"You had one job. One job! And it didn't involve blueberry pancakes!"

Monday. Back on the wagon day.

True to form, Friday's break from self imposed alcohol abstinence led me to drinks at Bar Tano with friends I hadn't seen a while (ie, Former Fake Girlfriend and her bride to be). I arrived first, so I saddled up to the bar and perused the cocktail menu with a mix of glee and trepidation. I didn't want to set back my new fast and healthy lifestyle, but the liquors were calling to me. Oh yes.

The first cocktail went down rather quickly and by evening's end as we migrated to Commonwealth, I migrated from cocktails to beer. Ms. K joined us after getting off of work, breaking her own fast with rounds of Ketel One and club soda. As it got later and we got progressively more inebriated, she said, "Whatever happens, don't let me eat anything."

Ergo, no giving into the drunk munchies. Roger that.

After our group disbanded for home sometime after midnight, I kinda forgot about the job I had been entrusted with as we passed an all night diner on 5th Avenue. Suddenly I wanted blueberry pancakes stat and quick scan of the menu reveled that they had just that. Mmmmm.

"No! No blueberry pancakes!" Ms. K scolded. "You are SO bad!"

We stood there for a minute, our eyes hooked to the menu, taunted by promises of greasy diner food. I could tell that Ms. K really wanted to go to there.

"C'mon. Let's get pancakes!!" I was no longer the voice of discipline, but the drunken voice of the serpent offering up Eve a plate of blueberry pancakes. Sweet, buttery blueberry pancakes. Mmmmm.

Ms. K looked torn, eyes gazing longingly towards the diner door where late night greasy food beckoned to fill our alcohol soaked bellies. But she then found the discipline that I had so casually jettisoned around the time I ordered my fourth drink.

"No! No pancakes!"

And soon we were in the back of a car on its way to take our drunk asses home before we could do any serious damage.

The next day Ms. K wasn't impressed with my greasy temptation.

"You had one job. One job! And it didn't involve blueberry pancakes!"

No, it didn't. But man, now I want some blueberry pancakes. Mmmmm.

"You are my favorite person to hang out with and have too many drinks."

When I said "suck it" in my previous entry, I did mean that all the love and humility in the world possible. Forgive me, but it's nice to revel in my own good fortune because I can think back to the days of Operation Find The Lesbians and remember every disappointment wrought upon me as I searched the Universe (or rather Brooklyn) for a sane, well adjusted, smart, single lesbian who thought I was pretty and wanted make gingerbread for me. The irony is that I got bisexual Manhattanite, but good goddamn she makes the best margaritas ever. Yes, I shall keep her.

Speaking of margaritas, I had two last night unfortunately. Unfortunately because I had like four glasses of fresh made apple ginger vodka punch, a glass of Chianti, and a whiskey sour previous to these two margaritas. All at home. I don't know what happened, but Ms. K and I started drinking over dinner and then proceeded to blow through the better part of a bottle of Ketel One. Then we started watching episodes of Queer as Folk and Ms. K assailed me with chants of "¡Uno mas!"

One more episode. One more drink.

At one point, after we finished off the punch and after she peer pressured me into switching to margaritas, I slurred to her, "I'm officially seeing double."

That was always my body's way of telling me to switch to water. Message received, body. Loud and clear.

"¡Uno mas!"

Body, I would like to introduce you to Peer Pressure. She's pretty. Oh and there's two of her!

By 2 am (this is a work night, mind you) we dragged our drinks and the laptop into bed to finish watching an episode of The Folk. Ms. K smoked hand rolled cigarettes out the window and I tried not to pass out while clutching my margarita against my chest. The glass was a mess of melting ice cubes, pulpy bits of homemade sour mix, sticky finger prints, and flecks of kosher salt. I must have passed out because I awoke suddenly to the cold spread of a liquid across me -- I had fallen asleep and the glass had rolled out of my hand and into the bed, thankfully missing the laptop. I vaguely remember my ineffectual attempt to clean it up with a dish towel, but I do know that Ms. K and I passed out sometime after 2 am -- she in her clothes and I in my underwear.

