Kitchens in Ireland are crazy...
I look around. I think I know where I am. Ok, I tell myself. I know where I am. I am in Ireland. I just smoked an illegal substance out of a two-liter coke bottle. Kathleen is downstairs, kissing some boy with a snaggle tooth. I just walked in on an Australian man pissing himself. A man named Happy Fun Dave just dropped his pants and showed me his Prince Albert.
There is a woman banging on the door. She is yelling. She is yelling something in Spanish. Wait, she is saying something in French. She is saying something about a menage a trois.
She wants to have a menage a trois.
My head aches, I am still on New York time, and I have been awake for over thirty hours. I wish she would stop yelling.
I am trying to figure out exactly where I am. I in the country of Ireland. I am in the city of Dublin. I am at a bar and then I am in a home and then I am in the kitchen, because Kathleen is in the only bedroom getting a hickey with a snaggle tooth imprint. The kitchen is dimly lit, with black and white tiles. There is the milk, there are the eggs, and there is J.B.
J.B is donning the ever-popular European mullet. He is tall, slender and blond, with hair plastered tight to his scalp. I can barely understand him when he talks, but occasionally I hear him mumble something about foreign policy. I label him the Shy Quiet Intellectual. “Et tu, Brute?” is tattooed across his arm, which he has now placed upon my leg.
I sit on the table.
“So, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m in retail,” he replies, leaning closer.
“What do you sell?”
I kiss him. It is amazing how an Irish accent makes everything sound so sexy. The man could tell me he wanted to turn my kidney into pie and I would swoon.
He throws himself on top of me on the counter, but then the milk spills so then I am propped against the wall. I am against the refrigerator. I am on the floor. I am on the stove (in retrospect this last one is a terrible idea and I wouldn't recommend under any circumstances, it could really end badly and I would never want anyone to have to explain such unfortunate burns).
I am getting sober.
Sober, I am really questioning this idea, particularly when J.B. takes out a "Johnny."
Ummmm..hmmmm..soo...” I begin, preparing the, “ I am not going to have sex with you” speech.
In the background, the Spanish lady moans.
“I am not going to have sex with you,” I tell him.
“Why?” he asks.
“I’m a virgin,” I reply.
“A what?” the response registers, slowly, and suddenly he is reaching for his clothes, pulling on pants and shirt and shoes and socks. He is moving so fast I look around for smoke or a small fire. He goes towards the door, leaving me half naked on the table.
“Where are you going so quickly? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never been with a girl who respects herself. I don’t know what to do,” he states, shaking his head.
Turning the knob, he steps over Drunken Passed Out Spanish Woman and walks down the stairs.