Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase three heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.
It was a Saturday night at my small liberal-arts college in upstate New York. Now, normally I was totally up for going out but I'd just come down with the cold, it was raining, and I had practice the next day. However, like always happened, my friends ended up getting me to get all dolled up and go out. First we went to some house party where I sat angrily on the couch watching a hockey game. It was during this time that I glanced up and made eye contact with a guy I had never seen before. He was wearing Brooks Brothers, which for some reason I thought was fantastic. He was also very attractive, which I obviously thought was fantastic. Alas, a group of people broke our stare and I thought I'd never see him again.
Anyways, party winds down and my friends and I end up at the bar that everybody was going to that night. We danced for awhile and did the usual college kid thing. As we're getting ready to leave, and the guy from the party appears out of nowhere and we start dancing. He asks me my name so I quickly say Erin, he never tells me his. We dance for awhile and I think to myself that there is potential. He turns me around, and leans in...to talk. I oblige and answer his questions; where are you from, what year are you, etc. It's going great, until this: "What's your major?" he asks. "History" I say. He frowns, says "Ew. Whatever." and walks away.
Apparently, being a history major does not bode well for my future love life. And just to top it all off, I didn't have enough money back to campus for a cab so I had to walk the 1.5 miles back in the pouring rain.
WHO DOES THAT?!
I live in China, where my birthday happens to annually fall on a national holiday, which is nice. Each year I take this opportunity to visit a dear friend of mine in Tokyo to celebrate. The following is the account of one such birthday.
My flight arrived in the late afternoon and I took the train to my friend's office. Quitting time was nigh, and soon we were on the way to meet some of his friends at a bar called Black Crows. The way my friend kept smirking when anyone would reference our destination initially gave me pause, but I bundled my hangover from my Shanghai birthday celebration the previous night with some jet lag and courage (of the liquid sort, duty free!) and decided I was up for anything. This was the first in a series of poor decisions.
Upon initial inspection, Black Crows looks and feels like your typical purveyor of booze. Except for the besotted men walking around in various stages of undress, some being led on leashes by women vacuum sealed into dominatrix attire. Bowling alley in style, the bar is no wider than a few feet, which means lots of sweaty encounters pressed between the engorged tits & tummies of elderly Japanese connoisseurs of smut. At the back corner there was a stage. The stage worried me, and with good reason.
Black Crows is a special place all the time, but at the beginning of every hour, it gets really special. That is when the dancers ascend the stage with their men in tow and proceed to relentlessly paddle their asses and yell at them while simultaneously dripping hot wax into the most intimate of regions. It's upon witnessing this that my friend announced to me that my birthday present will be the "deluxe stage treatment." Appreciating the gag, I laughed and headed to the exit. But it was not to be. Before I could protest further, my friend was stripped down, strapped to a leash, and screaming his lungs out on stage while being spit on by a tall Brazilian lady in black leather with "Eat the Rich" blaring in the background. It was then I realized that there was no way out. I was to be bound, literally, by code.
I sat down at the bar and ordered several whiskeys. The bartender saw fear in my eyes and took pity on me, never leaving my glass. He was my only friend that night. Inevitably, the moment of anticipation arrived, and, like a call to the bullpen, I saw a slightly menacing Russian chick pointing and motioning for me to come to the side of the stage. I chucked my clothes (you're allowed to leave boxers on, which is nice), and was fitted for my collar. I stood bound, begging for more alcohol, which had to be mainlined into my mouth due to my "birthday cuffs" rendering my arms largely useless, and awaited my Areosmith-sealed fate.
I can't say I have terribly vivid memories of what unfolded after that. There were a lot of bright lights flashing and strange people barking things in various languages I don't speak. I can say that no aspect of it caused any physical pain, alcohol and adrenaline are an apparently potent combination. Also I was slightly unnerved by being drenched in alcohol with a dominatrix holding fire directly above my head. Having to explain to my family how I came to find myself in the burn unit of Tokyo hospital (burning apartment building, screaming baby on the second floor, etc.) was a task only slightly less daunting than the current predicament in which I found myself. I later found out my friend and his buddies had been continuously taking pictures of my performance to disseminate to various friends and girlfriends. Great bunch of guys.
Luckily, it eventually ended, and I collected myself, and my stuff, and got the hell out of there. The next few hours are a bit of a blur, though I know they consisted mostly of pounding beers outside of convenient stores and throwing stuff at other stuff. At this point, my friend announced that he had to go home. He's a trader and needs to wake up at 5AM to have the requisite strength to suck the lifeblood from our economy. I'm thoroughly intoxicated, and would like for the night to continue. We hailed a cab and I lit a cigarette and sulked in the corner, until I was informed by the cab driver that smoking is not permitted in Japanese cabs. Indignant, and very drunk, I told the cab driver to go F, though not in any language he could actually understand, and proceeded to climb out of the cab. The cab driver, happy to have the drunk foreigner out of his vehicle, shrugged and quickly sped off. This was the next in a series of poor decisions.
Here are the possessions I'd retained at this point. About 4000 yen (~ $40) and a cellphone. Unfortunately, it was a domestic cellphone from China, and my plan didn't cover Japan. I had a piece of paper with my friend's address on it; his work address, where I met him from the plane. It was raining. Hard. Things were looking bleak. I'd only been to Tokyo once previously. Luckily, across the overpass on which I found myself I could see the bright lights of Roppongi beckoning.
