Tag: alcohol

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Those Damn Tables

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I recently read about the importance of pattern recognition when assessing the past.  Breaking those patterns down and utilizing what I’ve learned to avoid making the same mistakes in the future.  Here’s how I applied those principles on a recent trip to Vegas.

I landed in Vegas at 8:30 PM on the Friday before Memorial Day.  I’m normally not the biggest fan of Vegas.  On my flight I spent time thinking about why I didn’t like Vegas.  What mistakes I have made there in the past and what I needed to avoid.

I had been complaining about “having” to go to Vegas for the past two weeks.  Then I realized how lame that sounded.  I should be thankful I was able to get away from Philly and do something different and possibly exciting.  Many others aren’t as fortunate.

I’ve had rather bad luck in Vegas.  Especially when it comes to gambling.  I’m an addict so anything that feeds that side of me I love/hate.  I lose myself in the bright lights and loud noises.  Delusions of grandeur dance in my head.  I dream about sitting down at a blackjack table and walking out with all my financial problems solved.  Normally the complete opposite occurs.

The best part about Vegas is that you can be whoever the hell you want to be out here.  No one knows you.  Everyone lies.  I listen to their stories, nod my head and smile.  It’s almost as if they are speaking in a foreign language.

I’m trying to figure out the story I will tell people as I write.  Most people in Vegas want to assume I’m an MMA fighter because I’m in shape and covered in tattoos.  Ten years ago I would have gone along with that story.  Today a real MMA fighter might overhear what I’m saying and call me out and embarrass me.  I have to be careful.

Maybe I want to be pilot or an explorer.  Who knows.  No one truly cares out there.  We are all working off the same time table.  We all just want fun stories to tell our friends about when we get home.

My first night I had an issue checking into my room.  I had about 3 hours to kill until I could check in so I ate and hit the tables for 30 minutes.  In those 30 minutes I lost $1000.

The next day I woke up early, hit the gym, went to the buffet and got ready for the pool party at Marquee.  My friend and I got there around 1:45.  Just the two of us.  I wasn’t sure how it was going to pan out because he’s not always the most social guy and sometimes neither am I.

I made the judgment call to start out double-fisting drinks.  It paid off in spades.  Before long I was dancing around while Benny Benassi was spinning.  Girls were everywhere.  All seemed well with the world.

As the day party was winding down I had picked up a 22 year old girl.  She was ready to come back to my room when my friend said some things that made her uncomfortable.  She left and told me to call her later.  He claimed he was doing me a huge favor.  I said she was a hard 6, he said she was 3-4 at best.

We went back to the buffet, stuffed our faces, crashed a nice dinner two British girls were having, got drugs and went back to our room.  I was getting tired waiting to go out for the night.  To pass the time I took a pill of something called Sassafras (it’s similar to Molly).  I had never tried it before, but it was lovely to say the least.

A few girls I knew from California met us at XS that night.  Avici was spinning there. I was out of my head.  At one point I was pretty sure I was having a religious experience while we were dancing as confetti and smoke were flying everywhere.  I witnessed Chuck Lidell’s first Dj’ing appearance.  If I wasn’t having a hallucination, I realized it was time to go home.

My friends were pretty pissed at me because I didn’t  bring the California girls back with me.  But I was too fucked up. My dick wouldn’t have worked. Plus it’s wasn’t my fault they cant close the deal on their own.

IMG_7838I woke up the next morning feeling horrible.  After a freezing cold shower and popping another pill of Sassafras I was ready to roll.  We headed to Wet Republic and the shit show commenced.

A girl I always wanted to sleep with in college met me there.  We got hammered and hooked up.  I didn’t show up for my flight that night and had to book a new flight in the morning.

I had an amazing time in Vegas.  I met some great people and made amazing memories.  I did the exact opposite of almost every other trip to Vegas and It worked out for the best.  I stayed away from gambling other than the first night.  I had zero expectations of how my days would go or what I wanted to accomplish.  I removed the giant stick I normally have crammed so far up my ass.  When I met new people I was open to taking them at face value and not projecting my insecurities on them.  I enjoyed myself in the moment.

