“Sadie. No, not according to the master plan. And where’s Matt?”
“Mark. Long story. I’m giving up for the night.”
“Well, stick around for a few minutes at least. I’m bored.”
“You smooth-talking devil.”
A couple of the regulars are here. Melanie, one of your roommate’s former flings, is trading jokes with a friend of hers and laughing idiotically. And there’s Ben in the corner. You thought he was cute until you realized that he was congenitally incapable of not flirting with every woman in the bar. Alright, so he’s still cute. Too bad he ruins it as soon as he opens his mouth. Your roommate spies you looking at him.
“Ah, the infamous Ben. Easy on the eyes, huh?”
“Not on the stomach.”
He takes a sip of beer. “You deserve better anyway.”
“You flirting with me?”
A tiny pause, then: “Sure, why not.”
He gives you an unmistakable look, and you both put your drinks down on the bar and move toward the dimly lit alcove. Then he’s pressing you against the wall and you’re making out frantically, so that you hardly hear when Kate walks by and makes one of her customary wisecracks.
“Home, now,” you croak.
He just nods and pulls you out the door after him.
The End
“Oh, I’m so glad I caught you.”
Elizabeth grabs you by the arm as you go to pay the bartender for your martinis. You see Nat storm past and go out the front door.
“I have to apologize for him,” Elizabeth says. “And for me, for having anything to do with him.”
“Don’t worry about it.” This is an interesting turn of events, no?
“I do, though.” She calls the bartender back over. “Let me buy you a drink, okay? That way we can really talk and catch up.”
You shrug your approval, and the two of you go back to the same table, where Elizabeth left her stuff.
“I honestly can’t tell you why I’m still with Nat after all this time. And it looks like I won’t be for long. I mean he’s such a jerk to most people, but I really believe that he’s a musical genius. He wrote this song last week and it’s a work of pure brilliance. It’s so, like, profound, you know. It’s about life, like. And how every little choice you make—no matter how little it is—can have this huge impact on your life, you know…”
Two hours later, you know more about Nat’s supposed songwriting genius—not to mention his sexual idiosyncrasies (he likes to be spanked with a rolled-up newspaper and called “bad dog”)—than you ever wanted to know. You wish, however, you’d had a tape recorder with you. If this Nat guy becomes the pop god Elizabeth thinks he’s going to be, you could write the unauthorized biography and make a quick buck.
By night’s end you’re too drunk and mentally drained to do anything but go home. There, because you’ve got to see if there’s anything to this spanking thing, you retire to your bedroom with a rolled-up section of the Sunday paper. You strip down and begin to experiment, alternately whacking your right butt cheek with your hand and the newspaper to see which—if either—turns you on. Preoccupied by your pursuit, you neglect to lock your bedroom door.
Your roommate’s drunken friend Suzy walks in on you midswat.
The End
Within a couple of minutes you’re in your apartment, checking messages. One saved message from your old friend Peter, asking you to go see a band he was playing in tonight. Damn—they must be finished by now. Also a new message from Suzy, giving the address of the party and urging you to try to make it. You call a taxi and, on the way there, stop off at an ATM for some cash.
The party is being held by Lindy, who owns a beautiful house and what must be an incredibly powerful music system, judging from the way your ears are already vibrating in time to … what the fuck are they playing in there, Chumbawamba? “Very last season,” you mutter, just as the door opens and a statuesque blonde peers at you in amusement.
“Yes, isn’t it,” she smiles. “Some asshole friend of mine has taken over the stereo and is finding all the CDs I’m most ashamed to own. Come on in; I’m Lindy.”
You introduce yourself and step inside, hang up your jacket, and gaze around in hopes of seeing someone you know. There’s Suzy at least, doing what Suzy does best—drinking a vodka tonic and chatting intimately with some guy who looks familiar.
He ought to look familiar. It’s Mark.
You feel your chest tighten and look away again quickly, scanning the room to locate Nick. Aha. Nick is Asshole Stereo Guy.
