Once you've mastered the art of holding your liquor, there's some shit that ought to be common knowledge before you start throwing back cocktails like a freshly-made pitcher of red Kool-Aid. I pride myself on being able to hang with the big boys...while my homegirls get their buzz off a white wine spritzer, I'd being doing Patron shots at the bar. Leave the fruity shit with umbrellas in 'em for trips below the equator... gimme the primo stuff to loosen you up. And on a still balmy Friday night, I didn't need much of a reason to blow off some steam to get my weekend kicked off right.

A mutual acquaintance invited me to her 26th birthday party for an otherworldly juxtaposition at a holistic, conceptual center-cum-average nightlife playground in West Chelsea. As if the New Agey flakiness of veggie food and tarot reading wasn't enough, I was sitting on the fence about going because:

• the festivities weren't kicking off till 11:00 p.m. which meant I would have to go all the way home then commute back into the city after getting thoroughly relaxed. Not one of my favorite things to do after putting in an 8 hr. day.
• no one in my immediate circle of colleagues was slated to be in attendance.
• although we exchanged pleasantries often, I wouldn't necessarily consider myself cool like that with the hostess either.

But then I weighed the options of an open bar and a $30 cover charge waived and promptly raided my closet to strike the right note of Jessica Rabbit to compliment my leopard-print YSL wedges begging to hit the pavement for the first time. Freshly showered and lotioned up, curls re-dampened a bit and fluffed back into place, cleavage lifted, separated & lips glossed to a chrome pout, I was ready to go. I was going to stop for a quick bite on the way since I hadn't had dinner and lunch was eons ago, but I figured if the munchie pangs got too much for me, I could always order an appetizer. Rolled up to the spot just after 11:45 and a line was already snaking out of the entrance. Good thing I spotted the guest of honor so I managed to slip through the velvet rope and burly Michael Clarke Duncan clone manning the door. Lisette* greeted me with a hug and was even bubblier than usual (how many sips of Stoli had she downed already? hmm...) with her unmistakable Nuyorican accent.

This place was cavernous and kinda resembled an Ibiza dance-compilation CD cover once inside. Older cats looking to get their groove back intermingled with skater kids and B-boys in doo rags. Vibe was trés Enya meets Cirque Du Soleil while high off Red Bull and ginkgo biloba. I love trance just as much as the next raver, but I can only take it in small doses via headphones at a Tower listening station. It was time to get my ass over to the bar to narcotize myself with a steady stream of overpriced mixed drinks. One martini, two martini, three martini, four! Letting the percussion from the Chus & Ceballos dub of Deep Dish's Say Hello (my club cut of the moment) and a Third Eye Indigo (vodka, grape juice, ginseng and some citrusy additives) kick in, I was feeling goooood. So groovy that when this Filipino dude who had the uncanny resemblance to an ewok asked me for my number after buying me a drink, I just laughed. Hysterically. Uncontrollably. The words "you wanna stare into this compact... look reeeeal close and come again?" just floated out my mouth without a hint of tact. Yes, that was an unnecessary slice of bitchitude, don't remind me.

Just as I was ready to bail on the mezzanine for the ground-level dance floor, in strolled the current loathe of my life. Goddammit. Why the hell hadn't I scanned through the frigging Evite guest list in its entirety?

Here's where things get tricky and I have to provide a bit of back story to fully understand the nature of this clusterfuck of awkwardness headed my way. Now this slug I'll call Corey* is a kinda sorta ex. I say that to soften the reality of the linguistics because truth be told, he's simply a now-former fuck buddy with a cushy title. But it took ya girl 3 damn years of back and forth to see the shit for what it really was instead of further deluding myself that we were in the gray area of an actual relationship. A cycle of stringing me along, emotional distance and perpetual bullshit should've been the clue he wasn't the one within the first month, but some things you have to learn the hard way.

Okay, so the Laguna Beach twist you've been waiting for. Unbeknownst to me (well, at first), Corey was involved with Lisette before he and I hooked up - and she just happened to be the broad this whole shindig was thrown for. Yep, the birthday girl herself. And one more cliffhanger tossed into the plot for good measure: all three of us used to be co-workers circa 16 months ago (she and I in the same department - him in a different division on another floor). The company rulebook clearly wasn't a page turner in orientation.

Odd thing was, I spent so much time and energy building up this irrational shade at Lisette for her involvement with Corey, I don't even know how the hell I wound up in an almost friendship with the chick after their fling ended and my emotional roller coaster began. But then the evolved, semi-mature part of me realized that she was the wrong person to channel so much anger towards. If I should be pissed with someone, it should be Corey since he was the one taking my heart and riverdancing all over the shit for longer than necessary. I had last spoken to him during a layover in Miami over a month ago and really didn't want to pick up where that convo had left off.

