Monday, November 3, 2008

Public urination works both ways....

"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"

Those were the words pouring out of my heavily-intoxicated mouth Halloween night. Around 11:00pm.

The scene, a better-than-expected warehouse party here in good ol' Hoboken---a yearly fundraiser my friend luckily caught wind of this year. A bunch of tossed on costumes (myself, an all-red '70s-era pimp suit, complete with red bell-bottomed pants, a hand-me-down getup I borrowed from my roommate), pre-gamed at a buddy's apartment, and strolled over to the venue all nice-and-liquored-up. Outside, the spot looked like an opening scene in some cheesy '80s horror film, where the ragtag, poorly-written stock teenage characters foolishly enter an obviously do-not-enter-if-you-don't-want-your-entrails-exposed, suspect-looking building for some drunken fun. Only to be greeted by the lumbering masked psycho limb-slasher. [Though, I'm sure I'd be the last man standing, considering I've seen damn-near every '80s slasher in existence. Watching those shits has to come in some kind-of handy, right?]

Back to Halloween, was myself, three friends, one's girlfriend and two of her lady-pals, both of whom I'd just met for the first time that night. Both were attractive, but one in particular sparked my hormones more than the other, mainly due to a thicker-curvier physical frame. And you know I'm not one for overly-slender, now.

So we drop our $20 a head, and enjoy the fruits of everything-goes all-night open bar. A fucking steal, if you ask me. Walking around, surrounded by wall-to-wall costumed twentysomethings, filling up what looked like one of those huge, spacious indoor skating/rollerboarding/skate-boarding parks you'd see on Jackass. This one, though, gutted out and now offering two bootleg bars and a walkway leading to a narrow rooftop patio, for smokers. And, thanks to one of my friend's brilliant mind, our very own "Flip-Cup" table and tourney. Once we started the Flip-Cup fever, needless to say my associates and I were rock stars amongst mere dressed-up mortals.

Flip-Cup games, of course, preface heavy intoxication. For all those involved. Specifically myself, and one of the formerly-unknown gal-friends of my buddy's wifey. And this one gal-pal had been given me the interested googly-eye all night, which I of course was all set to oblige. So, being the quick-thinking drunk game-spitter that I am, invited her out to the dancefloor, for a bit of bumping-and-grinding. Shit nearly heated up into the Lambada, the "forbidden dance" of pelvis to glutes.

Translated to, things were going my way. Swimmingly.

If only we'd have stayed on the dancefloor, near the restroom unreasonably guarded by a line of nobby-kneed, Forrest Gump-like "I gotta peeee" men and women who needed to break their seal, or further drain their already-cracked urinal seal. Instead, like an unthinking asshole, I agree that we should head back up to continue the Flip-Cup antics with our crew. Not knowing that she had to urinate something fierce. A necessity kicked into overdrive as she sees one of my boys pissing over the side of the roof.

Now, brace for it....ask me why this girl proceeds to request a two-guy blockade as she walks up to the roof's ledge, turns about-face, squats, and begins leaking bodily fluids off the roof. Met with my stunned, deer-in-monster-truck-headlights, and sunken jaw. Positioned mere inches below my open mouth.

Which instantly shouted, to whichever friend was closest by and aware of the nasty going down before us:

"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"

The night progressed, and we continued to dance together. Even more Dirty Dancing, although by the time she was Swayze like Patrick, I hadn't even scored her cell-phone digits. Some random drama went down with her friend, prompting the ladies in our entourage to exit stage left. Abruptly, before I could even muster the words "So, can I get your number" from throat to atmosphere.

At first, I was both angry and ashamed. "How could I not land the number, at least?" She was clearly feeling me (at least I thought so, in hindsight), it seemed like a slam dunk. Easier than selling drugs to Joaquin Phoneix (have you seen his "Bye! and "Good" hand-tattoo fuck-up? Priceless, what a dumbass. Seek it out, on Google or whatever, dude's a druggy mess). But I'd dropped the ball, no way around it.

As I took the Walk of Shame to get some late-night 7 Stars Pizza (that Hoboken post-partying crack), I played the night back in my head, indifferently at this point. Shit happens, and the soon-to-be-mouth-raped white pizza slice(s) would more than make up for a lost opportunity. Before I could even place my order, though, it was flashback city....

Me standing on that roof, watching her squat and piss off the roof. That's some manner-less, crude shit that only dudes do, isn't it? And even when guys drain their respective lizards in public, it's frowned upon, no?

"What the fuck? I was gonna try to hook up with her, too!"

It was the piss-stream felt around the world, that night. Or, within my circle of friends, rather.

I so would've still hooked up with her that night, had the opportunity presented itself. Let's just be clear about that. Out of sight, in the bed, out of mind.

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