You know how you get drunk and start thinking that you have the sexual prowess of a porn star, before deciding to try acting on it and discovering that, actually, you don’t? I put this to the male members of the Bar None’s quorum of intellect, since they’re the ones most likely to try it on with the females in the joint…. it’s a broad generalization, I know, but are you really going to argue the point? It’s my experience that alcohol makes men randy, and women flirty – there’s a subtle difference I’ll get to in a moment; we all know a randy drunk man experience, right girls? Let’s face it: men, when pissed, think they have a 12-inch penis and a body like The Situation. Girls, though, tend to follow the example set by Cyndi Lauper: the Before looks stunningly hot, sexy and sultry, the kind of woman most men would lust after – the After looks like a cross between Sid Vicious and Sid Haig, a laugh like Fran Drescher on helium, and an exhibitionism mandate that makes Graham Norton look like a choirboy. Which is why Beer Goggles are a great invention.
From the Juiced Box: Kevin Bloody Wilson – Do You F*** On First Dates?
Beer goggles are often blamed for a multitude of facepalm moments The Morning After, as you roll off the bed and try escaping the clutches of whichever fat-best-friend you slutted yourself with to get into the panties of the girl you’re really into. Alcohol makes the brain process images in a different kind of way: the ugliest, fattest, most socially repugnant member of the opposite sex is suddenly transformed into (at least) an option for copulation, if not an outright certainty. Thoughts along the “well, he/she isn’t that bad lookin’” line start to bubble up, and before long, you’re playing tonsil hockey with somebody who looks like they’ve eaten a herd of cows. The speed at which this occurs is directly proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed.
All of which leads me to the topic of this post: the inexplicably amusing concept of Drunk Sex, and the journey we all take along the pathway to it. Most consenting adults have tried it at some stage, with varying degrees of success. Men find alcoholic courage allows them to try it on with a woman, bypassing the social conventions of meeting and getting to know a woman before trying to sleep with her. Women, on the other hand, get all flirty by steadfastly refuse to put out: drunk women are, frankly, a sexual pain in the ass. In every way imaginable. Most of the time, when the clothing becomes less restrictive, and more bare flesh is shown, and the louder the laugh and the wobblier the walk, the less inclined the womenfolk are to let a man…. well, you know. It’s my experience that woman become a giant prick-tease after they’ve had a skin full. It’s frustrating as all hell for the men, who’re only trying to do the most natural thing in the world by screwing their brains out in an orgy of lust and sexual release – like two positives, drunk women and men will almost always repel each other.
That being said, there are exceptions. On the occasion when two people manage to get themselves into the position (ahem) of being intimate with each other, and both said people are a little hammered (or blind drunk, whichever you prefer), the act of procreation becomes something of a routine the likes of which will never make it onto Comedy Central. Limbs thrashing, sweaty skin and the slo-motion fumbling which feels like Basic Instinct but looks more like Showgirls, Drunk Sex is like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole. The man usually has a lack of ability to maintain his erection, and the woman is breathing so heavy the curtains threaten to open by themselves and expose all the goings-on to the rest of the world. Neither wants to admit they’re unable to enjoy themselves because they’re concentrating so hard on being the Perfect Lover and being not-quite-so-pissed, the sexiness of the fantasy is replaced with the cold, limp realization that sex whilst drunk is an event so replete with ineptitude it’s never gonna get a look in at the Olympics. So after the man fails to satisfy the woman, or himself for that matter, and both of them collapse on the bed/floor/pavement in an exhausted pretense of being “finished”, one of them will invariably mention the concept of “spooning”, and so they both fall into a slumber with the aforementioned unfinished business a rapidly evaporating memory.
However, the real belly-laughs come from The Morning After, when both parties awake to find that the person they thought was quite hot and sexy the night before, actually looks like a reject from Hoarders. The Lauren Hutton gap-toothed look you thought was modern and chic the night before is actually a Redneck-style cigarette-caused tooth decay miasma of proportions not seen since Faces Of Meth. If both parties wake up at the same time, that uncomfortable awkwardness of the realization usually results in a conversation along the lines of:
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“In the morning?”
“I have to get to work.”
“I have to get to work. I’ll call you.”
Hurried location of clothing, buttons half left undone, then a swiftly written fake phone number, a pause by the door to look back longingly (which is actually a mental note never to drink and fuck again), and scarper to wherever it was you think you left the car.
That’s if both parties wake at the same time.
The alternative is one of them (preferably you) wakes first, and notices the harridan next to them has breath that could chemically castrate a Catholic priest, looks like a small moon just crashed into the Earth, has a physical deformity they thought was sexually exciting less than 12 hours ago, and desperately tries to extricate themselves before the other party wakes. There’s no phone number left, often not even any kind of evidence at all that you were there save a skid mark on the sheets or a used condom wrapper (with the condom often still inside, because Ansell are bastards at making condoms fucking impossible to get up and running when your fingers feel like tree trunks) lying embarrassingly in the middle of the floor.
I can’t claim to have ever been in that situation, mind you. I’ve only garnered this opinion from what I’ve seen on television, read about thanks to tabloid journalism (yay the British press!) or seen happen to friends I’ve known through the years. I did try a drunken session with my wife once…. so I avoided the unpleasant Beer Goggles in the Bar scenario, but since she was sober it made for a less-than-satisfactory performance that evening, let me tell you. No, I don’t mind admitting it. Drunken Sex is funny to watch, but not that funny to go through personally. It can be a debilitating ego-killer, and it can get very, very messy. Sex should be messy in a good way, not in a drunken spewgasm after fornicating like two morphine addicted elderly folks trying to copulate over a zimmer frame: the sweaty, sheet ripping, pillow destroying, Lady Gaga-styled antics of a normal session in the bedroom should involve almost complete recall of the event, not a blank stare when mention is made of it around the water cooler the next morning.
Just remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a hot night of passion with some wanton drunken skank you just met – even at The Bar None – drunken sex can be a vile, life-altering experience from which there is no forgetting the horror of – gasp – the morning after.