Your best friends in the world are gathered around you at your favorite local bar. You’ve known these grimy sons of bitches since high school and the military. You love and care for them, yet you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each other’s occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging—whether it’s random sluts and/or trophy wives—is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend who’s off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do there—math and jerking off to hentai?
You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. That shot either goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world-class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world-class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion because you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.
You start swapping stories. The first guy tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double-penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guy’s nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a Jewish American Princess. The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into a fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him, and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.
You struggle to breathe from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms. It’s your turn to order round number six. You cross the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lavalife. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, you see a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head—not the glorious gravity-defying sort, the nipples-touching-her-knees type. Her definition of “slightly chubby” meant 300+ pounds, and “curvy” meant looking like Jabba the Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to the basement. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. “Maybe I can get a blowjob,” you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is from a salty sandwich and not another man’s semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off to expose nipples the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up and reveal an abyss. You stare blankly as the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out of the motel.
Your friends hang on to every word of your epic, making sounds in disgust and laughing at the key points. They laugh at you while you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. As the night wears on and more stories are exchanged, you all start scouting and approaching chicks. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh, well. It can’t get you down; you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this: the shit-talking, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and forgetting your real life, at least for tonight.