So you know that time you were really drunk and you asked out a bartender because you thought it was the best idea in the world (next to the pitcher of beer you had just consumed)? Yeah – I remember that time – oh boy do I!
Now, I’m going to tell you a story about one such night. The bartender was hot, Irish, tall, broad & dirty blonde; with an accent that could make your knees weak. He eventually started giving me tons of free drinks (yes, please, give an already intoxicated woman MORE booze!) As a gesture of my appreciation and in a haze of drunken madness, I asked the man out.
He coordinated the entire date – leaving me to do absolutely nothing. As nice as this was, I could hardly remember what he looked like. We went out on a Saturday night. The date started with drinks at a popular San Francisco bar, followed by dinner at his friend’s new restaurant. He planned a late dinner so that we could dine in private with his friend, friend’s date and a chef at our explicit disposal. Bottles of wine flowed along with specially crafted cuisine (the chef stayed to make some of his favorite concoctions).
Dinner conversation took the usual turn to sex, drugs, and life. We talked about where we had been and what we had done. Who we had been with and/or who we had done. What we still wanted to do and what we feared. The conversation turned to our respective bucket lists, with a focus on an item on my bucket list (trying the drug Molly) and my Irish man, in a private moment, asked me if I wanted to do some with him that night.
The next thing I knew, he walked back into the restaurant with a little baggy of pills. We each took one and then two hours later, took another.
(Holy Shit!)
We ended the night back at his place, both still reeling from the doses of Molly. It was an amazing roller coaster. Everything I touched felt like cashmere and everything I drank tasked like cold crystal water.
As the drug tapered and we headed back to reality, I found myself in bed with this man. I was beginning to get a sense of my body, as was he. We were then quickly yanked out of our high and dropped back into the lap of reality when we discovered his sheets immersed in blood.
Suffice it to say – the night came to a halt very quickly. Post clean up, he did not let me take my leave and we spent the night sleeping on opposite sides of the bed. I didn’t sleep, however. By sunrise, I gathered my belongings and I walked out, never to see him again.
The Irish Goodbye is real.
Dating Wrong 