Obviously we were both a wreck in the morning. There were mascara smudges under my eyes and face looked waxy. The bed was still soaked with margarita and the dog looked at us with disapproval since he needed to go o-u-t and we were holding up the show. Ms. K curled up in a ball on my side of the bed -- the dry side -- while I attempted to get ready, which involved crashing around a lot. Later, when Ms. K got up to brush her teeth, I found her naked and sitting on top of the closed lid of the toilet. She was moving the tooth brush slowly, dejectedly across her bottom teeth with all the energy she could muster through the hangover. She looked at me all dressed and ready to leave for work and her eyes were plaintive.

"Don't you want to stay home with me so we can be hungover together?" she asked?

"Sorry, honey. I have to go to work. I'm already late."

"Why aren't you in worse shape?!" she remarked with a scowl as I ran down the list of drinks I had had the night previous. My attitude towards mixing alcohols had been so cavalier, so by any right I should have been in worse shape. "You're the old one! You should be hungover more!"

I playfully gave her the finger. "No need to be ugly." And then I gave her a kiss on her toothpaste flecked mouth before leaving for work.

"Rouge . . . I can resist your charm no longer."

Ms. K reminded me, after reading my previous blog entry, that my stimulus money really should be going towards our moving fund. Yes, honey. That's what I had in mind when I said savings. It's nice to know that while I can't fund my money into bolstering a foreign economy let alone my own, I can fund my debaucherous and ungodly lesbian lifestyle. Thanks, George Bush.

But part of me starting fantasizing all the silly, unpractical things I could buy with that money. A case of my favorite bourbon? Summer clothes? A fancy hair cut? A dinner at one of my favorite restaurants? Sex toys? A trip to Amsterdam? Weed?

A girl can dream.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I was poking around my email folders when I found some of the original messages that Ms. K and I exchanged. Her very first words to me on July 7, 2007 were:

"Rouge, as much as I hate to be the girl who emails anonymous bloggers, I can resist your charm no longer. I stumbled across your blog as a result of clicking every hyperlink I was led to today in an effort to put off doing any actual work."

I thought back to all our nervous early email exchanges and our burgeoning courtship through one drunken date after another. Hard to believe that it's almost been a year. Recently Ms. K made an offhand comment that she never wants to leave the city. Although not a new sentiment, this made me smile remembering all the first dates I went on previous to Ms. K and how so many of them had already planned their next move out of the city.

Now I'm thinking such serious things like using my tax stimulus to get an apartment with my girlfriend. I've come a long way since the days of OFAG. And Ms. K has come a long way from her former apartment on the Upper East Side, defecting all the way to The Brooklyn. So much change; change for the good. It might take a lot of hard work, but she and I will get our own place together sometime this summer, continuing something that started from one innocent email exchange.

"Old man, you give those dogs another piece of my food, I'm gonna kick ya till you're dead."

All my talk of bourbon left me in want of a good Manhattan cocktail -- the good Manhattan I was denied on Saturday when a Park Slope bartender served me up an unfortunate shaken concoction of bourbon and sweet vermouth. So last night my roommate Libby and I dipped into the good stuff at home -- Hudson Valley Baby Bourbon -- and polished off the tiny bottle while watching streamed copies on her laptop of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (how apropos for Easter, yes?) and Moonstruck from a Chinese website.

When done properly a Manhattan is like a smoky elixir, dark and complex as it swirls around the glass, and I made sure to add the bitters. Libby agreed with me that a well made Manhattan is hard to come by in the city (unless you got the big bucks to frequent such places as Death & Company, Milk and Honey, or Pegu Club). So we relished the three drinks that each of us had, which probably explains why my head hurts a little this morning.

"Yay! It's a Party About Me!"

