I become inebriated enough to still hold a conversation. I don’t know how but somehow I involve myself into a conversation with A or some men. This is when I usually disappear from my group of friends because flirting scientists, like Cosmo, say men are intimidated by a large group of women. As they should be. My main goal is to emphasize but not directly say that “I am not like most girls” just like most girls say. Since we are all unique delicate flowers especially when slurring between stale breaths of beer.
I know I drive the conversation towards academics. I’m a degree-digger even though I have earned zero degrees myself. But this is important to me. It shows some level of commitment and dedication. Most importantly, it can be an indicative of how good or bad a conversation might turn out. However, I try to stay away from Math and Science majors. Of course, I must remember that that’s not always the case and I must remind myself that I am an overgrown loser beaming with potentially amazing conversation that smells like unique and delicate flowers. So I shouldn’t be a drunken snob.
I manage to be charming in my drunken and awkward openness. I strategically place the information about being a lady of the books. I will probably crack a joke about them buying me a drink and they will immediately respond with a just remembered “Oh, yea! What are you drinking?” But I quickly shy away from the offer insisting I was just joking. In return they insist that they know but would still like to buy me a drink. I politely keep saying no and assure them that “It’s ok. I can buy myself a drink” but in a totally cute way of course not all “feminist” like. But I really can’t afford to buy drinks. I work in retail where my hours fluctuate from 30 to 7 hours a week. Sometimes I can’t even afford to drive to work. But they insist because my humor somehow charmed them enough to keep this night going.
On my 4th maybe 5th drink, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t even know the name of the person in front of me. I don’t really care what they have to say about X topic. I just have the biggest urge to get out of the crowd and make out.
Because I don’t really like the person in front of me, because I don’t really care to know them, because I just wanted a free drink to feel pretty, because I will never have daydreams about us, I am bold and in my girl-child voice I suggest we make out. This doesn’t happen often since I don’t go out much but once in a blue moon it happens. And when it happens, I make out under the cigarette smoke woven through the fluorescent lights of gaudy Vegas casinos or the dark driveways of unsuspecting American home owners.
And suddenly I’ll stop because the alcohol is simmering and the rouge of my flushed cheeks is returning to its original pale copper color. It simmers with each prolonged drunken swap of spit that isn’t fun anymore. And suddenly I feel cheap. And suddenly this person is a stranger again. I feel the spit of death and fear and that unbearable moment of clarity like the eye of a hurricane.
I am not like most girls, so why am I acting like it?
All I can do is hope that the suppressed erection inside the strangers pants doesn’t turn into anger. That he’ll walk me safely to my hotel room. That he’ll let me go back to my friends. I can hear my grandmother in my head, “Well, why the hell where you being a whore in the first place?!” I hear my mother asking me what was I doing? I think that I have learned nothing from growing up on obscenely dramatic Hispanic media. That if I end up dead, raped, beat or all three, it will inevitably be my fault since my attitude walks around thinking “that can’t happen to me.”
I go back safely, but death and fear permeate. All I want to do is hear the voice of any of the boys that never liked me and will never like me “like that.”
Because it’s comforting, because I am drunk and stupid, because it’s expected, because I’m a victim of rom-coms as much as I’d like to bury and kill that thought. Because all I know is the struggle to convince a man I am good enough for him. Because I will never be good enough to my father. And all I want to do is call a boy to feel human, to feel like I mean something, anything, if he picks up. And then my soul feels cheap. I prostituted my soul to build up a mans ego. We hang up and I am sober and empty.