The Roaring Twenties

I thought everything was fine. Monday night was Blazers, beers and boys. Happy hour with flirtatious, cute male friends was Tuesday. Wednesday was always karaoke night for my roommates. I didn’t really want to go; it would’ve been the 5^th night in a row of drinks/going out. But that cute boy I’d been making eye contact with was probably going, and how else was I going to get any closer to TCB*-ing if I stayed in?

*TCB: To “take care of business;” could refer to any necessary ritual, i.e. consumption of food, daily chores, bathroom usage, masturbation, or sexual intercourse. In the aforementioned context, “TCB” refers to “getting some serious bone.”

For origins, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takin%27_Care_of_Business

         

Just when I thought all of my internal organs were going to conspire against me, up came Saturday- ‘90s night at Holocene. As I gazed around from the line at the bar, the room felt more reminiscent of adolescence than our ‘90s childhood; like a drunk(er), (more) coked out high school dance. Girls shook their booties nearly to the beat; boys hovered over the crowd to identify the drunkest prey. Half of me wanted to be the target of their desire; the other half wished I was already listening to Billie Holliday in bed.

          Once I muscled my way to the bar and back, sans conversation with handsome stranger, I found my friends on the dance floor. Two of these friends had been sexy dancing for weeks now, but had yet to surpass the “oh hah we’re just dancing!” façade. A mutual male friend sat with me on the couch, perpendicular to them.

          “When’rr they gonna fuckin’ make out already?” I yelled into my friend’s ear, spilling ice on my skirt.

          “I know, right? They need to get it over with! Hey,” he said, putting his drink down. “What iffwe make out, just to show them it’s okay?”

          I looked at him and smiled. “Okay.”

          After our lips found each other, I couldn’t help but notice our tongues were getting along. The more they touched, the more they synchronized. Somewhere underneath my numb skin, I felt the desire to be everywhere on him.

          We swayed from room to room, making out against walls and on couches until eventually our group of friends ended up back at my house. After going pee, I walked into my living room, now only populated by my friend, dangling over the side of the couch. “Uh, you can sleep in my bed…if you want,” I said.

          “Uhhh….yeah, sure.”

          In my bed, our sexy frenzy had turned into small, tired kisses. After a few minutes of awkward groping and roaming around each other’s bodies, I felt like I could fall asleep.

          He stopped and looked at me. “We should totally do it,” he suggested, sounding like a drunk surfer.

          Several steps away from being sufficiently wet, yet alone awake, I said; “Uh, well, we’re both pretty drunk; I don’t know how good it’s going to be.”

          Silence. “Okay, goodnight.” He then rolled over, facing the wall.

          I stared at my ceiling and tried to figure out what had just happened.

          The next morning, he was gone, and I really had to pee. After stumbling to the bathroom, I couldn’t help but notice that my lower abdomen felt like it was on fire, on top of a bed of needles. Even while I washed my hands and walked out of the bathroom, a dull, uncomfortable ache resonated in my lower half. I made an immediate doctor’s appointment.

          The doctor sat down across from me, looking at her clipboard. “So it looks like you still have a UTI; there are still white blood cells in your urine.”

          I nodded. “Yeah, it feels like it.”

          She looked concerned. “So you’ve been drinking water, and laying off coffee and sugar, right?”

          I nod. “Yeah, I’ve been avoiding coffee.”

          “So…why do you think you seem to be so prone to these infections?” She asked.

          I sighed. “Probably because I drink alcohol. I don’t drink that much,” I hate lying to doctors, “but I have noticed that I’ve gotten the most UTIs I’ve ever had since I’ve started drinking more.” That didn’t sound good.

          “Well, listen to your body. If you know that, you should stick with it. I’d definitely lay off alcohol, coffee, and any sort of sexual activity for the next couple weeks.”

          Cool, all of my favorite things. “Okay.”

I hate Fred Meyer pharmacy. As I waited in line to pay $60 for a new antibiotic, I felt like a total idiot. If I hadn’t been drinking nearly every day of the week, I wouldn’t have been there.

 While I noticed an old woman sitting in the waiting area with fifteen prescriptions, I felt my cell phone vibrate. I opened up a text from my friend: “Hey, I was just talking to Luke, and it looks like all the guys are going to Booty Basement on Saturday. You down?”

I pictured myself watching Freaks and Geeks by myself on the couch. Then I pictured glistening tequila shots, feeling sexy, and making out with my guy friend, slammed against a heavy beat and the wall. I texted back: “Yeah, can’t say no to booties.”