Thank you all for birthday wishes. It was definitely the Best Birthday Ever™ and I even dressed up, although my attempts to look like Marie Antoinette on the cheap looked more Harlequin romance cover than 18th century.

Some highlights:

* Getting laid. I think this was the first time I got laid on my birthday since 1998. Fo' reals.

* The birthday cake Ms. K made for me that consisted of Guinness, "a box of butter", chocolate, and other ingredients.

* The alternative birthday cake that Dennise fondly referred to as "donut mountain." Ingredients included Entenmann's donuts held together by cookie dough topped with chocolate frosting, sprinkles, whipped cream, and crushed wafers. Not so much a highlight than a conversation piece. But surprisingly delicious at 3 am whilst drunk.

* Having my house filled with a couple dozen friends of mine, including blogging friends of mine.

* Presents!

* Corset wearing guests!

* The random gay Scottish guy who came with a friend of a friend. He mercifully forgave me with a smile when I tipsily called him Irish, to which I pleaded with apologies that I was not normally such a stupid American. He was like my own personal Alan Cumming and he stayed till the very end of the party.

* Spontaneously running around and singing Hava Nagila. I really don't know what prompted this, but I blame the 4 Calvados sidecars that I had already had by that point. Ms. K thought I was making fun of her people but then I explained that it was something I did, which includes yelling mazal tov when ever someone drops a glass or breaks something.

* The chocolate covered bacon that my friend Meegs made. Not as terrible as it sounds, but Meegs did say that it "was one of the most disgusting things [she] ever made."

* Maire showing up with case (that's 12 bottles) of prosecco. I think we blew through it all by 1 am.

* Getting paddled by Bird and her girl 29 times + one for good luck.

While this birthday was the Best Birthday™, I realized that I barely got to talk to anyone because I was too busy running around being a hostess to 20+ people. I guess there's something to be said about small intimate affairs, right? Perhaps something to aim for when I hit the big 3-0 next year.

"Do I have to wear a costume and wig?"

When Beth drunkenly called me from Paris on Wednesday it was to tell me a happy early birthday and to tell me that she had just submitted her final dissertation edits, so very soon she'll be Dr. Beth with a PhD from Cambridge doing her post-doc in Paris. Not bad at all. Looks like we both have something to celebrate!

Since she is living in France, she approves highly of my inadvertently French birthday theme. I think I have my dress sorted and figured out how to make my hair a la Marie Antoinette. Ms. K is still a bit mystified as to why I have to dress up in costume for my birthday, but I explained by saying that I am secretly a drag queen stuck in a Lesbian's body and that for one year every year she's allowed to run rampant. I think Ms. K okay with that.

Now bring on the champagne, bitches!

"Decadence - first I have to look it up and see what it means. You know us southerners."

Warning: Those who are generally grossed out by meat, observe kosher or halal dietary rules, or just object to odd combinations of food might want to skip this entry.


Right. Are we all assembled? Ready?

I love pork. I mean like really really love pork. This probably makes me a very bad lesbian. When I was a vegetarian the only thing I missed was pork. Good god, how I missed it. When I gave up meat for Lent earlier this year all I could dream about was a post Easter binge at Momofuku Ssam Bar, the mere thought of which was like seeing a porky oasis at the end of a terrible desert.

You know another thing I like? Chocolate. Perhaps you see where this blog entry is going. What I'm advocating is a sort of culinary crossing of the streams -- you think it will be bad, but it ends up being oh so good.

My 29th birthday is this Saturday and I've devised a cunning plan to celebrate it involving a singular theme -- decadence. Think Marie Antoinette. Think glitter. Think rich food. I've been spending the last couple of days trying to think of a menu that inspires decadence. And what could be more decadent than chocolate covered bacon?

It has to be good, right?

In an email exchange between a friend of mine, we weighed the pros and cons of chocolate covered bacon and learned that apparently we were not as clever as we thought. While not as strange a combination as tuna and waffles, pork + chocolate has a long history together stretching back to sixteenth century Mexico. And then there's this modern example of chocolate covered bacon. Personally I'd leave the sprinkles off.