 

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Cops Hate Pit Beef

“I’m really not going to drink much today.”

I spoke those famous last words around noon on St. Patrick’s Day in 2005.

I was working in sales for a fortune 100 company at the time.  Since our region was above plan at that point in the year we all left work before lunch and headed out in Baltimore to partake in the St Paddy’s day festivities.

CantonSquareScunnyTributeWe went to Canton Square, which is an area in Baltimore with bars up and down both sides of the street.  It was jammed packed with people and the lines for the bars were very long.  Even before noon.

A friend of mine was bartending at the bar we went to.  As soon as I saw him I ordered drinks and shots for everyone.  It was on the company tab so I ordered several rounds.

About an hour after getting there I was struggling to keep it together.  I don’t know how many shots and drinks I had in that hour.  But I’m pretty sure it was too many.

My memory of the next 2-3 hours is pretty foggy.  This was during a period of my life where I blacked out about 50% of the times I drank.

Apparently I left the bar around 3:30 in the afternoon (My memory about the day kicks back in around this time). I found myself sitting on a bench in the middle of Canton Square eating a pit beef sandwich.  There were cops out everywhere patrolling the area to make sure drunk people, like myself, weren’t causing too much trouble.

One police officer rode past me on his bike while I was sitting on the bench.  I decided it would be a good idea to throw the rest of my pit beef sandwich at him.  The sandwich bounced off his bike helmet and he stopped immediately.  He looked around for what hit him and who had thrown it.

Unfortunately for me, my St. Paddy’s day shenanigans captured the attention of another cop who watched the whole incident unfold.  He quickly rushed up to me and pulled me off the bench.  He informed the other officer what I had done.  They weren’t very pleased with me to say the least.

They put me in handcuffs and escorted me through the square in front of thousands of people.  Including several of my co-workers.  That was fun explaining on Monday morning.

I kept asking the officers why they were detaining me.  “What did I do wrong?”  They told me I was going to jail for assaulting an officer.  My only reply was, “With a pit beef sandwich.”  This reply was met with an even greater level of contempt for me.

They threw me in the back of the police car and were about to take me to lock up for the night.  Fortunately for me, a more serious situation arose that needed their attention.  They released me with a criminal citation and told me to go home.

The mile or so that I  stumbled back to my house was brutal.  I’m not sure why I didn’t take a cab.  I tripped over a curb, smashed my chin off the ground and bled for the rest of the walk.

I woke up the next morning to find the criminal citation on my nightstand.  It was all crumbled up and I couldn’t quite make out what it said.  However, I did recognize the words “Pit Beef Sandwich.”

I ended up having to hire a lawyer and go to court for the incident.  Luckily for me The criminal citation had the wrong statute number on it and the DA didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting it changed.  My lawyer squared things away and all the charges were dropped.

 

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I Have A Dick On My Face, Don’t I?

I was nursing one of the most ungodly hangovers I’ve ever had in my life, on a bus full of relative strangers, on our way to Chamonix, France.  The night before in Amsterdam had been a complete shit show.  I wanted to sleep but I felt too sick.

A group of us gathered together in the back of the bus to play a game of Who Am I.  The way the game works is that everyone writes the name of someone famous on a post-it note and sticks it to someone else’s forehead.  The person playing can’t see the name on the post-it.  They ask the group yes or no questions to try and figure out who they are.  It was super fun and it took my mind off the fact my body felt like it was shutting down from all the abuse the night prior.

After about an hour of playing I couldn’t handle it anymore.  My hangover had gotten the best of me.  I had to get some rest.  I fell asleep.  When I woke up we had arrived at our hotel in Chamonix.

I got off the bus, grabbed my bags and entered the hotel.  I checked in with the hotel clerk and made my way to the elevator.   I was still a little out of it from my nap.  But I started to notice people were staring at me as I walked by.  I didn’t pay too much attention to it.  The only thing I could think about was getting to my room and laying down.

