Blowjobs, Tequila, and Drag Queens. Oh My!

I’ve been set up with men more times than I’d like to admit. I’m sure most of my friends meant well throughout the years as they attempted to play matchmaker, but things just never seemed to work out. There eventually came a point where I drew the line and swore off set ups completely, for fear that I or one of my dates might be permanently scarred, if they had not been already.

My first blind date was with the brother of a co-worker in my very early twenties. He was a few years younger than me, which made me skeptical about us hitting it off,  but his sister had talked him up to such an extent that I couldn’t resist giving him a chance. I had not a clue what he looked like, but didn’t care. At that point in my life I was on a break from my on-again off- again boyfriend and was looking for any kind of distraction I could find. Looks were clearly not an issue for me because I was young and stupid.

Lucky for me, he turned out to be a real hottie when I met him for our “date,” although I use the term loosely since our “date” was me meeting him for a party at his Frat house. Everything about him was picture perfect, from his evenly tanned skin to his sparkling blue eyes. The only flaw I could find in his physical appearance was the fact that his eyebrows were groomed more neatly than mine, which in retrospect should have been a sign.

We played beer pong, we danced, we smoked some weed, and, most importantly, we did shots of tequila. Halfway through the evening I was a sloppy mess. Eventually I ended up sans pants in his bedroom after I drunkenly knocked half a pitcher of beer all over my Seven jeans. While he went to the bathroom, I scoured the drawers of his dresser for a pair of pants that might actually fit me, but all I came across was the complete first Season of Baywatch on DVD and a rolled up poster of David Hasselhoff, which, in retrospect, should also have been a sign.

The night went downhill from there after we started to fool around and I ended up throwing up all over him, mid blowjob. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Needless to say he called me a cab immediately after and I didn’t see him again until, accidentally, almost a decade later.

His sister and I remained close friends in spite of my alcohol impaired gag reflex, and I was ecstatic a year ago when she asked me to be part of her bridal party. After all, I had always dreamed of planning a bachelorette party and I intended to make hers memorable, although I never could’ve predicted how epic it would be.

Following some research, I decided to make reservations for us at Lucky Cheng’s in New York City, the bachelorette capital of the world, or at least that’s what the website boasted. It seemed like the perfect place for us to let loose and have fun without the worry of being hit on by drunk and horny men, considering it was a drag themed restaurant. I ordered us an over the top penis cake for dramatic effect and after dinner we planned to attend the male revue they hosted upstairs to get our oiled-chest and weiner on, although we never ended up making it there.

The fun thing about Lucky Cheng’s was that in the midst of enjoying a fabulous meal, we were entertained by lip syncing, and gyrating, drag queens, who at certain points during the evening insisted on pulling attendees on stage to embarrass themselves by performing oral sex acts on bananas.

I’ll have you know that I completely redeemed myself and my gag reflex while giving a blowjob to a banana that caused a standing ovation by 90% of the people in the restaurant. It also won me a button that said, “I give good head,” which I wore proudly for the remainder of the evening, and several weeks afterward.

When this was not going on, drag queens were circling the room giving lap dances to patrons. Due to her inebriated state, the bride found this to be one of the highlights of the evening and was determined to get her picture taken with every one of the drag queens in the restaurant. We’d nearly accomplished her goal when someone noticed we’d missed one elusive bitch that seemed to be avoiding our table the entire evening. Me, being unwaveringly committed to pleasing the bride, stalked said queen until I finally cornered him and dragged him, unwillingly, to our table.

As the drag queen sat down on the bride’s lap for a picture, she drunkenly grabbed his face and planted one on him, at which point he screamed. When she opened her eyes and focused on his face, as best she could in her intoxicated state, she realized why.

“Andrew?”

That was when I saw them; those perfectly manicured eyebrows.

In that instant I finally understood why the penis laden lady had been avoiding us all night, as did the rest of our party.

The mysterious drag queen was none other than the bride’s brother, the man I had gone on that fateful blind date with so many years before, and thrown up on.

And apparently turned gay.

The rest of the night is somewhat of a blur, or maybe I just chose to forget it. There was crying. There was vomiting. Someone came out of the closet. Someone went into the closet, and rocked back and forth in the fetal position.

And someone swore to never go on a blind date again, or do shots of tequila before giving a blowjob.

That someone would be me.

You’re welcome, fellas.

Related posts:

1. There Will Be Drag Queens…