A crew of thirsty ass negroes hawkin' every chick in sight swarmed in the balcony and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him among the incoming pack immediately. He looked good, but I wasn't shell shocked with butterflies like I used to be. Matter of fact, the sight of him sort of repulsed me now. Either way, I was determined to keep a poker face of nonchalance from here on out. Faked like I didn't know he was there as he greeted me while swaying near a booth by two girls I had been making small talk with.

"Oh. Hm. Hello back atcha."

Subliminally, I was hoping my face wasn't gleaming like a cast-iron skillet with bacon grease since it was Africa hot in that mug. He gave me the obligatory once over. Looked me up and down with a smirk I wanted to slap off his face as he leaned forward trying to slip his hands in my rear pockets. I knew that wasn't the only thing he wanted to slide into later on, but uh uh... even liquored up I was well aware. There would be no sex in the champagne room. Now accepting of the reality that he was a self-serving jerk, I was too through being on his merry-go-round. But I could still have a bit of fun in the meantime, no?

I was back downstairs shaking it like a salt shaker on the ground level when the remix of Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl came on. Now I wore the original out since spring but was still obsessed, so you take that and multiply it by 6+ minutes of pop confection and it's murder on the dance floor. Before you could say b-a-n-a-n-a-s, next thing you know I was on top of speakers near the DJ booth yelling "ooh, you're a dick, you're a dick..." on the hook to the asshole in question. Inhibitions had hit the bricks long ago. After my impromptu go-go dancer audition, my bladder felt like it was gonna explode from intermittent shots. Time to haul ass to the ladies'. Once relieved, I was ready to call it a wrap since it was almost 3:30 in the morning and I felt my energy level starting to wane. Well, that plan would take a detour for the next 20 minutes. Corey was standing right outside. I had to ask if he had added panties to his repertoire now. "Funny...but nah, I was looking for you," he grinned and attempted to look sexy doing some L.L. mouth thing that almost made me pee myself again. Then a light bulb clicked on and the wheels went into motion.

Just a wink and a smile was all I needed to lure him into a stall...of course, he figured one spit coat on his lips was enough to drop my guard. Like I was going out like a some cluck from Copiague with a quickie interlude in the bathroom. Au contraire, mon frere. I had him straddled and instructed him to take his pants off. As if such a request bore repetition ad nauseum to get him to drop trou. Off went the pants and boxers...

"So, what you wanna do?," I whispered in his ear.
"C'mon ma, like you really gotta ask?....you know what I want...go 'head and handle that..."

Silly rabbit. I slid my hand between his legs and teased for a few seconds to let the anticipation of what was awaiting him detonate his macho posturing. I moved my head downwards and then raised up off him without warning. Before a protest could escape from his lips, I grabbed his jeans and shorts tossed carelessly on the floor in one fell swoop. Then I jammed the latch and locked him in with just his button down and wifebeater on. Expletives were flying as he tried to kick it loose.

"You simple ass bitch! Open this shit up!" blended into the the drums and bass as I quickly navigated to the door. I wasn't waiting for him to figure out the best bet would be to just crawl out from under the shit. Time to throw them bows...move bitch, get out the way! Once I saw the exit sign lit up in bright red past the waiting area, I knew I'd have to hail a taxi with the quickness in the dead zone of the witching hours. Not a yellow cab in sight. Fuck! What is I gon' do?!

I wasn't equipped to sprint in 4" platforms, but I chucked the evidence in a nearby dumpster and took off towards 11th Avenue. Almost like it was scripted, a cabbie coming from the direction of the West Side Highway pulled alongside me at the curb and I leapt in. Slunk down in the backseat for like a good 5 minutes, like the mob was tailing me. This felt like Escape From New York instead of a random night out.

Right before we were about to merge onto the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, my borough welcomed me back with a jarring pothole. Impact nearly propelling me off the seat coupled with lingering adrenaline and sudden nausea had me in a choke hold.

"Pull the fuck over!"

The Pakistani guy hadn't even had time to slow to a crawl when I jangled the car door open. Out came the tequila, traces of Heineken, campari, the Bloody Ahern, 2 whiskey sours, 3 dirty martinis, almost everything digested in the past 24 hours and remnants of contempt left for a man who had never seen me as someone worth caring about but something to be in rotation for a brief spell and relegated to the sidelines as it suited him retched abruptly in a grotesque kaleidoscope.

As I spat the last of the residual bile out the window onto the Gowanus Expressway and turned my cell off from incoming threats, all I could think about was not curling up naked on the bathroom floor and counteracting the latter A.M. queasiness with the remedy of Old Faithful. Burnt toast, the breakfast of champions.

* = names changed to protect the clueless &/or ignorant.

Labels: nightlife, relationships