As I got to the elevator in the lobby I saw my reflection in the steel door.  I now knew why I was getting funny looks from other hotel guests.  Thick, veiny, glorious dicks shooting jizz had been drawn all over my forehead, cheeks and chin in permanent marker.

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I turned and looked at my bus-mates as they broke into laughter.  I wanted to be mad but I couldn’t.  I was in hysterics, laughing at the massive dicks all over my face.  These assholes managed to draw all over me while I was passed out on the bus without me waking up.

Getting the dicks off my face was a huge pain in the ass.  Since they used permanent marker it became a huge ordeal. By the time I was done scrubbing my face with soap and rubbing alcohol I had pretty much forgotten about my hangover.

The part that really got me about this whole situation was the hotel clerk.  It was as if he was used to seeing people with dicks on their face come into the hotel.  He didn’t bat and eye or even smirk as he checked me in.  Nor did he bother to help me out and mention what was all over my face. Which I feel is kind of fucked up.  He just went about his day like business as usual.

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The Opportunity Costs of Life

Every action we take in life has a cost.  The currency we pay in may be time, money, health, sanity or relationships.  Most people never think about this until they get a little older in life and reflect back on past years. They come to the understanding that all of their actions have put them in their current situation; whether it’s fortuitous or tumultuous.

Every choice we make takes away from another opportunity that could have been.  Sometimes the costs are so great that looking back on them drums up great pain in our souls.  For the intelligent, wise, or possibly just lucky; their opportunity costs have been low. They have lived their lives in a very fruitful manner where the gains have exceeded their losses.

I struggle with judging the costs of my actions and how they affected my life.  At a cursory glance I immediately think I paid a heavy price.  I have made decisions with my life that have been very costly to my health and well-being.  My lifestyle, career choices and rampant drug use and abuse throughout much of my life has had a profound impact on my present situation.

I’m fortunate to be as healthy as I am.  I’ve done a massive amount of damage to my body and been lucky enough to avoid extremely serious issues.  I believe these were bumps in the road that God or the universe has thrown in my way to wake me up and correct the path I was on.

Five to six years ago I was using coke and painkillers very heavily.  I also drank and used steroids.  During this time I contracted a virus that attacked my heart and I was hospitalized.

After a couple days at the hospital I was diagnosed with a viral cardiomyopathy.  The doctors were uncertain whether my heart would get back to normal, stay the same or get worse.  They covered all the possible options with their amazingly vague prognosis.

Over the next two years my heart recovered.  I was on ACE inhibitors and beta blockers to control my blood pressure and hopefully prevent my heart from further damage.  I never stopped using opiates, even while in the hospital.  Two weeks out of the hospital I was back in the gym. Three to Four months after that I was back on a low dose of steroids.  A couple weeks after starting back on steroids I was using coke again.

My bill for that life experience was rather steep.  However, without batting an eye, I continued on the road I was on.  They say pain is the cornerstone of growth and change.   For much of my life the pain had to become unbearable for me to make changes.

Less than a year after my cardiomyopathy I ended up in rehab for the second time in my life.  I was clean and sober for about 6 months.  I met a ton of good people in the program.  I learned valuable tools and truths about life that I will never forget.

Unfortunately, I didn’t always put these tools to use.  Once I stopped going to meetings I was back to using pretty quickly.   Then, for some reason I just decided I couldn’t use coke anymore.  I hated it and what it had done to my life.  I just got to a point where enough was enough and I couldn’t stand the pain any longer.  On the 4th of July in 2012 I quit using cocaine and have not used it to this day.

I continued to use low doses of steroids until the summer of 2013, when I was 33.  I always looked at steroids as being rather benign, unless you use absurd physiological doses.  Even after what I am about to tell you, I still have that opinion of testosterone in small dosages.

I had just gotten back together with my ex girlfriend.  We spent the majority of the summer at her parent’s beach house.  I wasn’t using pain killers or coke.   I was in love with the woman I thought I would marry.  I was preparing to quit my illegitimate business ventures and I had plenty of money. Life was pretty damn great.

