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The night was young and it started at Southbeach.
Fish tacos, a view of the pier and a couple of pitchers was the way to start a girl’s night out. But this was a friendship first date. We were friends at work, but could it survive the jungle of bars, restaurants and hours of uninterrupted time for uninterrupted conversation? Would I be funny enough? Would she have good jokes? Would she be able to either drink with me or drink me under the table without actually slipping into an angry, addicted drunk? Would she judge me when I made out with a rando? Would she end up being a cockblock? These questions, or perhaps less bawdy ones, plague us all as we try to move friendship out of the office and into reality. You never know if it will work out. This friendship certainly did. In fact it was the kind of friendship first date that jettisons you into solid friend the next day as you share the adventures of the night.
By the time we walked out of Southbeach, we were pretty buzzed. We laughed and talked our way to the Shamrock banners of Gallagher’s. Ah, my favorite place. Cute bouncers and bartender, music, and most importantly, the best bar bathrooms on Newport (for girls anyway). There is something for the guys too. All the bartender girls and cocktail waitresses wear short Scottish-ish skirts. Good bar.
Ok, so I remember entering Gallagher’s and getting a Red Bull and vodka, but then I just have snapshots and things retold to me. I’ll tell it as I remember it and then fill it in as it was done for me. We walked directly to the interior of the place where the crowd was moving and dancing. The Red Bull made us super hyped so we were laughing and yelling and gesturing our arms wildly for no reason. I remember freaking every bouncer as he walked by in order to make him laugh and trying to do the craziest dances possible in an attempt to burn ourselves into the memories of all who were at this bar on this night.
An old Gallagher’s DJ was there. I told him one bouncer in particular was cute, “but don’t tell him,” I slurred. He found him and told him and everyone else. We left and I decided we were going to a party. I had no party to go to, but we found a few people in a courtyard and proceeded to be loud and obnoxious as if it were a party. Particularly me. I decided to invite the neighbors to the party by knocking on random doors and telling people about it. Due to the fact that it was about 3 in the AM, one of the five people in our courtyard party, a person who was clearly sober, told me not to knock on people’s doors. I yelled expletives towards his face and said, “shut up. I can do what I want. I’m not being bad. I just want other people to have fun too.” He cursed me out and left.
There were two boys remaining in our little party: Cute boy and Irish Guy. Both were cute, but I was intent on the Irish Guy for some reason or no reason at all. I still can’t figure that out. He had crazy blond hair and a pretty good beard. He was nice, I was drunk and he was at the same sweet party that we were at. The boys came with a case of beer so I decided we should go back to my house and keep drinking (clearly when you are obliterated to the point of memory loss, the thing you need is more beer and two boys).
We were all talking, laughing and drinking Bud Light. I ended up on the couch with cute boy and he gave me a foot massage as he regaled me with the details of his life. Awesome. However, the only thing I recall from his monologue was the fact, or lie, that he was a pretty good surfer. As he massaged my dirty feet, I told him we should be best friends for life and thus he should sleep in my bed, but we would not have sex, just sleep. Suddenly Irish guy asked me to come outside while he smoked. Again, I don’t know why, but I agreed and in that minute away from cute boy, he kissed me.
Irish guy stayed the night in my bed, but not as my best friend and not so much with the sleeping.
The next morning the sun was baring down on my naked back and birds were screaming in my ears as I shot my head up in semi-clarity and peered through the black forest of my tangled hair. I squinted around and spotted the blond mop that was Irish Guy cuddled deep within my blankets. Crap and double crap…he was awake.
Ah, dangit. He saw that I was awake. “Good morning,” I smiled through my hangover. “Hey,” he smiled back and stretched his arms up against my headboard.
“Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom.” I slid out of the bed and sauntered naked to the bathroom exuding the faux confidence one must wear on the morning after. Crap. I wish I had a robe. I went to the bathroom feeling sick and needing more sleep. I sifted through my foggy memories of the night before, through the pounding that seemed to now live in my head. I remembered this guy from the party which was not a party, but I had no idea who he was other than he was Irish and visiting the U.S. I’m an idiot. I wanted to kick this guy out, but he didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon so I made my peace with this, weighed my options, checked the mirror to make sure I looked morning cute and returned to the room.
I crawled back to the bed and said, “god, I’m so hungover. How do you feel?”
“I feel good,” he said as he began to touch my stomach, then my crotch, then my thighs. Are you kidding me? I just said I was hungover. I gently removed his hand and turned over moaning to illustrate how badly I felt and how morning sex, although usually my favorite, was just not possible right now.
“Wow. You really don’t feel good.”
“Nope. I think I might be dying.”
