“I Have Never…”

The rules of this drinking game are simple: on your turn you say something you’ve never done, and if the other people in the room have done this thing, they must drink. For future reference, this is my “I Have Never…” list:
1) I have never been arrested.
2) I have never been tattooed.
3) I have never shagged a woman more than two years younger than myself.
4) I have never shagged a woman whose name I didn’t know.
5) I have never had phone sex.
6) I have never shaved anyone other than myself.
7) I have never had a threesome with two guys.
8) I have never performed karaoke.
9) I have never eaten veal.
10) I have never written off a car.
11) I have never owned a Backstreet Boys album.
12) I have never used a strap-on.
In the spirit of the game, I think my readers should leave a note, and tell me which numbers you’re doing a virtual shot for. Make it private if you’re too ashamed to shout it out to the world. You can challenge me with your own “I Have Nevers…”, too, if you like.

I’m typing this out, because when Ree, Bernie and I were playing “I Have Never…” in a motel room in a faraway city on Saturday, I found it extremely hard to come up with things I hadn’t actually done. And the other unfortunate side of that was that on almost every one of Ree and Bernie’s turns I had to drink. I had a wild youth, I’ll admit, but in recent times I’ve been relatively well-behaved. My new friends in the town I moved to only last year think of me as almost conservative, weirdly enough. I think poor Ree, who has fast become one of my best friends since I met her 4 months ago, was quite horrified as I had to do more and more shots.

Before this weekend, I’d had all of one actual conversation with Bernie. She’s a relatively new member of our young dyke’s group and I haven’t had all that many opportunities to talk to her. But it was Bernie who decided she, Ree and I should drive to a faraway city for a night on the town.

This weekend is a long weekend in this country, and most of everyone seems to have taken advantage of this fact. This Friday, at the standing Friday Night Pool gathering of the young dyke’s group there were only three of us, because everyone else had left town for the long weekend. Bernie, Ree and I. We had some beers and some laughs, though, and after a few games of pool (some of which I actually won, which I’m pretty sure is against the natural order of things) we decided to move on to bigger and better things. Sadly, however, we could not find bigger and better things in this little town. The bars were dead. This was why Bernie came up with a plan. “Let’s drive to Thissity right now!” she said enthusiastically. Thissity is about 5 hours drive down the island and is this island’s major city. Ree and I shot this idea down pretty speedily, for we had all been drinking. There was not a sober driver amongst us. Bernie accepted this rejection of her idea, but countered with another. “OK, then,” she said. “We go tomorrow morning, first thing, party up large in Thissity and drive back on Sunday.” Ree and I thought long and hard, but could not come up with any reasons for why we shouldn’t drive to Thissity in the morning.

We missioned down to Thissity, music blaring all the way, with many detours and meanderings. It felt so good to be on a spontaneous journey. In Thissity, Bernie got us motel rooms. She’s a girl with a lot of money and not enough to spend it on. Ree and I were amazed by the luxury of a motel (as opposed to a dorm in a backpackers, or a friend’s couch) and spent a lengthy amount of time being amazed at the neatness of the room – everything just so, and in its place. Then we bought a lot of alcohol. Aforementioned dumb drinking games ensued. Once pleasantly drunk and high, we wandered into town. But tragedy struck! Thissity’s best gay bar had closed down. Also its worst gay bar – leaving just the one, mediocre gay bar. We started out there, and were the only three women in the whole joint. The bartender advised us to come back at about 1am. So off we went to check out the rest of the bars

I almost did karaoke. I had to be dissuaded from attempting U2’s “Beautiful Day”. Thank god for Ree and Bernie. Remember: Friends don’t let friends do drunken karaoke.

At some point, Ree won the Moment of Coolness Award for the weekend. The three of us are all rather well-endowed in the bosom department. As we walked down the road, some stupid drunk guy called out to us: “Ooooh, big titties!” Without even a blink, Ree called back, “Ooooh, little dicky!” That shut the stupid drunk guy up, and everyone in earshot (the guys friends, complete random strangers) collapsed into fits of laughter.

There were quite a few more bars; I don’t remember them all, largely because there were quite a few more chocolate mudslides. Chocolate mudslides are excellent things – just like a chocolate milkshake, only alcoholic. We were utterly, UTTERLY snobbed at one of Thissity’s more upmarket bars. They simply refused to serve us. We were hit on in a bogan bar, and refused entry to a dance club because the bouncer didn’t think I looked like the girl in my drivers license photo.

Back at the gay club, we played pool with a gay boy in a mesh singlet until Ricky Martin began to play. I leapt up onto the dance floor. Ree, always up for a bit of dancing, joined me and the gay boy in the mesh singlet needed no encouragement. Bernie stayed behind and began to spade a couple of lesbians (still the only other lesbians in the bar aside from us!). Ree, the gay boy in the mesh singlet and I pretty much didn’t sit down for the rest of the night. At one point, Ree caused a rash of stripping on the dancefloor when she got too hot on the dancefloor and demanded the gay boy’s mesh singlet – and changed right there on the dnacefloor. Fortunately for me (for I was drunk enough to almost believe that taking off my top would be a good idea), I was wearing a dress beneath my top. I unbuttoned my top, however, which prompted a clearly not-so-gay boy to come over and start dancing with me. Ugh, yes, I was easily drunk enough to think that dirty dancing with a guy in a gay club would be a good thing. Ree and Bernie looked on in delighted horror. Once the song finished (oh my god, if I recall correctly it was “Man, I Feel Like a Woman”), I came to my senses and left the dancefloor (to the not-so-gay boy’s disappointment). The three of us concluded that now would be a good time to move on.

Back at the motel, Ree and I had an extremely lengthy and deep conversation, which seemed incredibly important and serious… and the next morning neither of us could remember a word of it. Always ridiculously full of energy, Bernie bounded into our room and insisted that we go get Burger King. So we checked out of our rooms and began our trip home again, once again with meanderings and random stoppages. Jolly good weekend, really. I still feel surprised that I was in Thissity.