Then I started having some pain in the lower right side of my abdomen.  My doctor thought it could be a hernia so he sent me for CT scan.   I was at my ex’s beach house eating dinner with her when I received a life changing phone call from my doctor.  He told me the scan showed I had two pool ball size lesions on my liver that were more than likely Hepatocellular Carcinomas (Liver cancer).

I went through a gamut of tests over the next couple of weeks.  Including several liver biopsies, which were possibly the most physically painful experiences of my life.  When all the smoke cleared I had gotten lucky again.  The lesions turned out to be Hepatic Adenomas.  The doctors diagnosed my steroid use as the cause for these lesions.

I begrudgingly stopped using steroids when I first got the news that it could be cancer. I lost a good deal of my size, my dick didn’t work right for 6 months, and mentally I was a wreck.  I started using painkillers again during this time and ultimately my actions from that point on cost me my relationship.

Looking back on how I handled these changes I feel very foolish and ungrateful.  I had just been giving a new chance at life being told I did NOT have liver cancer.  I had the opportunity to move to a new area with my girlfriend and her son and start a new life.  I had given up my previous life, without having to go to jail.  I had saved up more than enough money to live off of for several years. But I couldn’t see past the pain of the change.

I decided to choose being stuck.  I was sulking and trying to bring back the past instead of looking towards the future and being open about the possibilities.  I lost two people I loved and a future I hoped for in this process.  It was a heavy price I had to pay for the choices I made.

It’s easy for me to see what my actions have cost me.  It’s much more difficult for me express gratitude for all of the lessons life has taught me that I never wanted to learn.  I have lived an awful lot in my 35 years.  I have done and seen things the majority of people I know have not. I have the ability to enjoy my life with many comforts that I take for granted.  I am able to learn, grow and start over with a new found self.  I have friends and family that love me despite my actions.

My life has lead me to this point where I’m comfortable enough with myself to share my experiences.  I have faith that my words may resonate with others and help them choose life.  That I can create a better world for myself and those around me.

If I had never have paid these opportunity costs in pain, I wouldn’t be where I am today.  I may never have felt this sense of purpose in my life.  I have so much good surrounding me.  Good I may never have discovered had I not made decisions that took me to a point that I had no choice but to make a change.

Life changes.  The reality is the only way to be comfortable is to accept change.  Stop fighting the old and looking for comfort.  Nothing ever stays the same.  People go in and out of our lives.  We change jobs.  Our looks change.  Feelings change.  The only constant in life is change.  Embrace the change.

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Why Everyone Should Experience College

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Whatever happened to “go to school and get an education?”  Lately I hear so many people trying to influence kids NOT to go to college.  When I was growing up it was the complete opposite. The arguments I hear most often for not going to college:

  1. Huge Student loans
  2. Anything you learn in college you can learn on your own
  3. Opportunity cost of time spent in college vs. time spent working
  4. Kids are coming out of college struggling to find jobs because they majored in fields that are outdated or no longer exist

I’ve been in conversations where I’ve said I could’ve used the five  years I spent in school better by learning and building a business on my own.  But that’s not reality, at least for me.  I’m thankful I went to college.  If I could go back and change my decision I wouldn’t.  I’m not saying I learned a whole lot of useful information in the classroom that bettered my life, but I will say that the experience was invaluable.

I’m not going to argue the financial, or timeline, benefits or detriments of going to college.  I don’t have the facts and figure to write and intelligent and well thought out post based on those topics.  More so, I don’t care to argue those points.  I find them to be boring.  My argument is based solely on the value of my life experience in college.

College is this amazing experiment.  You take all these different people and jam them together in this social/educational setting and see what happens.  Undoubtedly a cluster fuck ensues.  People lose themselves, find themselves, lose their minds, create amazing relationships and end up becoming someone very different than who they started out as.

I’ve heard people say anything you learn in college you can learn on your own.  I agree with this to an extent.  But The fact is most people won’t learn on there own.  They want to be taught.  Its easier to have someone teach you.  People love the easy way.

