CARE FOR A DRINK, MISS?
I like women who do not drink alcohol. At least not on a habitual basis in bars.
By this I do not mean necessarily women who cannot drink – teenagers are sooooo cute when they first realize it makes them redfaced and woozy (PERVERT ALERT!) – but I prefer women who maintain frequent sobriety, and socialize outside of the dank and seedy drinking holes so beloved by me and my ilk.
Bars are a halfway house between work and home. Do not distract me with your feminine intoxication – your femininity can be quite intoxicating enough without the lure of rum.
I bring this up for two reasons:
1. Several coworkers mentioned their favourite alcoholic beverages during lunch – vodka, red wine, white wine, champagne, Midori sour, beer. Only the last one was masculine.
2. Things I remember doing when inebriated.
You do not need any details of the second one, so I shall not mention an obscene proposition to the mother of a drinking buddy back when I was fifteen, or spoiling all chances of a date with a bargirl by barfing into the cookie tin when I was seventeen. The drinking age in Holland is lower than here, in case you didn’t know.
The point is, I know what I was like when drunk in my younger years.
So I quake at the thought of some lady as blotto and as foolish.
If three martinis could make me pass out in the bathroom of a hamburger joint, what would they do to someone who only weighs ninety pounds?
The double gin and tonics that made one night surreal more than twenty years ago? They were strong enough to knock a small person right off her feet. I think they emptied the bottle into my glass that evening, it was a miracle that I got home in one piece. Not at all likely that a nice girl could have managed that.
Celebrating the national flags of Europe with layered drinks? By the time we got to Sweden (blue Curaçao float on top of sweet lemon-licorice liquer, no garnish), I could neither see straight nor sit straight – and I have no recollection of the next two days.
Seriously, I worry about women swilling bottles of champagne at a bar.
It just doesn’t look ladylike once you slide to the floor, and there are some real swine out there.
SECOND PERVERT ALERT!
It is far better that nice young ladies get plotzed in private than in public. You cannot trust the male (or lesbian) stranger not to take advantage of you – unfamiliar people get the most depraved ideas!
At least you know who I am.
When you slump, you'll be in good hands.
If you insist on indulging in strong drink instead of getting zipped to the eyebrows on caffeine, I will be glad to mix you up a cocktail or two. Or three. Or four.
Just let me know.
No, you cannot trust me. Your parents were right about that. But I have whiskey.