On the first night of my last three-day binge, I was at a big artsy house party. There was an open bar. I brought a girl friend who spent the evening mixing me Tom Collinses, neglecting to mention they were doubles.
The house was nothing less than a mansion. The host’s bedroom featured a Jacuzzi tub under a skylight. Since the invitations had called for everyone to dress-up in their best, the crowd of strangers looked fantastic. I had to borrow a suit and pants from a friend’s boyfriend because I had no fancy clothes, meaning I looked like I fit in, but didn’t feel it. I drank quickly.
Most of the evening at the party is a blur. There was a cabaret show on the stairs. I vaguely remember necking with a Little Sister’s employee. I left the party to take a walk for fresh air.
Once outside, I decided to jump on a bus. The fruit loop was just across the Burrard Street Bridge. Men were waiting for me. I looked fancy and hot.
Downtown, I headed westward. On some unknown block, a voice called to me from above. It was well after midnight. A guy, eight or so stories up, asked if I wanted to visit his apartment. From my perspective on the ground, he looked blurry and hot. I said sure.
He wasn’t hot, but I joined him on the couch anyhow. I wanted to be in the bedroom, but he wouldn’t let us beyond the closed door and wouldn’t explain why not. We made out. Horizontal, I blacked out (and/or passed out) within minutes.
When my host woke me up, he was terse, telling me to leave. My undershirt and dress shirt were off. I couldn’t find my jacket that he swore I hadn’t been wearing. I searched in the bathroom. I also wanted to check if my asshole hurt, to determine if he’d raped me while I was sleeping, but he followed me in, nagging that I had to leave.
Reluctantly I left, immediately forgetting what suite he was in. On the street, I again became convinced my coat was inside and I tried climbing the back of the building, then decided I’d be too scared by the time I reached the eighth floor so gave up. (I later realized I’d be crawling into the wrong apartment anyhow; his apartment was on the other side.)
Refreshed, still buzzing, I wandered to a sex spot by the bridge. I blew two men at the same time until sunrise.
Heading home, I noticed my undershirt was pulled over my collar top and thought, Something’s wrong with this picture.
I woke up the next morning, brittle, my ass seemingly untouched, vowing to never do that again.
* Miss Cookie dances (sober) with The Skinjobs Feb 6 at the Brickyard, for Rock for Choice.
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