If you decide to talk to Suzy first, read on here.
If you approach Nick, read on here.
You can’t find anyone you know at Spinners. They probably went on to the party. You reach in your pocket for the address Mike gave you, but it’s not there. You check your other pockets, then your wallet. Nothing. You know in your heart that your night’s a bust, that you’ll never hear the liquid joy that is Sadie’s laugh. Or maybe, just maybe, they haven’t gotten here yet. You find a stool at the far end of the bar and order a drink.
Two hours later, the bartender, John—your new best friend as you see it—cuts you off. Probably the fact that you’re slumped on the bar, lovelorn tears barely dry on your cheeks, did the trick. You’ve spun quite a number of yarns about yourself and Sadie tonight, for the benefit of a group of regular patrons—mostly old men—gathered at your end of the bar. They’re convinced yours and Sadie’s is the purest love since Romeo and Juliet’s. You’ve even brought a few of them close to tears.
As closing time approaches, there are only about six or seven people left in the bar. Once you’re sitting up again, a local named Lloyd convinces John to give you half a shot so you can toast with him. As John pours your drink (barely), Lloyd leans in close, spraying saliva in your face as he talks. “You keep fighting for her, you hear? We’ll be here rooting for you, won’t we, boys?”
A couple of the other men mutter in agreement.
“A toast.” Lloyd gestures to the drink that’s been set down in front of you. He clears his throat. “To true love.”
“To true love!” the late-night contingent echoes.
You stumble out into the street, John keeping a watchful eye from the door. You’re still muttering, “To true love,” when you get into the cab.
“To true love.”
“To true love!”
“To true love!”
“Hey, buddy.” The driver turns. “This True Love place. It have an address?”
The End
“I’d like to go home with you,” you blurt. Why not? What have you got to lose? Why wander all around town trying to find someone you like when there’s someone you like sitting right beside you? Even if she has considerably more cleavage than the person you thought you were going to end up with.
“You would? I mean, that’s great!” She beams, relief written all over her face. “Wasn’t sure if I was making a fool of myself there. But I had a feeling about you when you walked in.”
You glance at your clothes instinctively.
“No, I’m not saying you look like a stereotypical dyke.” She grins. “You looked approachable though. And open. And smart.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush.”
“And you’ve got great tits.”
You burst out laughing. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you. Let’s go.”
The End
You stop and reach into your pocket, where you’ve got a hefty wad of change you’ve accumulated this evening. Just as you hand it to the homeless man, you see a taxi rounding the corner. From the approaching silhouette you see the backseat’s empty. You call ahead to Dave and Lisa, who kept walking, then hail the cab, giving the address of Spinners.…
Read on here.
“I’m really flattered, honestly. It just doesn’t seem like a very good idea.”
“Say no more, I understand. No harm in asking. You want another drink?”
The rest
of the evening goes by in a blur of free drinks and increasingly mindless conversation. But it’s fun—more fun than you’ve had in a very long time.
“Guess I should be getting home. I planned to get up early tomorrow and write,” Jane says at last. “It was really good meeting you. Here’s my number … just in case, you know. We can go out for a drink or something?”
You pocket it, and she kisses you on the cheek. “Sweet dreams. See you soon.”
“I’ll call you,” you say, knowing for sure that you will.
The End
The homeless man pursues Lisa, walking mere inches behind her. “Come on, pretty lady, spare a quarter.”
Lisa’s freaked out and quickens her pace, hurrying toward fluorescent lights and ducking into the first bar she comes to. You and Dave follow, only to find that the oasis Lisa has selected is a karaoke bar called Ditty Bar; from the slight difference in the pink color of the D on the sign and the seedy location, it’s easy to see that Ditty Bar used to be something else entirely. Damn. Just your luck. Inside, Lisa heads straight for the bar on the assumption you’re staying for at least one. Somewhat reluctantly—after all, you’re anxious to get to Spinners and the party and get on with your night (and maybe get it on with Sadie!)—you follow, suggesting a round of shots since it’ll be quicker.