I'm not sure if my friend is going to make her own version for my party, but I can't wait to be her guinea pig. Until then I have numerous French themed hors d'oeuvres to prepare (in honor of Marie Antoinette), not to mention French inspired cocktails -- "French Martini" punch, calvados sidecar, and plenty of champagne.

Here's my somewhat complete menu:

* Stuffed crepe purses with caramelized banana

* Spiced nuts

* Popovers

* Roasted fennel and carrots

* Aioli

* Pear clafoutis

* Cheeses

* Birthday cake

Ideas?

"Fo shizzle."

Wednesday was the Best Day Ever™. Why? Here's a play-by-play.

* Ms. K came up from PA and stayed with me. I took off of work.

* Copious amounts of hot lesbian sex.

* Homemade chocolate croissants courtesy of Ms. K, which ended up in me getting covered in chocolate.

* Not getting dressed till 2 pm.

* Co-showering.

* Dashing off to Manhattan to the Museum of Modern Art, Ms. K's favorite museum, where we could both be modern art nerds. There were high-fives for making it out of the house during daylight hours.

* Walking hand in hand around Midtown, keeping each other warm, and kissing in front of all the mid-western tourists.

* Going shopping at Bloomingdale's, where I helped Ms. K try on jeans. She helped by finding it necessary to instigate some dressing room sex.

* Going to Superfine in DUMBO where we drank the Best Cocktail Ever™, the apple brandy sidecar, and ate good food.

* Going home to play Strip Scrabble. I lost. She won. But I guess when you play Strip Scrabble everyone turns out a winner.

Yes, I think that was the Best Day Ever™.

"OMG It's Columbus Day!!!"

Christmas came early to Post No Bills in the form of $200 worth of sex toys from Babeland courtesy of Ms. K. Since she is Jewish, we agreed that instead of my Christmas analogy, we would stick to calling it more of an interfaith sex toy celebration. Our interfaith celebration, which included this, this, this, and this, lasted till 3 am.

Praise the lord!

PS: The links are kinda NSFW.

"I don't care how cute you or your remarks are, there will be no burqas of any kind."

I've had a hard time picking back up with the narrative of my life over the past couple of weeks. Perhaps it was work drama that has distracted me or the waning days of summer, but the half formed entries in my head just never seemed to make it onto the web. Having wanted to write some pithy summarization, I have opted for the highlights instead.

* Because of trauma at work, I have been drinking with coworkers. A lot. I've consumed more prosecco or tequila than I care to admit and I discovered that Superfine in DUMBO is my new favorite bar.

* After plans fell through to go to North Carolina for Labor Day Weekend, Ms. K came up from Pennsylvania and taught me how to drive stick shift in a Sears parking lot. Only stalling a half dozen times, we drove to the beach -- Jacob Riis Beach in the Rockaways -- both Monday and Tuesday. Our next plan is to drive back to Ft. Tilden and go biking before it gets too cold. Because, you know, I'm a professional stick shift driver now.

* From the above bullet point you can surmise that Ms. K is still in my life and it occurs to me that we've been seeing each other a month and a half. And it also occurs to me that this is the longest I've dated someone -- I'm not counting Holly since it wasn't a real relationship -- since January 2003. I should probably concoct a more in-depth entry about this, especially the long overdue entry that I've been meaning to write about OFAG.

* I really liked the comments on this entry. I could have easily written a couple of entries in response to some of the comments, but alas I was either drunk or lazy.

"Hello. I am the designer."

I'm not in the habit of ordering $200 worth of Iranian caviar at a Manhattan vodka bar, but the Uzbeki man who sat next to me told me I should.

Let's call him Mr. Investment Banker. We had been celebrating the launch of the Russian business magazine that I have been freelancing on and even though one of my employers had encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, I felt that a bottle of prosecco was probably a safe bet. Maybe even some $20 domestic caviar. No, Mr. Investment Banker insisted, I should order the Iranian caviar.

