It occurred to me the other day that I haven't had sex with a woman when not drunk, high or some combination of the two in some time.

What brought this to my attention was Sondra. She's Brazilian, beautiful and has one of those accents that just make you think about sex.

Sondra and I enjoyed what, to me, is the usual courtship. I saw her at a club, walked over and started talking to her. I was ripped at the time, and she knew it, but for some reason she gave me her number anyway. We went out a few times – drinks, a concert, dinner, a movie and then drinks, bowling and drinks, a party.

In my mind things were going well and I was really starting to like her, more so than anyone else I was seeing. And then the party happened.

I took her to a gathering of my friends and it was a disaster right from the beginning.

Before I go any further, I should offer this disclaimer: I slept with someone else earlier that week. The sex was rough – choking, slapping and there was a belt involved. This particular woman – a nice Jewish girl from up the street – left a mark or two on my neck. My logical sober self was convinced they'd disappear by the time I was to bring Brazilian Sondra to this party.  

That was not case.

On the way into this gathering she commented on one of the unfortunate brands I had acquired. I, of course, tried to play it off as a symptom of allergies.


Apparently Sondra's not as stupid as I was suggesting by making such a foolish remark and she rightfully took offense.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm with Sondra.]

Then there was my condition.

It's true. Sometimes I get drunk. Really drunk.

Sometimes the stink of the previous night's drunk doesn't quite wash away the next day. This particular day was one of those occasions.

I took this situation head on, explaining that I was terribly hungover, but would pull myself together, take her to meet my friends and we'd have a good time. She agreed, but brought a shitty attitude in tow.

Once we arrived at the party, there was nothing for me to do except drink heavily in order to alleviate said hangover. Old Fashioneds were flowing like water.

After the party and a late dinner with friends we came home and after using the bathroom, she curtly explained that she was leaving and mumbled something about not wanting to be anyone's second choice.

I was let down, to say the least, but knew I had only myself to blame for not fully paying off my earlier transactions.

The next day I apologized and it was then I realized the problem was bigger than just a mark on my neck.

She told me I drink too much and she can't be around someone who lives his life like I do, which is to say, hard and fast.

And getting back to the point about how much I liked this woman, I told her I would work on doing better and then I left it alone.

She spent the next month in Brazil and I never expected to hear from her again. But whether out of boredom, loneliness or duty, she texted me when she returned.

We talked briefly before I asked if I could see her again. She agreed.

I promised her I wouldn't be hungover or drunk on this occasion and I followed through.

Only one problem.


Being sober, I realized I had nothing in common with this woman. More so, I realized that she's fairly boring and although she may be sexy, I really didn't want to do anything after the date other than head home and go to bed. Getting up early for a run felt more appealing than getting laid, which is an entirely new phenomenon. One to which I still don't know how to react.

On one hand, I have to wonder if I am even capable of being attracted to most women without the helpful aid of booze and/or narcotics. I think the answer is probably no.

Which brings me to my point: Ladies, alcohol is your friend. It's my friend too. It makes you interesting and me not care about what you're saying. It gets you free dinners, movies, shows etc. It gets me laid.

And if you keep it flowing and don't complain, it might even get you a relationship.

On the other hand, I've learned this: I'm not sure if my mind or my liver is going to give out first, but I'll be god-damned if I'm going to lay off the sauce at the request of any broad ever again. I don't care how Brazilian she is.

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