A couple weeks back, The Boyfriend™ went out of town for his annual Guys Weekend. It’s just what it sounds like: all his buddies get together for a couple days and escape the castration usually imposed on them by, well, civilization. That means no women around to tell them what to do like, “You can’t cook steak every night because a) it’ll make me fat, and b) your cholesterol is sky high.” Or “Stop drinking because I don’t want you rolling over and vomiting on me in the middle of the night.” You know, the sensible things.
That left me with a free, quiet Weekend where I didn’t have to put out for two days. So what did I do? NOT PLAY VIDEO GAMES BECAUSE SOMEONE TOOK THE X-BOX WITH HIM TO PALM SPRINGS. That's what.
Instead, I got together with my gal pal, Laura, whose boyfriend was also attending Guys Weekend, and we decided to hit a new bar that opened up a couple miles away. Where I could play darts. I’d heard it was a very interactive game. Right up there with Red Dead Redemption. Yup. Just as thrilling…put a dart in something other than the board, I swear to god…like my own carotid artery…
But before Laura arrived, I needed to ease the pain of my loneliness (The Faxman, we WILL finish that game of Borderlands, I promise). It’s always a good idea to start drinking alone, so I sorted through this crate of wine The Boyfriend™ and I had brought back from a vacation last year. Then I texted him: “Laura’s coming over. Mind if I open the Oregon rosé? I’ll send video if we get it on.”
If you hadn’t noticed, I’m pretty tongue-in-cheek. Or sarcastic. Or a bitch. Whatever you want to call the attribute I possess that makes me say outrageous things I never really mean. You know this. I know this. The Boyfriend™ knows this.
Except possibly when he’s drunk.
His reply: YES!!!!!!! Drink anything u want but the jinny walker blue!
I am Scottish, which means I’m a raucous drunk––but a raucous drunk with standards. I would never drink Johnny Walker Blue in the first place, so he had nothing to Fear (oh Macallan, how I love thee). What I had to fear, however, was that The Boyfriend™ was drunk and possibly thought I was serious about, well, you know…videotaping myself with another girl.
Wait, videotaping? Who uses video anymore? Recording? OK but that’s not very specific. Maybe digitally recording?
OK there we go.
What I had to fear was that The Boyfriend™––at that very moment––might actually expect me to produce a digital recording of me participating in girl-on-girl action with one of his best friends’ Girlfriend. Because, dude, boyfriend’s a lightweight. In one hour, he’d had “Two tequila shots. One mi tai and one margahrita.”
Blink.
Moving on...
Laura arrived. We had a glass each of the rosé and headed out to dinner. My iPhone chimed: “Naked pictures kiss.”
Uh did he mean me or him? Because one was not going to happen, and I prayed the other would never happen. After all, when you considered the circumstances, I doubted it would just be him in the pictures. Even as I write this, I’m still shivering in horror.
Drunken texts continued. “Boobs. And with Laura. Double boobs.”
And: “Giddity giddity.”
Finally I reply (with some snarkiness from Laura): “We’re gonna have a pillow fight.”
I'm thinking Doris Day. He's thinking Jenna Jameson.
“Naked?”
Laura feeds me another line: “Does liquid latex count?”
“Yes!!!! Double boobs.”
The next morning, there was no mention of anything. He’d still been sober enough to understand that I was purely in jest. I mean, my god, could you imagine the shit storm that would cause? The boys go away for a weekend so the girls hook up? Yes, it’s many a-man’s fantasy, but in reality, wouldn’t you come back horrified to find out that either your girlfriend had cheated on you with another girl, or you had actually––stupidly––chosen bros before hos and missed out on what could’ve been a ménage? But no matter what, I saw it as cheating, through and through. And worse yet, not with some random girl picked up at a bar, but with a friend’s girlfriend. You’d think a man would question himself after something like that: Didn’t I love her enough? Didn’t I give her everything she wanted and needed? Can a strap on really replace my dick? I mean, I’d be a wreck if The Boyfriend™ ran off with another man––but at least then I could stop getting waxed.
When he returned Sunday, we went to dinner. “So no naked pillow fights?” he asked.
“Naw, you know me,” I laughed.
He looked a bit sad. “I’m disappointed.”
“Honey, I’d never cheat on you!”
The Boyfriend™ looked at me incredulously. “That’s not cheating as long as you have video. Or pictures. Or at least really, really specific details.”
I’m quite skeptical. “So I can go pick up a girl at a bar and do her and you’re cool with it.”
“No! I'm not!” he gasps. “I meant Laura. Laura’s not cheating.”
This post first appeared on The Carnivalesque Life Of Christie, please read the originial post: here