I protested the extravagance of such a cost, but secretly wanted the chance to try sturgeon from the Caspian Sea.

You order it, I countered.

He offered up his expense account to cover the cost. No, you should definitely order, he said.

That's when I selected one ounce of caviar for the grand total of $200. I could have ordered the $400 one, but didn't want to push my luck. I felt reckless. I felt drunk on the bottle of prosecco I had nearly finished. The foodie in me reveled in the rare opportunity. The caviar arrived in a small container nestled in a block of ice. Served with blintzes and sour cream, the taste was amazing and I figured I would probably never have the opportunity again.

I have no idea how the bill was sorted out because I stumbled out of the restaurant sometime around midnight after smoking a very ill advised cigarette. When I got back to Brooklyn I ate some ice cream and watched Romeo + Juliet till 1 am.

Apparently this is how I roll. On a work night.

"You should also be made aware of the fact that you are a really really good kisser -- seriously put it on your resume."

The problem with getting only three hours of sleep or so is that despite all the caffeinated faux energy of the morning, a crash inevitably comes sometime around 3 pm. Now why did I only get three hours of sleep? I guess you can say that my date kinda sorta came home with me and we didn't get to sleep till 3 am or so.

Drinks led to tapas which led to more drinks which led to making out which led to more drinks which led to an R rated cab ride back to Brooklyn which led to . . . use your imagination.

Does this make me a slut?

"I wish I could remember these words."

I think I'm still recovering from Pride, an exhaustion that has refused to subside. Monday started off with a yawn and two days into the workweek I still need coffee. Lots of coffee. Not only did I go to the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island on Saturday, but I caught the very end of the Dyke March in the Village. (I spotted Anne from afar. I hid.) And then after a day of drinking, my friends and I commenced with more drinking. Emma and I even shut down the bar we were in.

Finding ourselves without a place to drink, intoxicated on Belgian beer, Emma and I stumbled onto to 2nd Avenue sometime around 4 am with a plan to find a cab. I am not sure how it started, but we ended up standing on the corner of East 7th Street talking until the first stirrings of sunlight began to warm the eastern sky. We talked of life and other subjects that seem hazy in retrospect. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but at one point, embarrassingly, I was even reduced to tears. It felt nice to be held while I cried involuntarily -- it also felt intimate. And it being New York, the moment was interrupted when a bum rattled a cup full of change at us.

By then it was seriously getting light and the city was slowly coming awake. Free of tears, I led us further into the East Village looking for a new destination, perhaps a diner that was open and serving breakfast. As we wandered towards Alphabet City, I impulsively grabbed Emma by the hand and pulled her into a doorway, kissing her. It was rushed, aggressive, and with surprisingly too much tongue from Emma. I struggled to lead the make-out session, wishing that girls would learn one day that using tongue is a delicate art. But then it was over, our kissing reduced to smiles and coy glances.

Onward we continued into the east before realizing that we were far too tired for breakfast. We left in separate cabs, dazed. As my own cab rushed over the Manhattan Bridge, I checked my watch and noted that Manhattan looked especially beautiful during sunrise. When reached my bed by quarter to six in the morning, the previous hours seemed like a strange dream.

I'm not sure what my feelings are for Emma. Obviously I've wavered on them in the past, sometimes put off by her frenetic energy. She's leaving tomorrow and won't be back until the end of the summer so I suspect that if there is anything between us, it will most definitely be on hold. And for those who have been keeping up and wondering why I am changing my mind when Emma acted so poorly the last time I saw her, she ended up explaining more about what was going on that day with a friend of hers who had tagged along, so my opinion of her has softened a little.

Ugh. Why does everything have to be so confusing?

"Enjoy the, uh, coffee."

Things I realized on my trip abroad:

* Vomiting is an inherently private act and doing so in public is best avoided.

* Given a pinch, friends will miraculously come through in the end.

* Sometimes it's best to travel alone.

