So we went to a 1950’s themed birthday party. Not the most exciting thing in the world maybe, but I didn’t bitch about going because my costume consisted of a pair of cuffed jeans jeans, a white T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a leather jacket.
The finishing touches were a pack of smokes rolled up in my sleeve and a crap ton of hair goop that, in my advancing age, made me more like a crappy vampire than a 1950s ruffian, but that’s neither here nor there.
My total prep time for the party was like 20 minutes, and that included the goop in the hair.
Dagmar dressed appropriately in polka dots and sporting a bouffant hairdo, nailed it of course.
The party was OK, kind of fun actually. Serving drinks behind a bar was a 19-year-old over-the-top gay kid in a bowtie around his bare neck with a slightly overweight Goth-chick sidekick.
To me, those two alone made the night worthwhile.
The lady who hosted the party went all out. She’d set up a professional tent complete with wood flooring and one of those propane heaters, there were strobe lights (likely unheard of in the 1950s) and there were more than a few chicks just slinging boobs, likely not very party-theme-appropriate, in low cut dresses.
About that gay kid, he was serving up some kind of a drink in a margarita glass that was red, sweet (I had a sip) and that the ladies would’ve had out and out sex with if they were able to. It was a popular drink at the party, that much was obvious after Dagmar had her first one and declared, all too loudly, “This was the best fucking drink ever.”
A bit of background. Dagmar informed me a few weeks ago that we were going to this party. We were almost guaranteed to know only a handful of people there because we barely knew the person who invited us. I hoped, god I hoped, that Dagmar would forget about it, but as the day drew closer that became less and less likely.
It was one of those things that I think husbands agree to because their wives want them to, but all the while secretly hope they’ll be able to weasel out of it.
There was no weaseling out. Dagmar talked about it endlessly for weeks beforehand. Oh, there was going to be no weaseling out at all.
I knew the moment we arrived and my wife loudly proclaimed that the “red drink” in the margarita glass was better than sex, that I wasn’t drinking. I asked the gay kid if he would kindly brew some coffee and settled into what was clearly my rotten luck this night.
Funny thing happened though. I was having a good time — stone cold sober. Tweaked out on coffee sure, but otherwise sober as a priest, or judge or whatever profession is normally associated with sobriety. National president of Alcoholics Anonymous maybe, I have no clue.
I worked the room, talked to the hostess, stared at the hot chick with exposed cleavage. Maybe I’ve missed the boat and this sobriety thing isn’t so bad after all.
One chick, who I’d met before and who is absolutely fabulous, had on a particularly low-cut dress, the kind of dress that said, “The minute this party has a slow point, I’m out and I’m going clubbing.” I think the dress also said, “Watch out, I might make some decisions I regret later that involve nudity and/or hot slippery sex with you, Todd?”
Dagmar wouldn’t let me find out the answer to that question.
She’s a kill joy.
Anyway, at some point in the night — again with me completely sober and my wife getting drunker and drunker on “Red drink” — it was determined I had spilled coffee on my T-shirt.
This fact was discovered by my wife.
At a party.
Like most parties, there weren’t a lot of bright lights, so how she noticed this is a mystery for the ages. But sure enough, there was, in fact, a small brown drop where I’d spilled coffee on myself.
Dagmar whisked me off to the guest bathroom, tore off my jacket and ripped off my T-shirt. Finally, I thought, “hot party sex in a guest bathroom!” I momentarily thought of inviting big-titty chick in for an awesome threesome to prolong the inconvenience to other partygoers by occupying the only bathroom for an inordinate about of time, but quickly dismissed that idea because I didn’t want to stop the heat of the moment.
Then, when I felt our passion was rising to a point that no guest bathroom could contain, she tossed my shirt into the sink and began to run cold water and hand soap over it.
I’m now topless in a guest bathroom with a drunk person who has decided to “wash” my shirt in a sink. Keeping the water only on the area with the coffee spill was quickly overcome by inebriation. Before I knew it my entire shirt was in the sink with coconut-smelling bathroom soap being vigorously rubbed into it.
I don’t often get a chance to watch “drunk logic” while sober, but this was an awesome example if I’d ever seen one. There was no questioning her decision to wash my shirt. My fancy logic about the party being a generally dark place and the coffee stain small and not at all noticeable fell on deaf ears.
I’m not a hairy guy. I have some hair in the middle of my chest, around my belly button and nipples. That’s it. But sure as shit, when I put on the ice cold rag that had once been a fairly clean white T-shirt I immediately sympathized with everyone woman who’s ever entered a wet T-shirt contest.
If “hairy nipple dudes” were a sexual fetish for any of the partygoers I might’ve made their night.
While the jacket covered most of it, the T-shirt was still very obviously wet and clung to me.
The next hour or so of the party was filled with me answering why my shirt was wet.
“There was a wet T-shirt contest in the front yard,” was the best answer I could come up with and it actually worked for a few seconds if said with an absolutely straight face. I could see the partygoers minds click through the thought process; wet T-shit, in the front yard, I just missed it … hey wait a minute, you’re a fucking guy, guys don’t enter wet T-shirt contests.
Well, I did pal, and I lost.