Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Somewhere between making out with the entire fucking club and grinding with every girl on the dance floor I somehow meet two girls who tell me they want me to take them home. I’m not even surprised anymore. One of them literally tries to reach into my pants as we interact.

For the first time in my life I legitimately feel like a whore.

I tell them both that I need to hit the bathroom one last time and to wait for me.

As I strut to the washroom, I feel like a king on parade. In my mind, I stride triumphantly through the crowd—never having been more comfortable or commanding in a club in all my life. But in reality I’m sure I’m barely keeping my balance, pushing past people, and nearly tripping as I make a zig-zag path to the bathroom.

As I wander through the crowd I inexplicably grab someone’s drink right out of their hand and chug it. No sooner do they start to protest than I’ve done it again. Now two people are yelling at me. I give them a drunken fuck-you stare, with half-open eyes. Then I just keep on walking.

I end up stumbling into the women’s washroom, without even noticing, and taking up a stall. I realize I’m in the wrong bathroom when girls are banging on the door accusing me of line cutting. I ignore their complaints and urinate aimlessly, hitting the toilet, the wall, and floor more than I actually get it in the bowl.

When I’m done, I don’t even bother putting my dick away. I just start wandering out of the stall and casually slip it back in my pants as I’m mid-way out the restroom. I don’t even care that I flashed half the girls in line my cock.

As I exit the washroom, I pass a guy and a girl talking in a corner. The girl is wearing a short red dress and has bangs covering one eye. She is cute. Without hesitation, I slide right in between the guy and the girl and start to kiss her.

This is about the point where hubris meets humiliation, and the guy throws me off of her. Maybe this is why you black out when you drink too much; sometimes it’s better not to remember.

I land on the ground, hard, and he yells something about his girlfriend. I give him an angry look.
Doesn’t he know who I am?!

By all accounts, I am so drunk right now that I shouldn’t be able to win the fight against gravity and stand back up. But I somehow I make it back to my feet. I turn to walk away from the angry boyfriend, but I don’t get more than a few steps before a bouncer, escorted over by a few girls, grabs my arm and tells me that I have to leave.

Maybe it was the line cutting, the pissing all over the women’s washroom, the cock-flashing, the drink stealing, or making out with a few too many girls, but I am being kicked out.

Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

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