* When booking rail services in Britain, best to do so in advance to get the best rate.

* Luton Airport isn't as close to London as I thought.

* Amsterdam is lovely, especially the Dutch aesthetic.

* Getting stoned and going to the Rijksmuseum is a perfectly lovely way to spend a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

* Never fly American Airlines for international flights.

* Never eat anything that comes out of Terminal 9 at JFK Airport.

* When I die, and if I am a bad little girl, my hell will be the Sisyphean task of going back and forth between Heathrow's Terminal 3 and 4 while jet lagged, dirty, and suffering from food poisoning.

Now a confession:

For all my libertine tendencies, I'm not a drug user. My experience with drugs has been limited the occasional joint passed around at a party. I'm okay with that as I do quite alright with drinking alone.

"All Hands Lesbian Emergency!!"

I spent the first day of 2007 much like the previous year -- hungover and watching Law & Order. The only difference was that this New Year's Day I had a sleeping cat draped over me, or at least I did when I wasn't leaping up to go vomit in the bathroom.

It was a painful end to a rather awful holiday season. On New Year's Eve I had attempted to throw a party for my Lesbian Club. Having shelled out for a deposit and guaranteeing 25 people on the perhaps naive assumption that people would readily pay a nominal fee for an open bar slash food slash hang with the lesbians deal, I was more than disappointed when only seven people showed up. Seven. This includes Dennise whom I practically begged to come and visit me for the holiday. It wouldn't be such a big deal if my Club helper didn't shell out hundreds of dollars along in addition to me.

Lesbians suck. I almost flashed on my special signal in the night sky denoting an All Hands Lesbian Emergency. Then I realized that I'm not Batman, Batwoman, or any sort of gay superhero nor do I own any device that flashes a powerful beam of light into the night sky. But if I did, all Lesbians in a 15 mile radius would feel drawn to Prospect Heights knowing instinctively that one of their own was in great need (and in great need of their $$). Then again if I did have said magical light beam device, I wouldn't be single.

So I ended up having a great time with my friends that showed. We danced, ate, and drank. Thankfully I was drunk when I handed over my credit card at the end of the night. Hence the horrible hangover the next day. Now I'm seriously debating if I want to continue running Lesbian Club because, well, lesbians suck.

Now it's 2007 and thankfully the vomiting has stopped. I've spent today and yesterday in a reflective mood. What do I want for the new year? What do I want in life? What are my resolutions?

* Less drinking (obviously)
* More exercise
* Less spending
* More saving
* Less falling in love with crap people
* More adult relationships
* Less wasting the pretty

Oh these ones are oh so banal. If I weren't so burned out on dating, maybe I could muster up some old school OFTL love for 2007. Would definitely make for some interesting blog reading.

"The corset has landed."

Ways in which I and others commemorated the anniversary of my birth:

- Got taken out to lunch by work colleagues.
- Squeezed my D cup "girls" into a black corset, which finally arrived from CA at 11:30 am Friday.
- Located my black feather boa.
- Drank gin.
- Drank bourbon.
- Drank beer.
- Ate red velvet cupcakes.
- Watched an impromptu song and dance number by two friends of mine. A Swiffer pole was used like a cane.
- Made a fool out of myself, albeit relatively sober.

Awesome. No hangover this year and this birthday was by far the best in my 20s, which are normally disastrous.

Now that my birthday has passed, it's time to focus on Thanksgiving. This year marks the Second Annual Misfits Thanksgiving for those who don't want to spend the holiday or cannot spend the holiday with family. Dinner shall be cooked in part by moi, however the hitch with this plan is that I've NEVER cooked a turkey before and must figure out how to do so before Thursday. What the hell have I gotten myself into??

"Today must be your lucky day."

Um, I have a date tonight. Seriously. Where did I meet this girl? She appeared suddenly like a magical flash on Lexington Avenue. Actually she contacted me through Friendster and liked me enough even though my Friendster profile is horribly out of date. I figure I have nothing to loose.

