Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Marcus

One day last week, while I went through my standard morning routine of brushing teeth and shaving before work, my mind wandered off to some of the more fulfilling moments in my life. The ones that have often taken place in dimly-lit nightclubs where music is pumping, alcohol is spilling, and young women are making Susan B. Anthony and Angela Davis cringe. Then I remembered the conversation with Hollywood that I’d had the night before. As we discussed a drunken story from my weekend, I had offered, “When I’m drunk, I think I’m irresistible.”

Now as I stood in front of my mirror, attempting to escape (if only mentally) the daily 7 am tedium, I gave some deeper thought to that comment. It’s a common—and, more often than not, justified—belief that alcohol makes you bolder when it comes to the opposite sex. As I two-stepped through my highlight reel of memories, I realized just how much bolder it has made me at times. They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing.

An attractive girl walks through McFadden's on a crowded Friday night in 2007, and accidentally bumps into our intoxicated protagonist near the bar. He looks at her and smiles. Instead of admonishing her clumsiness, he grabs the waist of the pretty stranger. They begin dancing in the very spot, grinding on each other hungrily like two unattended teenagers at the prom. The song ends, as does their dance.

Him: I’m [The D.e.f.i.].
Her: Alexis*.
Him: Alexis, what would you do if I let you suck on my tongue?

Without hesitation, the shy lass pulls him into an impromptu makeout session.

Firstly: Yes, that all actually happened as written. Chief, Haze, and Tony are all my witnesses. Alexis [*I have absolutely NO clue what her name was; I had forgotten it by the next morning] continued on to her original destination after a few minutes of tongue-wrestling. An hour later I spotted a random girl—or, at least, the blurry outline of a girl—nearby, and said, “Alexis?” When she shook her head confused, I resigned, “You’re not the girl I was just making out with, are you?”

Secondly: Yes, my life is heavily influenced by Castor Troy.

Do I always end up with the girl and/or her phone number? Nope. Am I always as suave (stop laughing!) as I was that night in McFadden’s? Hardly. But between sober and twisted, the contrast in my demeanor and approach is stark, to say the least. I go from Clark Kent fumbling with his words and glasses, to Superman…fumbling with his words and glass. But, you know, in a more charming way.

• Sober? I pass by quietly with a smile. Drunk? “You’re really tall.”
• When sober, I respond to the news that a girl has read this blog with something like, "Oh really? What did she think?" After drinking, the first thing out of my mouth is, "How badly does she want me?"
• Sober Me, to Tony: “You are NOT going to tell girls I’m mentally-challenged just to start a conversation.” Drunk Me, about an hour later: “Yeah, do it. I can make it work.” (And I did—hi , Hannah.)
• Sober Me is annoyed by promotions girls passing out shirts and trinkets that no one really wants; Drunk Me livens up their night by making witty remarks about his new flashing Bacardi pin, while he adjusts his new Bacardi hat.
• Sober Me hates the fundamental principle of a strip club (why spend money on a girl you can’t have sex with?); Drunk Me wins lap dances and chills in clubs without even realizing a dancer is sitting in his lap.
• Sober, I hang out with a beautiful senorita in a respectful manner. Drunk, I maul her in front of her coworkers on a couch in the VIP (I’m still amazed she didn’t slap my face and never talk to me again).
• Sober, I remain an engaging, professional presence around attractive female clients. Blacked out? I end up in the women’s restroom in a club, against the door, frantically making out with one when a coworker opens said door into my back.
• When I’m sober and a girl tells me she’s married, I curse in my head and give up any hope of hooking up with her. When I’m drunk, I end up having sex with her in a hotel stairwell while her hubby sleeps in their room down the hall.

And lest any girls out there begin to feel a high and mighty streak coming on, let me point out that your gender is not immune to the “altered ego.” About a year ago, I was at McFadden’s again, this time for TD’s birthday. A girl struck up a conversation with me, but as I didn’t find her attractive, I gave the time-honored “I have a girlfriend” line. She then spent the next hour or so trying to convince me to cheat on my fictitious significant other. She even went to the extreme of writing the following on a bar napkin, and then slipping it into my pocket:

“If you’re ever in the mood to try something different, call me!
Karen xoxo
412-xxx-xxxx”

(Once again, I don’t remember her real name. And no, I never called. But I do admire her moxie, even if it didn’t come naturally.)

I say all of this to analyze and discuss, not to brag (ok, I’m doing it a little to brag). The stakes aren’t always as low as a quick slap & tickle. When drunk, I’ve told lots of girls that they’re exactly the type that I could fall in love with (if I did and you haven’t heard from me since…sorry ladies). But, once when I was deeply in love—quite possibly the one and only time that I’ve actually been in love in the first 29 years of my life—with one particular girl, I couldn’t muster up the courage to tell her so during the sober hours, when it counted. Come to think of it, I didn’t do much better of addressing it when I was drunk, either. One of my most profound alky blunders led to our friendship being more or less demoted to an awkward pleasantness. Over time, I’ve slowly begun to beat myself up less and less for the opportunity I blew. She has since married, and I wish her the best.

Guess you can chalk at least one up for Dr. Jeckyll.