For my third instalment I thought I’d delve into my past and reflect on one of my earlier drunken episodes. As this weekend was a bit of a quiet one, consisting of tea, telly and snuggles in bed with the boyfriend, although being greatly enjoyable for us, I’m pretty sure an account of an embarrassing, alcohol infused night, would make for more interesting reading.
But which night to choose? I have a wealth of memories to exploit and the key is probably to pick one I can remember the best. Or, should I say, that was talked about most in the weeks afterwards, helping me to reconstruct, as best I could, the particular night in question.
The night I have chosen is from nearly over a year ago now. Considering the length of time and the level of intoxication, I think my recollection is to quite a good standard. Although, with most of these tale’s I tell, I think it’d be foolish to receive all details with complete conviction.
It was one of our renowned Tuesday night, Junction and Trinity escapades. If my memory serves me correctly, the night was of the usual standard to begin with. We polluted our veins with alcohol in Junction and then stumbled across the road to shake what our mama’s gave us in Trinity. And as the evening continued, I believe that nothing out of the ordinary happened; meeting random people; taking photographs; the usual call of duty.
At one point during the night, I will begrudgingly admit that we had our first encounter with the male toilets. Now, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. We are intelligent, gracious, young ladies, that in any other state of mind or circumstance, would not lower themselves to such a standard...but we were battered and we needed a piss.
The queue for the female toilets was, as usual, painfully long. We stood there for a few minutes watching men go in and out of the door next to ours, without fuss. We were both thinking the same thing and without a second thought we entered. It was definitely not pleasing for the nostrils. Hurrying along, we made our way into the only cubical. No way was my arse touching that seat. So, reluctantly, I hovered above the herpes-ridden seat, and did the deed. Then it was my friends go and being the true friend that I am, I felt it necessary to document this moment in photographic form. It’s a bit unclear within my mind, but I believe there was some dilemma of washing our hands, but I’m not too sure I want to remember. After snapping a picture of a disgruntled man whilst he had a slash, we left. The nightmare was over.
It is my guess that we left when the establishment closed. Standing outside, we were surrounded by a crowd of people and all ended up conversing with a different group to one another. It is my understanding that this is how we ended up with a group of six other people (men, should I say) and on our way back to my friends house.
In retrospect, we couldn’t have been any more foolish. We were outnumbered three to six; anything could have happened. But then again, maybe that kind of thinking is a bit cynical considering nothing untoward occurred, to an extent.
The next image that leaps into my mind is of sitting on my friends’ kitchen floor. We’d taken it upon ourselves to begin a game of “I’ve Never”. A year later we still partake in this somewhat juvenile drinking game; I think everyone knows where the topic will end up and most participants seem to revel in the subject of sex whilst intoxicated. This is when I realised that three of the gentleman whose company we had chosen to keep, were French, and had no clue what “I’ve Never” was. Once everyone was up to speed with the rules, I’m sure what followed was an enthralling account of our sexual pasts.
As the night progressed, everyone ended up spread about the house, involving themselves with different members of our oddly formed social group for that evening. It is at this point that I found myself alone with the gentleman I had previously taken it upon myself to shout “you’re really hott!” at, whilst on the dance floor and then being pulled away by my completely oblivious companion.
I am fully aware that, for a girl of almost twenty years old, I have the physical appearance of someone a lot younger. But if I meet someone in a bar, I would presume it obvious that I am above the age of eighteen, despite my adolescent exterior. However, this young chap decided it necessary to ask me, incessantly, amidst gropes, “You’re definitely sixteen, yeah?” I do wonder why I didn’t put an end to the intentions of this fool at that moment. I think I found it amusing that this guy was clearly a huge paedophile and that continuing would be far more interesting.
“Get these French people out of my house!” Is what my friend yelled as she burst into the room, only to be confronted with the bare arse of a complete stranger. After a moment of awkward silence, she exited. I was grateful for the interruption in all honesty. I think that that certain experience would be better described as a drunken fumble than anything else.
Left alone, I took on the identity of a devious little criminal. I think my initial intention was to learn the name of the individual who had just abandoned me, post-coitus, to help free the household of its unwanted guests. But, with wallet in hand, my objective turned elsewhere. After the less than satisfactory performance I had just endured, I think a little compensation was well deserved. With no more than a glance over my shoulder, I whipped out a tenna, shoved it in my bra, returned the wallet to where it previously sat and made my way downstairs, feeling like the Goddess of Deceit.
Once all of our visitors had left, one of my capable friends decided to cook pizza and chips. However, after starting her midnight feast, she then decided to go home, leaving the remaining two of us to try and complete our meal. The pizza turned out exceptionally well considering our current state and we began to tuck in. The chips, on the other hand, were far from done. I realised this and stuck to gorging myself on the more edible of our two dishes, but the diner next to me was still quite inebriated and continued eating them, utterly unaware.
And then to bed.