So Friday is my birthday. And what do I have planned for the big 2-8? A Burlesque Birthday Party! Bring on the half naked girls! And what will I be wearing? My very own corset and accoutrements. But here's the snag -- said corset and accoutrements should have arrived today since I paid for the 2 day FedEx shipping. Unfortunately when I called this afternoon, it was all still sitting in a California warehouse. Listen, people! Don't you know that I must look hot for my birthday?! So there is a chance that I might be wearing only my birthday suit for my birthday.

"Not Found."

Back in April, I did my good friend J-Wo a favor -- I kissed her. See, J-Wo has this list of howmanyever things to do before she dies and getting some hot lady lip action is one of them. What's a good friend to do? I gladly did the deed and one of friends (Mr. Bad Apologies?) took a photo, which would later get linked to J-Wo's blog.

The photo is rather tame by some standards, so I am curious as to why so many random people keep coming to my blog after clicking the photo link off Google. People all over the WORLD can't wait to get their jollies from seeing J-Wo and I kiss. And when I mean all over the world, I mean Saudi Arabia, New Hampshire, and Kuwait. For some reason my stats have had a huge increase of traffic from this link and this entry is probably only going to serve to add more traffic.

So if you're a guy looking for some hot lady on lady action, I do hope J-Wo and I satisfy. But seriously. There are much better photos on the net than two drunk girls (one of whom is straight) kissing at 2 am in the basement of a DC bar.

"What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown."

It was the theme of our trip to Cape Cod -- What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown -- promising that all the shenanigans would never be spoken of once we returned to Brooklyn. It was with this bacchanalia like spirit that three Lesbian Club friends, Holly, and myself set out on our first Big Gay Weekend Vacation and drove 8 hours to the gay mecca that is Provincetown, Mass. Holly and I would be sharing a hotel room to ourselves while the other three would be further down the main drag at another hotel. I had a feeling all along about this weekend -- a feeling that something was going to happen. The bacchanalia like spirit only confirmed what I had divined.

Now I know I made an oath, but you all, my faithful blog readers, deserve the story as it unfolds -- especially since it involves me, an Unnamed Person (UP)* from Lesbian Club . . . and Holly.

Get your mind out of the gutters. It wasn't a threesome. It wasn't even a some. What happened was UP drunkenly made out with Holly at a bar last night. And I, having spotted this from the other side of the deck, was not happy. In a very Oh No She Didn't moment, I went to the bartender, got my fourth drink of Maker's Mark, and marched to the table where they were sitting and obnoxiously plopped myself down before them.

"Hi," I announced loudly with a smile on my face, whisky in hand, and a look in my big brown eyes that flashed two things. (1) Don't fuck with me. (2) I just might have to kill you.

Let me explain something here. Holly is my very good friend. Holly is an adult and can make out with whomever she wants. However there is an unspoken rule that Holly is off limits to Lesbian Club members and I've made it common knowledge that I have very strong feelings for her. Yes, nothing has ever seemed to want to develop between us and I long ago resigned myself to the fact that nothing probably would save for the drunken kissing at my birthday last year. BUT she's still off limits to Lesbian Club members because if ANYONE is going to be making out with her, it's me.

And that's what I did. I leaned in and kissed Holly like we were the stars of a movie. UP looked onward probably wondering what the hell was happening. It was my way of telling Holly what I haven't been able to tell her for so long while reasserting my claim on her.

I tackled.

I should also explain in all fairness to those involved the levels of blame here: UP drunkenly kissed Holly. She apparently missed the memo that Holly is off limits. Holly kissed UP back in that way that is drunkenly rationalized as, Oh I guess we're kissing now. I suppose I'll go along with it. The kiss itself means nothing, but all sorts of invisible rules are broken. All is eventually forgiven, but let us return to that table in Provincetown.