The majority of people don’t have the drive or know-how to effectively teach themselves new ideas.  Having a teacher helps validate what you have learned.  It’s a structure we have become accustomed to as a culture.  I’m not saying its right or wrong I’m just stating how I see it.

College was five of the best years of my life.  I didn’t always realize it then, but my life was amazing.  I floated through college.  It was a joke for the most part.  I even tried to fail a class during my MBA so I didn’t have to leave.  I wasn’t ready to move on.  Life was too good.

There are lessons you learn in college that I know I would have never learned anywhere else.  I’m not talk about physics or accounting.  I mean amazing and irreplaceable life lessons.  Had I not gone to college I may have never: gotten stabbed, contracted the clap, gotten my car stolen,  gone to terrible frat parties, been known as Naked Guy or met the incredible people who have impacted my life many years in the future.

I learned how to act in uncomfortable social situations.  There’s not much worse than being stuck in a smoldering hot basement with 200 co-eds rubbing sweaty elbows, drinking warm beer and trying to act cool in front of girls.

I learned how to not do wash for weeks on end and still have “clean” clothes.  I learned how to live with the craziest menagerie of people and co-exist.  I learned that with $40 bucks in your pocket you are set for the weekend.  I learned that people love really shitty music, like Phish.

I learned how to sneak 30 packs and beer balls into a dorm at a dry campus.  I learned how much fun $12 worth of shitty alcohol could buy for me and a couple friends.  I learned what the freshman 15 was (The 15 lbs. people tend to gain their first year of college).

I learned how to play Rugby.  I learned Grain makes delicious jungle juice, but shooting it is asking to go to the hospital.  I learned to always wear flip flops into any public shower.  I learned people can actually live off Ramen Noodles and Spam.  I learned Kool Aid and purple drink are mainly sugar.  I learned its incredibly to tell someone to ‘go fuck themselves and their knife’ before you are about to get into a fight with them.  More than likely you will end up getting stabbed, at least in my case.

I wouldn’t give up my college experience for anything.  The actual education I received in the classroom is pretty much worthless.  But my memories are priceless.

I’m not saying everyone needs to graduate college.  But I am saying everyone should go for the experience

 

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KRS’s Drunken Fun Ride into The Cornfield

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My 1989 Chevy Beretta screeched out of the McDonald’s parking lot as the flashing lights followed behind me.  I was 16.  I had just received my drivers license 4 months prior.  I was extremely intoxicated; speeding down side streets in my little suburban town trying to outrun the police chasing me.  I had no seat belt on, but the party ball sitting shotgun was buckled up safely.

I was speeding recklessly.  But I obeyed all other traffic laws.  I stopped at stop signs.   I used my turn signals.  Not the best plan to elude police.

I approached a bend in the road and lost control of my car.  I ended up driving straight into a cornfield.  My car stalled and died.  Luckily no one was injured.

I started to exit my car and the police were on me immediately.  I was struck in the face with a flashlight and slammed to the ground.  The police claimed I was resisting arrest.  At 16 I wasn’t a very menacing looking character.   I was 5’9, 150 lbs and hammer-time drunk.  Drink Beer

When the police searched my car they found some odd items inside.  First, and most obvious was the party ball they found sitting shotgun with a seat belt around it.  Then they found a marine K-bar knife under the passenger seat and pair of nunchucks under the driver side seat.

When they got me to the police station my face was bloody and bruised from the flashlight.  I had brush burns from my chest up to my face and onto my ears from when the police had drug me across the ground.  I cursed out all of the officers using every bit of profanity I knew.

I made a lot of worthless threats about how my father was going to get me out of trouble.  He had zero pull.  I’m not sure why I would even say something like that.  I guess being extremely drunk and having been hit in the head with a flashlight could have had something to do with it.

The police antagonized me and got me to act out more.  I asked them to let me out of the handcuffs so I could wipe the blood off my face, but they refused.  So I spit the blood off my face towards them.