He started talking. He was funny and smart. We talked about books and the movies he enjoyed watching with lovers while in bed. He had good jokes and he also listened and laughed to the tales of drinking and my philosophies about friend first dates. I thought to myself, “This is fantastic. Other than the hangover I really won this one night stand.”
“So, how long will you be in San Diego?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Good. He’s not planning to settle here.
“Where are you staying while you’re in San Diego? With your friend from last night? Does he live in OB?”
“Who? That guy that was here,” his accent was so thick I could barely understand him, “I didn’t know him.” “Then how did you end up together?”
He laughed, “You met me in the street and told me I was coming with you guys and that you would kiss me, but not right now….but you wouldn’t have sex with me. You just kept saying this. You also told me I was really cute and you liked my accent.” Hmmm. This conversation sounded awfully similar to the one I had with Cute Boy. Dang. They must have seen my title for the night blaring neon on my forehead: Drunk and Easy. Whatever, I like sex.
“Oh. Then where are you staying?”
“I’m in the OB Hostel.”
Holy Crap! My mind started racing from one thing to the next. I flashed back to my trip to the bathroom. His jeans, crumpled on my floor….were they sandy grey colored or just dirty? His hair was crazy and unwashed. Was he a surfer or just dirty? Oh god. Is he lying about the hostel? Does he have scabies? Dear Jesus….is he homeless? Oh god, I just slept with a homeless Obecian. Where’s my credit card? I have to get to the hospital. I think my leg is itching. Like a woman with Tourettes I almost yelled/screamed, “Oh god, do you have scabies? Are you homeless?”
“What?”
“You know scabies?!? Homeless?!?! Maybe you have scabies from the street life you choose to live before you hitchhike back to Ireland!?! Have you been feeling itchy lately?”
“I don’t have scabies,” he guffawed riotously at my bulging eyes and accusations of uncleanliness.
“I do stay at the hostel and it isn’t that bad,” He reiterated. Not that bad? Ok, that statement is clearly crazy. I made another bathroom excuse, then casually, but quickly got out of bed to make my investigative journey. As I walked I noticed he had a cell phone, wallet and new Volcom t-shirt next to the grey pants pile. Oh, and my credit card was safely on my nightstand, untouched. Ok, ok. He was not homeless, but only in OB could a sane woman seriously consider the possibility that she may have just slept with an Irish street urchin living at the Ob Hostel with the scant cents he scored from panhandling.
My new friend laughed her ass off when I told her the story, but then she dutifully helped me check the house for scabies and missing valuables.
The night was young and it started at Southbeach.
Fish tacos, a view of the pier and a couple of pitchers was the way to start a girl’s night out. But this was a friendship first date. We were friends at work, but could it survive the jungle of bars, restaurants and hours of uninterrupted time for uninterrupted conversation? Would I be funny enough? Would she have good jokes? Would she be able to either drink with me or drink me under the table without actually slipping into an angry, addicted drunk? Would she judge me when I made out with a rando? Would she end up being a cockblock? These questions, or perhaps less bawdy ones, plague us all as we try to move friendship out of the office and into reality. You never know if it will work out. This friendship certainly did. In fact it was the kind of friendship first date that jettisons you into solid friend the next day as you share the adventures of the night.
By the time we walked out of Southbeach, we were pretty buzzed. We laughed and talked our way to the Shamrock banners of Gallagher’s. Ah, my favorite place. Cute bouncers and bartender, music, and most importantly, the best bar bathrooms on Newport (for girls anyway). There is something for the guys too. All the bartender girls and cocktail waitresses wear short Scottish-ish skirts. Good bar.
Ok, so I remember entering Gallagher’s and getting a Red Bull and vodka, but then I just have snapshots and things retold to me. I’ll tell it as I remember it and then fill it in as it was done for me. We walked directly to the interior of the place where the crowd was moving and dancing. The Red Bull made us super hyped so we were laughing and yelling and gesturing our arms wildly for no reason. I remember freaking every bouncer as he walked by in order to make him laugh and trying to do the craziest dances possible in an attempt to burn ourselves into the memories of all who were at this bar on this night.
An old Gallagher’s DJ was there. I told him one bouncer in particular was cute, “but don’t tell him,” I slurred. He found him and told him and everyone else. We left and I decided we were going to a party. I had no party to go to, but we found a few people in a courtyard and proceeded to be loud and obnoxious as if it were a party. Particularly me. I decided to invite the neighbors to the party by knocking on random doors and telling people about it. Due to the fact that it was about 3 in the AM, one of the five people in our courtyard party, a person who was clearly sober, told me not to knock on people’s doors. I yelled expletives towards his face and said, “shut up. I can do what I want. I’m not being bad. I just want other people to have fun too.” He cursed me out and left.
