Legal at last

The month after I turned 19, I headed over to Victoria with two girlfriends to have a “girls weekend” with another friend who lived there while she was attending UVic.

She was the last of us to turn 19 so it was a combo birthday celebration for the two of us. None of us had any money but we split the gas, coughed up for the ferry, and ate hamburger helper all weekend so that we could afford to hit the bar.

There aren’t many bars in Victoria, or at least there weren’t many back then. The bar that we went to had ladies’ night before regular admission, and we thought it would be fun to see some male strippers. It was the first and last time I’ve watched men strip. First of all, men just aren’t sexy the same way that women are. Second, they tend to gyrate a lot. They had some sort of love affair going on with a hand towel that they would wave around in front of their g-string. Third, who wants to see a guy’s cock unless you’re going to fuck? No, seriously, unless it’s Markalark doing his penis wiggle after getting out of the shower, I have no interest in seeing cock unless I’m getting all close and personal. It’s not the most attractive part of a man’s body.

Anyway, we drank and we watched and we giggled, and I won a magnum of champagne by doing twenty shots before this other woman. I was already drunk but I clearly remember volunteering when the announcer asked for birthday girls, and I remember the hottie holding my tray of drinks, and how he was laughing at me double fisting my shots and dribbling liquid all down my chin. I think there were 5 alcoholic shots and 15 fakes, but they were all the same colour (roughly – I was drunk) so I didn’t know which were which. I remember, after they opened the bar up to the guys (who came swarming in to take advantage of the drunk, apparently now horny because they watched male strippers, girls) swaying on the dance floor, holding my magnum of champagne by the neck and being too drunk to focus.

After we left the bar, we were standing on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how we could find someone to sell us pot. We used to smoke a lot in those days so surely we must have had some with us, but maybe it was that we wanted to keep our stash for the next day and the hangovers that were sure to hit. There was a group of guys down the sidewalk from us, and they seemed cool so we wandered down and asked if they smoked pot. They did, and they invited us back to an apartment to get stoned. It’s funny, looking back, how none of us were remotely concerned. It was just … cool.

As it turned out, they were celebrating a stag night for one of the guys, which is why the group was out with no girls around. We went back to this apartment (which I think was in a house but it’s all fuzzy) and we listened to hip hop and we smoked a bunch of joints. The four of us girls staggered back to our own apartment at some point, and the rest of the weekend is lost to me after that. I don’t remember waking up, I don’t remember the ferry back to Vancouver, and I don’t remember telling my boyfriend about how we hung out with some strange boys on their stag, even though I know all those things happen.

It’s nine years later, and every November I think about those guys, and I wonder if the guy who got married stayed that way, or if he got a divorce. I wonder if those guys remember that stag and those girls they picked up on the streets of Victoria. It seems strange to me that I share memories of such a special night with people who I literally would not recognize if I passed them in the street.

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