“Wine makes me too slutty for gay bars.”

“Oh – and this is work boyfriend Ben. He’s the one taking us to the gay bar this weekend!”

Nothing said to me at work in recent months has caught me so off guard as these uttered by one of my office-mates, introducing her friends who flew in that week from England. Why? Because while I was an active participant in setting these plans in motion, I fully believed that the young, sassy bitches would have forgotten about them entirely (as I did), replacing their Saturday night plans with some that involve more frat boys and fewer drag queens. But no. These bitches weren’t your average harem of party-girls. They were organized, prepared, and committed. By the time I arrived at their townhouse, all six were already dressed and ready to go, looking like Vegas with hair big enough to merit its own social network. That is, they were perfection.

My day started early with some business meetings and then a cross-city tour looking for the ingredients to make my precious signature drink, The Sour V. While that adventure had a tragic end which I’ll get into in a future post, it basically meant me driving all over town, over-caffeinated and blitzed out of my mind from too much Girl Talk. By the time I got out of the car, I was out of breath for no reason and had two hours to pull myself together in time to watch the Christmas parade with my parents. Of course this meant that I would need to be dressed for the gay bar by 4pm so I clearly looked like a lost member of a male stripper troupe where it’s more about overdeveloped personalities than overdeveloped torsos.

What this also meant is that I had breakfast, lunch, and then moved straight into martinis for dinner. It was not a smart choice but it worked for me at the time. I was drunk by five, hungover by seven, drunk again by eight, enthusiastically performing Nicki Minaj verses by nine, and having slurry heart-to-hearts with young, sassy bitches by ten. Basically, I broke most of my rules by the time I even got to their townhouse.

What happened next? Fuck if I know. I know I left an empty pint of vodka on their counter, I know I was drinking out of a seasonal mug, I know I smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I know I still remember every word to How Many Licks, and I know that there was no drama, no fighting, no complaining, no debating the evening’s plans – basically none of the stuff that makes going out with a group of people so damn painful. Which, to be clear, really freed up our time for dance-offs, sing-offs, and hair-teasing. You should try it!

And ohhh sweet Menz Bar. You’re so good to me. From the super sweet guy who takes your cover, to the super hot lesbian who takes your coat, to the super tall drag queen who puts up with slurry conversations you’ll never remember the next day, it’s a place where anything goes and nobodycares. We made best friends with the DJ thus securing a night of Rihanna, Robyn, Britney, Pink, Ke$ha, and any other Top 40 remix that would fuel our three-hour dance party.

The best part? Each of the girls had a line-up of homos waiting to worship their outfits, their obnoxious hair height, and anything else that they touched. I know one girl kept being called the Serena van der Woodsen of Halifax and was wearing someone’s fedora every time I saw her. Another, who happens to be a professionally trained dancer, kept randomly bursting into salsa routines with some guy who managed to keep up with her. And another kept encouraging my incessant need to do a low-grind to any and every song up until the point when we both fell over and she tried to “make it work” by busting out a dance routine whilst flat on her back in the middle of the dance floor.

Beyond that? I have no idea what happened beyond this:

Yeah. Our garbage can doesn’t close anymore. I do appreciate my ability and need to live-tweet my at-home debauchery though although you’ll notice that it stops right before the two-day hangover kicked in. Even still, I can’t even be mad at the aftereffects because I would do it all over again IN A SECOND.

20-year-old Ben is back, bitches, and he’s bringing his a-game.

Except in the drunk facial expression area. I’ve just given up on myself there.