When the police finally drew my blood I had a blood alcohol level of .27.  Almost 3 times the legal limit (Back then it was .10 in Pennsylvania).  I was charged with DUI, eluding police and numerous other offenses.  They wanted to keep me overnight but I was released to my father.

After my father picked me up from the police station he did something very odd.  He took me to a diner to eat at around 2:30-3 in the morning.  We met his degenerate friends who liked to hang out at there all night.  I was bloody, bruised and drunk; and he thought it would be a good idea to go meet his friends.

The next morning I woke up with my face sticking to the pillow.  The blood from my cuts dried to the pillowcase causing me to be glued to it.  I was praying the previous nights events were just a dream.  But they were not!  Facing my family and friends was extremely embarrassing.  Especially showing up to high school with bruises all over my face and everyone knowing what had happened.

In the end I was convicted of DUI, eluding police and resisting arrest.  There were about 12-13 other charges that were dropped. I lost my license for 18 months and was on probation until I graduated high school.  Part of my probation stipulated that I had to attend outpatient counseling for alcoholism.  My parents sold my car to pay for my fines and lawyers fees.

Not driving for the remainder of high school really put a damper on my social life.  I had to constantly bum rides anywhere I wanted to go.  High school wasn’t a shining moment in my life.  My poor choices made it even worse.

 

 

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KRS…Unwanted Party Guest (Part 1)

In my early and mid-teens, I was a very awkward, scrawny and unattractive young man.  Like many at that age I was very obnoxious, disrespectful and sought attention in all the wrong ways.  I was a mediocre athlete for my diminutive size and lack of strength.  Getting bullied by older kids, while bullying those that I could actually scare, was the dichotomy of my daily life.

At 12 years old I started drinking with my friends on the weekends.  Unlike most of my friends I drank quite heavily.  Drinking until I blacked became a regular occurrence.

It started out with my friends and I drinking 40’s on the train tracks and in the woods.  Then It upgraded to party balls, bottles of shitty vodka and SoCo.  The alcohol intensified all of my worst qualities.  That’s when KRS showed up.

KRS was my sauced up, slurring, offensive, drunken alter ego.   My friends gave me this nickname in junior high.  My signature look became a blank stare with nothing going on behind my eyes.   At first they thought it was hysterical when I got that drunk.  They would encourage my behavior just so they would have something to break my balls about later that week.

Whenever we had left over alcohol from the weekend I would always volunteer to hold it for my friends.  When I said hold it, what I really meant was drink it.  Every week I had a different excuse about what happened to the booze.  It got to the point where they would just hid the alcohol outdoors rather than give it to me.

I used to love to drink before my intramural basketball games in high school.  I would show up reeking of liquor.  It would just ooze out of my pours when I would sweat.  All of my friends could smell it on me.  I would be out on the courts drunk as hell, running and gunning, refusing to pass to my teammates.  The first year our team, The Specials, didn’t win a game.

One night I recall (vaguely) drinking the majority of bottle of really shitty vodka.  It was a plastic bottle of Vladimir Vodka if I remember correctly.  The bottle was supposed to be shared among five of us.  I had other plans for it.

binge_npI bounced around that night from party to party drinking cup after cup of Vodka and lemonade.  At one point I found myself asleep in a bush.  By the end of the night I was laying in a friends bath tub projectile vomiting.  I had to be carried out by my arms and legs, down three flights of stair out of his house and into a car.  My head banged off numerous steps on my way out .

As time went on my antics became worse.  My behavior became less appealing to my friends.  Before long I was banned from most parties.  Which meant my friends were banned if they brought me.  It was high school and everyone lived for house parties.  Needless to say my unwelcome status led to me getting dropped by my core group of friends rather quickly.

 

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1 Night in Amsterdam + 1 Cialis = 14 Prostitutes

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Walking into the Red Light District felt like Disney World for degenerates. I couldn’t have been more excited.   I handed my new found Australian friends; Mike and Joe, a liter of Amstel and a Cialis.  We had meet (they were brothers) a couple hours earlier, but a few joints and beers later we were like old pals.

