You have your best friends in the world gathered around you at your favorite local bar. These grimy son of a bitches you knew since high school and the military. You love and care for them; yet, you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each others occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging, whether it be a random sluts and/or trophy wives, is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend whose off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do in Japan; math and jerking off to hentai.
No matter. You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. One of two things happens with that shot; it goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion cause you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.
The exchange of stories begins. The first tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guys nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a JAP (Jewish American Princess.) The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.
Struggling to breath from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms, it’s your turn again to order round number six. Crossing the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lava Life. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, but rather, a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head, not the glorious defying gravity sort, rather, nipples touching her knees type. Her definition of slightly chubby meant 300+ pounds and curvy meant looking like Jabba The Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to rock bottom. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. Maybe I can get a blowjob you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is a salty sandwich and not another mans semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off and exposing nipples with the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up, and reveal a penile abyss. You stare blankly, the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out the motel.
Your friends hung on to every word of your epic. Making sounds in disgust and laughter at the key points. They laugh at you and you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. You drink. The night wears on, more stories are exchanged, and the scouting and approaching of chicks commences. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh well. It can’t get you down, you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this; the shit talk, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and for tonight forgetting your real-person life.
A couple of your friends are hitting it off with some chicks and wave you over. Irish Car Bombs are ordered. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those nights you talk about a few years down the line. You drop your Baileys into your Guinness and begin to chug.