Shamed and wanting to avoid being collateral damage in the ass kicking that was about to commence, Holly takes the hotel room key and leaves the bar. It is just me and UP in a showdown. I give her The Look again. She cowers slightly. But since we are also adults and I've never kicked someone's ass, we talk. She apologizes. I explain where I am coming from. UP can get any girl she wants, but she chose the one girl that she wasn't allowed to kiss. She says she didn't know that it was uncool to kiss her. She didn't know that I had feelings for her. She thought that there was nothing between us. Well technically yes there is nothing between us, but still.

To wrap up a long story, UP and I negotiate a peace and I state firmly that Holly is mine. With all our ducks in a row, we leave the bar to walk back to our respective hotels. I tell UP that she is forgiven and there is profuse apologizing as she doesn't want to ruin our friendship. As she walks away and I climb up the steps to my room, I am well aware that I've now got to deal with Holly and the issue that UP has abruptly forced to the surface.

Inside I find Holly up and watching a Japanese game show. She has been waiting for me and it's well after 1 am. Soon I'm sitting on the bed with her and apologizing for making a scene and say that I don't want to jeopardize the friendship. Holly apologizes for kissing UP and says that it meant nothing and that she has no feelings for UP. Then there's that awkward moment when we both know we're going to have to confess all our feelings. I already stated my intentions with my kiss -- a kiss born of fierce jealousy.

We're both drunk, but we both say what we've wanted to say for over a year. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but for once the words come easily. She thought I didn't have feelings for her anymore as I've been dating recently. I explain that I had to move on since she had been dating her married boss. She cringes and reiterates that they are not together anymore. She also says that the Boss was jealous of me knowing that I was a rival just as she was jealous of my relationships with Anne and Val. Then she says that she feels that we have always been meant to be together, but she needed to grow up first.

And then, when we have said what we need to say, she leans in and finishes the kiss that was started back in the bar. In the morning we wake up mercifully sober, a little hungover, slightly undressed, but aware that things have now changed between us.

"Even though I had a lot of whisky last night, I meant everything I said," I say to her.

"Even though I had a lot of beer last night, I meant everything I said," she responds.

"What do we do?"

"I don't know. I guess we take things slow."

* * *

Back on August 4, I wrote:

"I should note that she's been flirting with me hard core of late and I feel almost certain that given enough alcohol, something may happen."

How astute of me. Whisky + beer + lesbians + drama = something happening.

* Maire, I know you're probably reading this and can figure out who UP is as you certainly know her, but by reading this entry you have unwittingly agreed to the vow of What happens in Provincetown stays in Provincetown.

"And I'd like to suggest a conference call tomorrow afternoon to discuss the REALLY dirty details . . ."

Up until very recently, J-Wo's parents were regular readers of her blog. Why J-Wo EVER told her parents she had a blog is beyond me -- sometimes parent's can't handle the dirty truth about an adult child. Sure enough they read something that perhaps they didn't want to know about. Trust me, I know all about hysterical mothers who discover too much.

Now J-Wo needs a place to detail her exploration of FWB and even her gay side without her mother reading it. So without further ado . . .

A Tale of Two Lovers

This past weekend was one of those delightful anomalies when I engaged with two different sexual partners. Today, I took some time to reflect on the similarities and differences of the experience.

He met me naked at the door to his apartment and--with a minimum of words--convinced me to take off all my clothes in the hallway, perform deviant behavior, and then traipse past the closed doors of his sleeping roommates for additional fun in his bedroom.

She was curious and forward, and we ended up on her bed having a frank discussion about the awkwardness of two straight girls exploring the vagaries of lesbianism. Once the giggling had stopped, we found that our bodies responded the same way, discovered that kissing a girl was like kissing ourselves, realized that girls know exactly what girls want.

He told me I took his spanking like a champ; I replied that he administered it like a professional. She told me I tasted nice; I sighed with post-coital bliss.

He was hard; she was soft. He towered above me; I bent to kiss her. He did not ask me to stay the night; she offered to share her bed. He kissed me goodnight; she hugged me at the door.

I left with a spring in my step after both.