There were two boys remaining in our little party: Cute boy and Irish Guy. Both were cute, but I was intent on the Irish Guy for some reason or no reason at all. I still can’t figure that out. He had crazy blond hair and a pretty good beard. He was nice, I was drunk and he was at the same sweet party that we were at. The boys came with a case of beer so I decided we should go back to my house and keep drinking (clearly when you are obliterated to the point of memory loss, the thing you need is more beer and two boys).
We were all talking, laughing and drinking Bud Light. I ended up on the couch with cute boy and he gave me a foot massage as he regaled me with the details of his life. Awesome. However, the only thing I recall from his monologue was the fact, or lie, that he was a pretty good surfer. As he massaged my dirty feet, I told him we should be best friends for life and thus he should sleep in my bed, but we would not have sex, just sleep. Suddenly Irish guy asked me to come outside while he smoked. Again, I don’t know why, but I agreed and in that minute away from cute boy, he kissed me.
Irish guy stayed the night in my bed, but not as my best friend and not so much with the sleeping.
The next morning the sun was baring down on my naked back and birds were screaming in my ears as I shot my head up in semi-clarity and peered through the black forest of my tangled hair. I squinted around and spotted the blond mop that was Irish Guy cuddled deep within my blankets. Crap and double crap…he was awake.
Ah, dangit. He saw that I was awake. “Good morning,” I smiled through my hangover. “Hey,” he smiled back and stretched his arms up against my headboard.
“Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom.” I slid out of the bed and sauntered naked to the bathroom exuding the faux confidence one must wear on the morning after. Crap. I wish I had a robe. I went to the bathroom feeling sick and needing more sleep. I sifted through my foggy memories of the night before, through the pounding that seemed to now live in my head. I remembered this guy from the party which was not a party, but I had no idea who he was other than he was Irish and visiting the U.S. I’m an idiot. I wanted to kick this guy out, but he didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon so I made my peace with this, weighed my options, checked the mirror to make sure I looked morning cute and returned to the room.
I crawled back to the bed and said, “god, I’m so hungover. How do you feel?”
“I feel good,” he said as he began to touch my stomach, then my crotch, then my thighs. Are you kidding me? I just said I was hungover. I gently removed his hand and turned over moaning to illustrate how badly I felt and how morning sex, although usually my favorite, was just not possible right now.
“Wow. You really don’t feel good.”
“Nope. I think I might be dying.”
He started talking. He was funny and smart. We talked about books and the movies he enjoyed watching with lovers while in bed. He had good jokes and he also listened and laughed to the tales of drinking and my philosophies about friend first dates. I thought to myself, “This is fantastic. Other than the hangover I really won this one night stand.”
“So, how long will you be in San Diego?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Good. He’s not planning to settle here.
“Where are you staying while you’re in San Diego? With your friend from last night? Does he live in OB?”
“Who? That guy that was here,” his accent was so thick I could barely understand him, “I didn’t know him.” “Then how did you end up together?”
He laughed, “You met me in the street and told me I was coming with you guys and that you would kiss me, but not right now….but you wouldn’t have sex with me. You just kept saying this. You also told me I was really cute and you liked my accent.” Hmmm. This conversation sounded awfully similar to the one I had with Cute Boy. Dang. They must have seen my title for the night blaring neon on my forehead: Drunk and Easy. Whatever, I like sex.
“Oh. Then where are you staying?”
“I’m in the OB Hostel.”
Holy Crap! My mind started racing from one thing to the next. I flashed back to my trip to the bathroom. His jeans, crumpled on my floor….were they sandy grey colored or just dirty? His hair was crazy and unwashed. Was he a surfer or just dirty? Oh god. Is he lying about the hostel? Does he have scabies? Dear Jesus….is he homeless? Oh god, I just slept with a homeless Obecian. Where’s my credit card? I have to get to the hospital. I think my leg is itching. Like a woman with Tourettes I almost yelled/screamed, “Oh god, do you have scabies? Are you homeless?”
“What?”
“You know scabies?!? Homeless?!?! Maybe you have scabies from the street life you choose to live before you hitchhike back to Ireland!?! Have you been feeling itchy lately?”
“I don’t have scabies,” he guffawed riotously at my bulging eyes and accusations of uncleanliness.
“I do stay at the hostel and it isn’t that bad,” He reiterated. Not that bad? Ok, that statement is clearly crazy. I made another bathroom excuse, then casually, but quickly got out of bed to make my investigative journey. As I walked I noticed he had a cell phone, wallet and new Volcom t-shirt next to the grey pants pile. Oh, and my credit card was safely on my nightstand, untouched. Ok, ok. He was not homeless, but only in OB could a sane woman seriously consider the possibility that she may have just slept with an Irish street urchin living at the Ob Hostel with the scant cents he scored from panhandling.
My new friend laughed her ass off when I told her the story, but then she dutifully helped me check the house for scabies and missing valuables.