We continued to drink and as I got more polluted I came up with, what I thought, was a great idea.  I made up a competition to see who could have sex with the most prostitutes in one night.  When I presented them with my idea they looked at me and laughed.  I took this as a yes.

Joe was the first to take part in my game. He saw an attractive women in the window.  I could tell he was a little nervous about what he was about to do.  He looked at me with a little smile and said ” I don’t really know if want to spend the money because I cum prematurely mate”.  His brother and I laughed at him until the peer pressure was enough that he agreed to partake in the game.

I cracked a fresh liter of beer as he went into the house.  Mike and I stood outside on the street drinking and talking.  I hadn’t even finished half of my beer when Joe walked out  with his head down.  He was in the house for less than 3 minutes total and had already finished.  His brother and I couldn’t stop laughing at him.

The majority of the events over the next 10-12 hours are a bit blurry for me.  But, there are some part I remember clearly, like my trip to Skinny Alley.  Skinny Alley is exactly what It sounds like.  It was an alley in the Red Light District with barely enough room for people to walk single file in either direction.  Every 12-15 feet there was a doorway with a prostitute standing in it.

As I passed a door I felt a hand grab me and pull me inside a dark room.  When the lights went on I saw one of the most beautiful women I have ever encountered standing in front of me.  She was Portuguese and perfect; other than being a prostitute of course.  She offered me some coke, which I thought was awful nice of her.  Then she said “for you we can do this for 25 Euros.”  That’s less than taking a date out to dinner at a low end restaurant.  I’m not one to pass up a great deal. Free drugs and inexpensive sex with this Portuguese Goddess.  I felt like I was taking advantage of her.

After we had our fun, we did a little more coke and had a couple drinks.  We made small talk.  She asked about my life in the US and said she always want to travel to America.  At one point she hinted at the possibility of coming to visit me.  I took that as my cue to leave.  I gave her my E-mail address and said goodbye.

On my way out, I took a pen from her room and made a mark on my hand.  This was how I kept score for the competition.  It was like tallying votes on a chalk board as a child.

As it turns out, I was the only one competing.  The brothers were long gone. I stumbled around the Red Light District, making mark after mark on my hand.  At one point one of the prostitutes tried to dose me with GHB.  I’m not sure what she had planned for me; but I’m pretty sure it looked something like the movie Hostel.

As the night progressed I became less and less selective with my purchases.  It was a sheer numbers game for me at this point.  There was a very angry and rather large black chick who stole $20 from me.  She gave me a lackluster handjob, which she didn’t even finish.  I had sex with a couple of chicks way past their prime.  Overall, the quantity game caused me to have buyers remorse often.

The sun was starting to come up.  When I looked at my watch I realized I had to be back at my hotel and ready to leave on the bus in less than two hours.  I had no idea where I was in correlation to the hotel.  As I flagged down a taxi a guy bumped into me and tried to grab my Rolex off my wrist.   Thankfully I still had the capacity to defend myself even in my stupor.  I shrugged it off and jumped into the taxi.

Upon arriving at the hotel I went to my room, packed up all my items and headed down to the lobby.  I knew if I went to bed I wouldn’t wake up in time to make the bus and would be left behind. The next thing I remember the tour guide was shaking me to wake me up and asking if I was OK.  I was covered in sweat, sleeping on my suitcase in front of the whole tour group.

I could feel the very judgmental eyes of my fellow travelers burning into my soul.  Joe and Mike were laughing at me and making jokes.  I reached into my pocket to find I had spent about 800 Euros that night.  Then, I looked down at my hand and counted the 14 marks.  I proudly showed the brothers what I had accomplished and claimed victory.

As a side note, I learned that a blue light at a house means they are a dude dressed up as a woman.  Be careful.  I almost found this out the hard way.  No pun intended

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My Roommate in Europe, The Dungeon Master

Ten years ago I took a bus tour through Europe.  Friends of mine were supposed to join me, but they all backed out.  I flew to Europe alone to meet the people I would spend the next two weeks traveling with. The tour started in Amsterdam.  Which meant bad news for making a first impression on my fellow travelers.

