asked me to return the favor. Hell no. I wasn’t doing that on a bus.
I’m selfish.
I wasn’t proud of this situation, but don’t worry, boyfriend dumped me. I thought he finally had gotten the picture. Nope. He wanted to date again after a few weeks. I finally ended that relationship when I found out he had cheated on me. What a dreadfully unhealthy relationship that was!
-Alexis Patron
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: anastasia, humor, nudie pics, relationships
A friend of mine gives me hope that all men aren’t complete shits*. He’s tech savvy, politically driven, smart and we share one thing in common: neither of us can have enough sex. Ever. I’ve known him for over five years and it’s amazing we have never slept together. It’s only appropriate that I call him Marquis de Sade since every conversation we have eventually circles back to fucking, masturbating, porn or something else wildly inappropriate.
Mr. de Sade gives me hope because of his current situation. He’s in a relationship with a woman he absolutely adores and outside the bedroom is completely compatible with. Their problem lies in that she needs less sex to maintain a happy relationship, and in that they clash. De Sade has not cheated on her, and while it’s only natural to assume the thought has crossed his mind, I doubt he would actually go through with it.
And while my friend the de Sade has given me so much optimism about relationships and honesty, my shameless blogmate, Ms. Patron, managed to shatter all my hope in relationships.
Two facts about Alexis: She has giant knockers and SHE HAS GIANT KNOCKERS. I mean huge. My mind is blown when she is in NYC and somehow cars don’t crash into pedestrians and buildings due to careless oogling looks from male drivers. God has given her a gift, a gift she is bound to share with the world.
Alexis started small by doing what every woman with a digital camera does at least once: she photographed her enormous cans. I’m skeptical when she tells me she started taking pictures for a soldier friend of hers overseas. Personally, I think she loves basking in the glory of how large her breasts are but I have not yet been able to get her to admit it. Nonetheless, Alexis started sending pictures to her favorite soldier, another solid example of my tax dollars hard at work.
Like any leader mad with power, Alexis could not be stopped. One picture turned into dozens. The started out fairly PG-13 and gradually developed into pictures that would make Jenna Jameson blush. While I have not seen any of these picture (and I thank the good lord every day), I have been entrusted with the details of each photo shoot fully. My personal favorite picture would have to be tits covered in whipped cream, taken with a camera phone, and sent to her flavor of the month with the line “come over and fuck me”. And he did go over and fuck her.
Tech-savvy Marquis de Sade and I spent a whole afternoon lamenting our dry spells via google chat. No work was done that afternoon, and after our conversation I felt I had to go out and fuck the first person who smiled at me, male or female.
With an incessant need to fix every problem in my friends’ lives, a light bulb went on in my head. I played mediator in my two friends’ combined interest. Alexis could help the de Sade, and in return the de Sade would most definitely stroke Alexis’ ego electronically. I called up Alexis and asked her if she still had the bust shots. I was not surprised when she started laughing and responded yes in a tone that alerted me that I should have known better. I told her to forward the pictures to my friend, and to my surprise, with no hesitation what so ever she agreed. Almost immediately she had forwarded tit pictures to my friend at work with the subject line “Hello, Sailor!”. In fact, she was so enthusiastic about it she informed me that she took suggestions.
Needless to say, the de Sade had several suggestions (my favorite: wife beater, no bra, cold water, come summer my computer will be littered with shots of myself like this).
I could have sat back in amazement of my good deed. I could have been happy to help brighten two friends’ days. Instead, since I’m a selfish son of a bitch, I started bartering for movies on the internet. Marquis and I debated the worth of Alexis’ breast shots. One picture got me my first movie (Revolutionary Road), two pictures got me my second movie (The Reader). If I can convince Alexis to take pussy shots, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get a plethora of illegally copied movies on the internet.
I’ve got some homework to do if I want to get the next Judd Apatow film before it hits theaters.
-Anastasia Beam
*Apologies to any man readers. I’m writing this after an apocalyptic fight with one of your kind.