With three tequilas on the way, Dave looks at you and Lisa pensively. “Which came first as you remember it: the idea of karaoke or Milli Vanilli?”
“Ah yes, the age-old question,” Lisa says wistfully. “Which came first: karaoke or Milli Vanilli.” She rolls her eyes. “The two have nothing to do with each other, Dave.”
“I don’t know. I always thought Milli Vanilli’s would be an awesome name for a karaoke bar.”
Lisa considers this a moment. “But the point is that Milli Vanilli didn’t sing.”
“So?” Dave looks at you for support, but you’re not quite ready to give it.
“Soooo, it makes no sense.” Lisa’s pouring salt onto the fleshy pad between her thumb and index finger. “The point of karaoke is that you do sing. The vocal track’s missing. Yours would have to be a lip-synch bar. And that doesn’t sound like much fun—not enough ways for people to embarrass themselves, because if they suck all you have to do is not look at them and you’ve still got the song playing intact. So that’s just stupid.”
“I don’t know. I still think it’s a good name.”
“But it makes no sense.”
“Alright you two.” You’re not sure if this is the old ponytail-pulling routine. Are these two really fighting or just flirting? “Let’s agree that at the very least, it’s a great name for a karaoke bar with a very ironic owner and clientele. How about that?”
You’re quite the peacemaker.
Lisa shrugs and clinks her glass to yours and Dave’s, then the three of you do your shots.
Once he’s done wincing after sucking on a lemon, Dave proclaims: “Milli Vanilli’s: Where Someone Else Is Always Doing the Singing. See, it works.”
Lisa raises her eyebrows and tips her head. “I guess so,” she concedes. “I mean it’s a better name for a karaoke bar than, say, Our Lips Are Sealed.”
“How ’bout Sing Out Sister?” you suggest.
“Sounds like a lesbian karaoke bar,” Lisa says.
“Mike’s.”
“Very clever. Probably too clever.”
“Big Mouth Strikes Again.”
“Too long, and Smiths fans don’t go to karaoke bars. Hey, look at this.” Lisa picks up a flyer off the bar. “There’s a karaoke contest tonight. Grand Prize: a thousand dollars. It’s just starting.”
You and Dave eye the fluorescent pink announcement as Lisa walks to the far end of the bar. When she comes back, she throws down a song list onto the bar in front of the two of you. “Let’s see what you’re made of, boys.”
If you want to sing, read on here.
If you don’t want to sing, read on here.
“I’m gonna stay with them,” you say.
“Good luck, Mademoiselle.” Peter shrugs. “Little Pierre is boarding the first train out of Freaksville. See you later, guys.”
Now it’s just you and Mark. Oh, and Jay. If there was only some way you could get rid of this guy, you’re sure you could be tonsil to tonsil with Mark—at the very least—before the night is over. Maybe you can just get him so drunk that he has to leave.
As if on cue, a girl approaches and hands each of you a piece of paper advertising a promotion for Slaughter, a new brand of vodka, at a bar called Swifty O’Shea’s.
“This is the kind of thing I came back to town for!” Jay bellows.
“This is the kind of thing that made you leave town in the first place,” says Mark cautiously. “Jay and cheap vodka; I’ve had nightmares about scenarios like this.”
But there’s no talking Jay out of it, and with some coaxing from you, Mark is persuaded to give the bar a try. You hail a taxi and make for Swifty’s. Deciding it’s time to make your intentions clear, you take advantage of the backseat of the cab and put your hand on his leg. Thankfully he takes the hint and you kiss … you hardly notice when the taxi comes to a halt, and Jay coughs noisily, your signal to break it up.
Swifty’s is swarming with an eclectic mix of college kids, wanna-be bohemian types, and several older men who are pretending not to be married. Jay locates a couple of stools at the bar and orders a round—the vodka is being served straight, in fairly generous quantities, so you vow just to have one to keep the others company, then you’ll ease off for the night. Don’t want to get so drunk that you won’t remember the highlights of later on.
