It was a Saturday night. I spent an hour in my bathroom, spinning my short blonde locks around a small curling iron achieving Carrie Bradshaw bounce. I threw on a low cut purple top over a white cami and my favorite pair of jeans, pulled on my black high heeled boots and made a quick quality check in the mirror. The evening awaited, an evening to be spent with one of my best friends and our favorite boyfriends, the kind of boys who love other boys, so they’re safe.
I drove to my girlfriend’s parents’ house where she was house-sitting for the weekend. She let out a complimentary whistle when she opened the door. I whistled back. She’s tall, blonde, and striking, totally worthy of heads turning and whistles. After our wordless exchange, she pulled me into the bar where she made us each a stiff Peach Vodka and soda. As we downed our drinks, we discussed the plans for the evening. There would be dancing at one of my favorite night clubs, one that catered to boys on boys, so I knew we could dance with no strings. I.Love.Dancing. I could hardly contain my excitement. When it was time to leave, I grabbed my keys to go, but she shook her head.
She guided me to the garage where she revealed a brand new silver Mercedes Benz (I think it was an S Class) recently purchased by her step mom. And when I say recently, it was purchased the previous day. “We’re taking this,” she said with a cheeky grin.
“Are you sure?” I asked as I made myself comfortable in the passenger seat, breathing in the smell of fresh leather and new car, drinking in the absolute luxury of the vehicle.
“Positive,” she said and promised to remain sober and drive us safely home.
She hopped in the driver’s seat, and guided the car gently out of the garage. We entered the tollway, where she fondled the Benz a little taking it to higher speeds than were allowed, letting the silver beauty purr along the freeway.
We arrived at the nightclub, valeted the Benz, and stepped into the welcoming thumping bass. Just as planned, our boys were there waiting. They ordered us each a drink and then a round of shots. We all drank. I knew I wasn’t driving, so I didn’t hold back.
Steve and I each took another shot. Then he ushered me to the dance floor. Steven had the moves like Jagger. He pulled me into him and swayed against me, guiding me with his hand on the small of my back. I grabbed hold of his biceps and tossed my head back moving my body with the beat. When the music changed, we followed suit, each in tune with the other, matching the pace of the music, keeping our bodies glued together.
I decided it was time to take a break and grab another drink. Steven and I headed to the bar, had another drink and another shot. Or two.
When one of his favorite songs began to play, he ran to the dance floor and motioned for me to join him.
There we were again, bouncing, swaying, moving with the beat when he leaned in and whisper-yelled in my ear, “Just follow my lead.” I made eye contact and nodded wondering what he had in store for me. He grabbed me just below my ass and lifted me up. Following his lead, I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He started spinning. I’m not sure if it was the shots that clouded my judgement or the fact that I had just spent the prior evening with the Matrix, but what followed can only be described as both magical and stupid.
I let go of his neck and gripped his waist with my thighs letting my torso fall back parallel with the ground. The techno beat and my cirque du soleil moves only fueled Steven who continued to spin as I slowly moved my arms imitating a slow backstroke until the song ended. Steven lowered me to the ground, and though we were no longer turning in circles, my head continued to spin, along with the room.
When we made it back to our table, our entourage greeted us with whoops and applause and “oh my Gods” over our theatrical dancing. I paid no attention. I went straight to the bar and ordered a glass of water. It did nothing for the spinning. I went back to the table and rested my head in my hand, but the spinning wouldn’t cease. Apparently, I looked a bit green, so being the good wingman that she was, my girlfriend said farewell to our boyfriends and retrieved the Benz.
We started driving home. She chatted away about so and so and what’s his name, etc. while I begged my body to hold tight. Then it started. The chicken necking. I felt it rising in my chest, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to contain it much longer. We were almost to our exit. Just hold on for a few more minutes, my mind said. My body wasn’t having it. I reached over and turned the air conditioning up hoping it would cool my clammy skin. It cooled me but didn’t calm my still spinning stomach, and the chicken necking picked up speed.
I looked around. In the brand new Mercedes Benz was nothing, no bags, no towels, nothing. I moved my jacket so that it covered the seat underneath me.
I swallowed. And I swallowed again. Little beads of sweat dampened my forehead and the back of my neck. I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I grabbed the top of my shirt and held it out. And then I used it as a barf bag.
We pulled into the garage. My friend continued to chatter non stop. When she got out of the car, I asked her for a little help.
And then I told her what I had done. She didn’t hear a thing. Apparently, I’m a quiet puker. We carefully maneuvered me out of the car and managed to keep the brand new Mercedes Benz clean of any vomit.
I stripped out of my soiled clothes in the laundry room and threw everything into the washer, showered, borrowed some clothes from my friend, and passed out in the guest room.
The next morning over coffee, my girlfriend looked at me and said, “All I know is that if I’m picking teams, I choose you. You are straight up A-team.”
And all because I respected the brand new beautiful Mercedes Benz.
Where is the weirdest place you’ve ever had to blow chunks? Have you ever used yourself as a barf bag? Would you have soiled the brand new Benz? Do you want to dance?