I had gleaned from our painful telephone conversations that he wasn't particularly intelligent, but I hoped I would find him fuckable. I haven't had sex with anything but my hand for months. If I wait any longer, my hole is going to close.

We decided to go out last night. I got all dressed up, which means I put on the classy jeans instead of the ones with turpentine stains on them, and yes, I only have two pairs. He came to my house to pick me up at midnight when he got out of work. I went outside to meet him at the gate and let him in, and from twenty feet away I was bowled over by his Drakkar. Not a good start.

In the light of my living room I could see he was cute. Not sex worthy cute, but friendly cute, tall, great body, bad Chicago accent. I couldn't see his face too well because it was dark in the apartment and he was wearing a baseball hat, but I knew I wasn't very attracted to him. It's true that a woman knows within minutes whether she will sleep with a man.

HOWEVER with enough tequila, that decision can be forgotten, especially when the decision-maker hasn't had sex with anything but her hand in months. This cop seemed to know this. He was smarter than I thought.

I showed him the apartment and asked if he wanted to see some art.
"Art? Uh yeah sure I guess."
"You do remember talking to me about art for two hours at Fred's right?"
"Oh yeah. I don't hear so good."
"You did go to art school right?"
"Yeah. Art Institute of Chicahgo."

Since he wasn't too interested in the art, I went to put on my coat. This is when I noticed that he was, indeed, interested in my ass.

We hopped into his truck and went to "The Store" a cop bar on Halsted.
"Its dollar beer night."
"Oh. That's nice."

He told me many boring things, which I politely pretended to be interested in. Then he called his father and asked how the election was going. He is apparently from a family of Dubya fans. I didn't care either way, since all politicians are sociopaths and thus equally deplorable in my book.

"So hahs it going Pops? We lost Californiah? Oh no, that's a big state Pops."

I thought about explaining the electoral college to him, but it would have taken more effort than I was willing to expend on a first date with a stranger I wasn't attracted to.

We walked in, and to my horror, Tucker and Vinyard were drinking at the bar. They giggled like big brothers. Oh look how cute, Bunny is on a date. They left, for which I was grateful. I did not want to suffer the indignity of my ex-boyfriend giving me nuggies on a date, treating me like his little sister. That's too incestuous for my taste.

The cop ordered two beers. We talked about art for a bit. Just long enough for me to realize that this man had never been to art school.
"Did you really go to art school?"
"Wanna play some music?"
"Uh, okay."

I went to the jukebox and picked out an impeccable bar score. Roadhouse Blues, When the Levy Breaks, Lou Reed, The Stones, Vaughn, Otis... I was on fire and having fun for the first time since the cop picked me up.

With my transcendent bar soundtrack blaring, the whole energy of the place changed. Everyone danced and sang. I drank a lot of beer and did Tequila shots. I was very drunk when my last song ended and silence settled in again. The cop was on his cell phone talking to his father. "I don't know Pops. It's close in Ohiah. That's a lot of votes Pops." In thinking that a generous father would explain the electoral college to his son, I had completely neglected the idea that his father wasn't aware of it either. I became rather depressed and it showed.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Did you really go to art school?"
"Uh, yeah. Wanna see something cool?"
"Okay. Sure."

He went out to his truck and came back with a packet of pictures. Inside were images of what happens to a man when he falls head first onto pavement from thirty stories up. His head was like a hard boiled egg that had cracked while still in the pot. Brains were leaking out. I had never seen anything so appalling. I had to give the cop credit for bringing something unique to his date.

We sat in silence a little more.

He called his father, again, further discussed the election, and then ordered me another shot of Tequila. I refused. I vowed I wouldn't drink anything more for at least an hour so that I could plan my escape.

But that plan was ruined by the arrival of his partner, an intensely sexy dyke. She greeted everyone, shook my hand forcedly and then slammed three shots of Tequila onto the bar. I was so enamored with her I had to do them. See, this is how Tequila pulls you under. It shape-shifts into the form of a hot dyke. You let down your guard, and then Tequila wins.

This is when I got the hiccups. I sat at the bar drooling over the dyke partner while the cop chatted with his father about 'how many votes' Bush had garnered. The bartender gave me limes soaked in bitters to suck on. They did nothing to stop the hiccups.

This is the last thing I remember about "The Store." I regained consciousness in some kind of drinking club north of the city with the cop's hand on my ass at six in the morning.

"You're really more attrahcted to my pahtner than me? That's kind of a mean thing to say." He took his hand off my ass and pulled money out of his wallet. I saw that he had pictures of children in it.
"Wait, wait. Are those your kids?"
"Uh yeah."
"Oh can I see? I love kids."
"Well sure, I guess."

He pulled out the pictures and showed them to me. They were not pictures of children. They were pictures of teenagers. I could legally fuck his son in the state of Illinois.
"Wait. How old are you?"
"Forty-two."
"WHAT!?"
"So are we gahnna get outta here or what?"
"I think you should take me home."
"You wahna go to your place?"
"Yes. By myself."

Fucking dirty rotten nasty Tequila. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.