But then Mark orders a round, and it’d be rude to refuse. You realize you’re getting a little drunker than planned when you drag him up to dance during a Billie Holiday song, but, you reason, there’s nothing wrong with dancing in a bar, is there? Then, of course, it’s your turn to buy a round. One more, what the hell. Jay still looks pretty sober. Mark must be drunk though—he’s leaning against you for support. Or at least, you thought he was leaning against you, but then you discover that you’re clutching his collar. You let go, and … ouch, they should get a carpet in this place. Someone falling to the floor could really hurt themselves. It seems imperative that you relay this bit of information to the staff, so you stagger back to your feet and lean over the bar.
“Hey, bartending pershon. You there. Should get carpet. Floor. Hurt knees.” Strangely, he seems to be deliberately ignoring you. Oh well. You need to go to the bathroom anyway.
The next thing you know, you’re waking up in an unfamiliar room, with sunlight pouring through a slit in the curtains and boring right into your skull. Ow. You have no recollection of what happened after that third drink, although, turning your head warily to the side, you realize that it must have been something pretty good. Because Mark is lying beside you. It’s a shame you don’t remember what happened, but there’s bound to be other nights. Maybe even a little action this morning, if you can quench this hangover.
Mark’s eyes open slowly and he turns to you and grins. “Hey, babe,” he says softly. “I had a great time last night. Thanks for being so understanding.”
“No problem.” Understanding? You have no idea what he’s talking about. Still, you slink over and run your hand down his body and feel … and feel … something very familiar. The underwear you were wearing last night. On him.
“Hey, I was wondering,” he whispers, “can I borrow that shirt you were wearing last night?”
The End
You and Lisa cross the street to look for a cab going in the right direction. “You know,” Lisa says, stepping up behind you as you watch the oncoming traffic. “We don’t have to meet up with those guys.” She kisses the back of your neck and reaches for your crotch just as the feel of her ample breasts pressed against you starts to have an effect again.
“We really should,” you say, removing her hand semireluctantly.
“Well, in that case, can we at least s
top at my apartment? I need to change out of these shoes. They’re new. I shouldn’t have worn them. They’re killing me.”
You hail a cab, get in, and spend most of the ride making out. In front of Lisa’s apartment building you contemplate waiting in the cab so you have an excuse not to go in. After all, the point of this evening was to get Sadie, not Lisa.
If you wait in the cab, read on here.
If you go in with Lisa, read on here.
You like Mark. You like him a great deal. Part of you would like to throw him down on one of these pristine new couches and shag him senseless. But let’s face it, you never envisaged lazy Sunday mornings spent lying in bed together, both of you choosing your lingerie from the new Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Um, Mark, I think I’ll skip the party. I’ll see you around,” you say.
“Okay,” he says. “It was good to see you. I guess this was a little much to dump on someone you hardly know. See you,” and he kisses you on the cheek before ambling over to the door. Jay gives a sympathetic shrug and follows him.
Peter puts an arm around your shoulders. “Sorry, baby. I should have seen it coming. Far too much Liza Minnelli on the jukebox. Let’s go to McCormick’s.”
McCormick’s is uncomfortably crowded. Huddled around the bar is what looks like the entire Irish rugby squad. Nick and Suzy are nowhere to be seen.
All of a sudden you start to feel queasy. Maybe it’s due to the heat in here. Or maybe the Mexican food you just had. Of course, it could, just conceivably, be the variety of alcohol you’ve been pouring down your throat all night. Funny how that’s always the last explanation on the list. You barge your way through the throng and make it to the toilet just as someone is vacating one of the stalls. With a hasty “Scuse me” to the woman waiting in line, you rush in and throw up. It’s a spectacular, volatile, and impressively Technicolor burst of vomit, most of which, thankfully, lands in the bowl.
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