My soccer team was sponsored by many pubs and bars back home over the many years we were in existence. And each of these pubs and bars was rewarded with our patronage and sometimes excessive bar tabs. Except from me. During an 8 year spell, I probably had a grand total of 12 drinks a year. Most of my teammates were married with children, so I thought I’d stay sober and make sure they got home okay to kiss the little ones on their foreheads before hauling their own drunk asses off to bed. And I never thought twice about it. I don’t need booze to give me courage, or more importantly and regularly, make a fool out of myself. It’s a gift, what can I say.
We are there on a Friday night and we’re in full swing. Every member of the team is there, and many wives and girlfriends too. I have been ridiculed for my choice of attire all evening. For some reason I decided on a pair of boots, black jeans, a white shirt, and I’m wearing a waistcoat I saw on sale and decided I needed to wear out at least once before I died. When I arrived at the pub the calls of “waiter”, “when are you playing snooker?” filled the air. The other muppets can wear their trainers and Converse t-shirts. I’m a style icon damn it. If a waistcoat was good enough for Johnny Depp, it was probably too good for me.
A few hours into the evening I notice a girl notice me and she smiles. I brush it off, talking to one of the wives. The wife looks at me, smiles, and says, “She’s been smiling at you all night. Are you going to stand here with me until closing or go and talk to her?” With permission granted, I saunter over as only a guy in a waistcoat can. My glass of Coke in hand, of course.
We start talking, flirting, stealing little touches here and there. I’m on fine form (and probably looking better than I ever have), and within an hour I’ve excused myself from my team (after several more cries that I’ll be late for my first break on the snooker table), and we walk to her house. We stop at a little café for some tea and snacks and at hers she puts the kettle on, lights a few candles and incense sticks, and we curl up on the couch …
… I wake up with my boxer shorts resting under my head, my pillow elsewhere. I have an arm around her, and I can feel no clothing between us. She pushes back against me, realizing I’m awake and I say “good morning, Samantha” (editor’s note: names changed or not changed because I can’t remember them!) She rolls over to face me and kisses my forehead.
“I’m not Samantha.” She smiles and I look at her. She’s not the girl I left the bar with.
“Where’s Samantha? Who are you?” I should pull back but I don’t move, deer in the headlights glaze still washed over me.
“She’s in the shower. I’m Karen.” She smiled again, not hurt in the least that I didn’t remember her name.
“When did you get here?” I ask, not sure if I wanted an answer or not.
“You don’t remember?” She smiled again, this one a little more Devilish, like she enjoyed knowing something I didn’t.
“No. Not a thing after sitting on the couch. Did we?” I thought it was obvious, but you never can tell I suppose.
“If you don’t remember, you don’t remember.” She got up to make some tea. As she walked away from the bed completely naked, I fumbled around for my clothes. I was out of the house before either of them returned.
I spent the next week at various clinics and medical facilities getting all sorts of tests done and checking if I had all my organs. Thankfully, I hadn’t contracted anything worse than a case of “Holy shit, what the fuck just happened?” The blood work didn’t detect anything untoward either.
I don’t want to accuse anyone of anything, but given my lack of a single drop of alcohol that night it seems odd I would not remember much after hitting the couch. And both girls were attractive enough to have received a resounding “yes” from younger, more confident me if they had asked for a threesome. Whether it happened, or if anything happened, I still have no clues, over a decade later.
I’m at the point where I’ve given up searching for answers as, ultimately, I am fine and there is nothing wrong with me (my dad will debate that though). The pub has changed ownership and names 3 times since then and that little café shut down about a decade ago. Life is funny, scary, interesting, and confusing all at the same time, isn’t it?
But like all experiences I’ve collected and continue to collect, I did learn from this experience. I never wore a waistcoat to the pub after that night.