I can safely say that when I’d left that evening I could not have imagined the endeavours that would occur. In some ways I miss those times. Having practically no morals and a will for reckless adventure, makes for countless possibilities to where a night can take you. I know that such behaviour cannot carry on though and I’m glad that such events are now mere memories, for me to so audaciously share.
But which night to choose? I have a wealth of memories to exploit and the key is probably to pick one I can remember the best. Or, should I say, that was talked about most in the weeks afterwards, helping me to reconstruct, as best I could, the particular night in question.
The night I have chosen is from nearly over a year ago now. Considering the length of time and the level of intoxication, I think my recollection is to quite a good standard. Although, with most of these tale’s I tell, I think it’d be foolish to receive all details with complete conviction.
It was one of our renowned Tuesday night, Junction and Trinity escapades. If my memory serves me correctly, the night was of the usual standard to begin with. We polluted our veins with alcohol in Junction and then stumbled across the road to shake what our mama’s gave us in Trinity. And as the evening continued, I believe that nothing out of the ordinary happened; meeting random people; taking photographs; the usual call of duty.
At one point during the night, I will begrudgingly admit that we had our first encounter with the male toilets. Now, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. We are intelligent, gracious, young ladies, that in any other state of mind or circumstance, would not lower themselves to such a standard...but we were battered and we needed a piss.
The queue for the female toilets was, as usual, painfully long. We stood there for a few minutes watching men go in and out of the door next to ours, without fuss. We were both thinking the same thing and without a second thought we entered. It was definitely not pleasing for the nostrils. Hurrying along, we made our way into the only cubical. No way was my arse touching that seat. So, reluctantly, I hovered above the herpes-ridden seat, and did the deed. Then it was my friends go and being the true friend that I am, I felt it necessary to document this moment in photographic form. It’s a bit unclear within my mind, but I believe there was some dilemma of washing our hands, but I’m not too sure I want to remember. After snapping a picture of a disgruntled man whilst he had a slash, we left. The nightmare was over.
It is my guess that we left when the establishment closed. Standing outside, we were surrounded by a crowd of people and all ended up conversing with a different group to one another. It is my understanding that this is how we ended up with a group of six other people (men, should I say) and on our way back to my friends house.
In retrospect, we couldn’t have been any more foolish. We were outnumbered three to six; anything could have happened. But then again, maybe that kind of thinking is a bit cynical considering nothing untoward occurred, to an extent.
The next image that leaps into my mind is of sitting on my friends’ kitchen floor. We’d taken it upon ourselves to begin a game of “I’ve Never”. A year later we still partake in this somewhat juvenile drinking game; I think everyone knows where the topic will end up and most participants seem to revel in the subject of sex whilst intoxicated. This is when I realised that three of the gentleman whose company we had chosen to keep, were French, and had no clue what “I’ve Never” was. Once everyone was up to speed with the rules, I’m sure what followed was an enthralling account of our sexual pasts.
As the night progressed, everyone ended up spread about the house, involving themselves with different members of our oddly formed social group for that evening. It is at this point that I found myself alone with the gentleman I had previously taken it upon myself to shout “you’re really hott!” at, whilst on the dance floor and then being pulled away by my completely oblivious companion.
I am fully aware that, for a girl of almost twenty years old, I have the physical appearance of someone a lot younger. But if I meet someone in a bar, I would presume it obvious that I am above the age of eighteen, despite my adolescent exterior. However, this young chap decided it necessary to ask me, incessantly, amidst gropes, “You’re definitely sixteen, yeah?” I do wonder why I didn’t put an end to the intentions of this fool at that moment. I think I found it amusing that this guy was clearly a huge paedophile and that continuing would be far more interesting.
“Get these French people out of my house!” Is what my friend yelled as she burst into the room, only to be confronted with the bare arse of a complete stranger. After a moment of awkward silence, she exited. I was grateful for the interruption in all honesty. I think that that certain experience would be better described as a drunken fumble than anything else.
Left alone, I took on the identity of a devious little criminal. I think my initial intention was to learn the name of the individual who had just abandoned me, post-coitus, to help free the household of its unwanted guests. But, with wallet in hand, my objective turned elsewhere. After the less than satisfactory performance I had just endured, I think a little compensation was well deserved. With no more than a glance over my shoulder, I whipped out a tenna, shoved it in my bra, returned the wallet to where it previously sat and made my way downstairs, feeling like the Goddess of Deceit.
Once all of our visitors had left, one of my capable friends decided to cook pizza and chips. However, after starting her midnight feast, she then decided to go home, leaving the remaining two of us to try and complete our meal. The pizza turned out exceptionally well considering our current state and we began to tuck in. The chips, on the other hand, were far from done. I realised this and stuck to gorging myself on the more edible of our two dishes, but the diner next to me was still quite inebriated and continued eating them, utterly unaware.
And then to bed.
I can safely say that when I’d left that evening I could not have imagined the endeavours that would occur. In some ways I miss those times. Having practically no morals and a will for reckless adventure, makes for countless possibilities to where a night can take you. I know that such behaviour cannot carry on though and I’m glad that such events are now mere memories, for me to so audaciously share.
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