Roppongi is awesome for two reasons. The first is that it has lots of bars, plenty of drunk people, and many, many beautiful women. The second is that there are drug dealers who speak English and, um, "massage therapists" who speak Mandarin, and both are lined up prominently on the street, clamoring to talk to you! I asked if there were any hotels in the area which would be within my budget and not soaked in secretions or if there were any bars that stayed open all night. The answer to both was no, with an addendum to the latter that the only late night joints in Tokyo exist in anonymity specifically to keep out people such as myself. I can understand that. At this point I realize my best hope to find shelter from the cold was to find an understanding, and hopefully equally intoxicated female to take pity on my poor soul. Thanks god I was in Roppongi.
I stumbled into a bar, bought an obnoxiously expensive drink, and started to mingle, which was difficult, since I knew no one, was stinkingly drunk, and apparently had chunks of dried wax on my arms and in my hair. Despite all of this, I locked eyes from across the room with a nice looking lady named Beth who turned out to be very sympathetic to my cause. I chalked this up to birthday luck and began to excitedly envision sleeping in an actual bed.
But this too was not to be. I had told many, many, lies to Beth, for reasons that shouldn't really need to be explained at this point. Unfortunately, as we began to engage in some pre-coital banter back at her place, these lies began to slowly unravel. Beth had a big heart but a low tolerance for jackassery, and the bits and pieces of the truth that I decided to impart upon her, once caught, served only to disgust her further. At that point even the floor of her living room was off the table, and I was cast back out into the abyss.
At this point I was quite tired, and in desperate need of shelter. The sun was beginning to rise, but I didn't have the energy to wander the streets until my friend's office opened. I decided to go door-to-door testing the fire escapes of apartment buildings, hoping to find refuge in a stairwell. Tokyo is a bizarrely trusting city, and I actually found a few that were either wide open or able to be ripped easily from their tumblers. As I began to forge a nest of clothes in the stairwell, I heard people rising to start their day in adjacent apartments, and, becoming paranoid that my current behavior infringed on some Japanese form of B&E, scrambled into the supply room and wedged the door shut with a mop handle. The closet was far too slender to lie down in, and my legs were exhausted from roaming the streets, so I slept upside down, balanced on my shoulders and neck, legs kicked up in the air, the hypotenuse of a right triangle comprised solely of myself and the greying walls of a janitor's closet.
I awoke a few hours later to find the door to the room virtually ajar. Perhaps it kicked open on its own. Perhaps a Japanese attendant came looking for some peroxide, saw a gaijin passed out, upside down, soaked in booze and encrusted with wax, and thought better of disturbing him. My friend was less than thrilled to see me roll into his place of business looking and smelling like a disheveled hobo. My good faith attempt to clean myself in an adjacent McDonald's bathroom before entering his office went completely unappreciated. Luckily, the rest of my year 24th year improved after a rather inauspicious first day. Though only slightly.
I was almost two years removed from my own college graduation, but I had a habit of visiting my friends who lived in a nearby college town somewhat regularly. The two friends that were younger than me were still in college and I had no problem living it up with them if called for. One particular weekend, I was visiting them and left our group towards bar close to see if I could try to meet some women at another bar before the night was done. Not much success came over there unfortunately, so I went outside with likely no other option besides walking back to my friend's house.
Just outside the bar entrance, I see two girls sitting on the sidewalk and one of them warns me to not step in a pile of vomit that's nearby. I sense an opening and start talking to them The girl who warned me not to step in the puke was both super hot and very drunk, and her friend was a decent looking girl named Rina. Coincidentally, I have an older sister also named Rina, which I then tell her. She laughs and screams at me that I don't since it's such a rare name. I then try to "prove" this to her by saying random facts about my sister in succession, such as her birthday, favorite band, etc., so she would then believe me. She buys it and then I find myself making conversation with them and a group of friends they were waiting for and we start walking back to their house nearby. We go inside and I'm left with super hot girl and Rina downstairs. Super hot girl finds this a convenient time to puke in the living room, so Rina grabs a garbage can from the kitchen and tells me to hold up her friend's hair up so she doesn't puke in it. I make pleasant talk with super hot girl, who then screams to Rina how nice and sweet I am before she comes back with paper towels and other cleaning supplies.
After cleaning her friend up and setting her up for bed on one of the couches, Rina then tells me to come outside with her to the porch. I'm thinking to myself "Okay, she's sending me home." So I'm completely expecting to avoid being a complete weirdo and just saying good-bye, walking a short mile back to my friend's house, and maybe watching some TV before falling asleep on his couch. Not a big deal. We both get on the porch and Rina shuts the door, and she almost instantly puts her tongue in my mouth and starts making out with me. Shocked but pleasantly surprised by this turn of events, I go with it and we make out on her porch for a solid minute or two, my hands down her pants and everything.
She brings me back inside, with her friend conveniently passed out on the couch and seemingly doing fine. I hear the roommate from upstairs ask Rina what happened to me, and she says that I walked home already. I take a seat on the other couch across the room and in a few minutes, Rina straddles me in the dark and we start to make out some more. I'm enjoying this moment very much for the next few minutes and anticipating where this is going when the kitchen lights turn on and a fat guy walks into the living room. After turning on the lights there, he introduces himself as another roommate in the house and tells us how he's having trouble sleeping. Rina by this point is sitting beside me and we're holding hands, but none of this is obvious to the fat guy as he makes his way to the entertainment center and pulls out the Joe Dirt DVD. He puts it in and sits back down, and after the first minute or two of seeing David Spade and Dennis Miller on screen, Rina pulls me outside and says it's time for me to go home. I try to coax her into saying I will make it worth her while, and even with a little more making out and even more handsy actions (with a group of guys on the sidewalk cheering me on at one point), she says she needs to watch her drunk friend and promises that I'll see her at the bars in the future.
I never saw her again and made the trek back to my friend's house... wondering what could have been had it not been for Joe Dirt.