That White Girl’s a party crasher… apparently

A few weeks back I decided to hit the pub on my way home from dance. I ended up running into a few people that I knew and before I knew it, I was drunk. It’s weird how that happens when you drink a lot of alcohol in a short amount of time.

Even though I was done and wanted to go home, one of my friends wanted to keep the party going and was looking for a way to find/purchase more alcohol. There was no way possible. At that moment, I looked across the street and saw some sort of club open; there was loud music, flashing lights, people dancing. Since I’m easily talked into things, I suggested we try it out.

Long story short, I ended up going in alone while one of the guys made sure the other guy got home okay. Due to the level of my intoxication, I didn’t care if I was being ditched and went straight in with little to no hesitation. When I entered the room, I realized that it was a Latin dance party. Just my scene… bring it!

I was approached shortly after my (not so) subtle entrance; I asked the person if I was able to purchase alcohol. They pointed me in the direction of the owner; I approached the owner and she told me that it was actually a private party; they weren’t selling alcohol. Being the proactive person I am, when it looked like she might ask me to leave, I beat her to it:

Which is true. And also… not true. It’s true I’ve seen him before. But I’ve never talked to him. The dude, let’s call him Slick, naturally, wondered where I knew him from and I told him I knew him from the salsa clubs. It was a believable story, so he got me a beer while his friend danced with me. I was sitting down drinking my free beer when Slick asked me to dance. He wanted me to elaborate on our “knowing” each other.  Busted, you got me!

Luckily he was okay with it. After a little bit, my friend came back to get me. He didn’t even make it in the door before he was told to leave. Since the eight guys were making eyes at me and the seven girls were shooting hate daggers at me, I thought it was best if I quit while I was ahead and left the party to meet my friend.

The following week, I went to the salsa club. I looked over at one point and guess who was standing there. Slick. After we mutually made eye contact, I approached him and we started talking; he said that I looked different. I asked how, he said he wasn’t sure. He asked me if I was drunk.

He asked me if I was drunk last week.

I guess that was it; suddenly he wanted me to drink. When I told him that I was driving, he said that I should know someone that lives nearby so that I could spend the night at their place. He lives three blocks away. Convenient. I declined his offer to spend the night at his house, in his bed, even though he said “nothing would happen”. I didn’t believe him.

We danced; it was late, he was drunk and he kissed me. And that’s how I ended up making out with a dude named Slick in the middle of the dance floor of the salsa club.

Times like these make me wish I could blame my poor decisions on alcohol. Alas… no. Dammit.