The first day in Amsterdam we all met at our hotel.  We were introduced to our tour guide and our roommates. The tour guide explained the trip and the ground rules.  The main rule we had to know was the bus would leave each city at a certain time and place.  If you were not there on time they would leave without you.  It actually happened to several people.  It almost happened to me.

Most people had roommates they knew because they booked the trip with them.  I on the other hand was roomed up with a shy, awkward, creepy Canadian who I called “The Dungeon Master.”   I don’t recall his real name, but the moniker I gave him seemed to fit.  I pictured him living in his parents basement, dressing up, playing Dungeons and Dragons, while hurting small animals.  Eventually, everyone on the trip referred to him as The Dungeon Master.

He never said a whole lot.  I tried to be friendly, but I can be a bit overwhelming.  Minutes after meeting me for the first time, I started a conversation about drinking, smoking weed at the coffee houses and having sex with hookers in the Red Light District.  I was 25 at the time and in Amsterdam so It seemed like pretty normal conversation for the circumstances.  I guess I didn’t gauge his personality quite right.

The Dungeon Master wasn’t a huge fan of mine.  As a matter of fact, he expressed his hatred for me and my antics to anyone who would listen.  He even went as far as to proposition several people about trying to trade me as a roommate.  Unfortunately for him, no one else wanted to deal with me either.

On the last night of the trip the Dungeon Master let loose and got hammer-time drunk.  Two girls we were traveling with thought his behavior was so funny they filmed him.  They started up a conversation by asking him questions about his experience on the trip .  He went off on a tirade ripping into me and telling the girls how horrible it was to be my roommate.  He said having to room with me felt like torture.

Then out of nowhere he switched tracks and dropped a bomb on them.  He went into intimate detail discussing how he had gotten double teamed by a couple of dudes in Amsterdam.  It turned out The Dungeon Master was gay.  He came out of the closet, on film, for the first time.   His hatred for me combined with too much alcohol, allowed him to share his biggest secret with the world.

 

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Scrub and Pray

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As I raced naked into the bathroom with my spray bottle full of alcohol, the regret started to set in. I just had unprotected sex with whatever her name happened to be on that current night.  The afterthoughts of who she was and what she might have started to set in.  But I had a plan in place to keep me safe.

Spraying my balls and shaft heavily with alcohol.  Scrubbing the area really well with a towel.  Then I would go in for the most painful, but most important part.  Opening up my peehole and spraying the alcohol directly inside.  That familiar burn that gave me a nice, false sense of safety and security.  Certainly any disease couldn’t live past my thorough spraying.  Alcohol kills everything.  Right?

The difficult times were when I went back to the girls house and didn’t have my set up ready to roll.  I would be ripping through their bathroom cabinets looking for rubbing alcohol.  Tearing the place apart until I found something I could clean my dick with.

Occasionally I had to improvise and use witch hazel or Dial soap.  I am not sure how well they worked, but I gave it the college try.  I’ve been caught looking for these products and tried to explain my process.  This always made for extremely fun and uncomfortable post sex conversation.

After the scrubbing came the foxhole prayers.  I would get down on my knees in the bathroom and make a pact with God to never have unprotected sex again if he let me get through this last episode unscathed.  I would offer to do some good act as penance for my actions.  I’d think “Just keep me from getting VD and I will make sure to be a good human being from this point on.”  There were several occasions I was pretty sure I was fucked with something incurable.

My friends and I would joke about this method.  Many of them subscribed to the same idea.  One time my foolproof plan failed me.  I got the clap.  I’m not really sure who gave it to me.  However, what I do know is I gave it to 2-3 other girls because I was a giant asshole.  Then I went and got Cipro to clear it up.

One drunken night I stumbled back to one of the girls houses I had shared my gift with and slept with her again.  Jokes on Me!  I stole the clap right the fuck back from her.  Back to the doctor for my second course of Cipro.