Bangkok'ed Pt 2 - The Morning story

“No one gets more drunk than me!”

When it comes to partying with me, the spot of ‘that drunk friend’ should always have my name inscribed on it. This is because I do not entertain any inebriated soul unless of course that person is me.

There are that two typical templates of drunkards that the general population subscribes to. Fore-mostly, there are the rowdy drunks, synonymous with sailors and Liverpool FC supporters. These people loudly proclaim their sobriety and will punctuate their every sentence with ‘drink’ followed by an accompanying expletive, just for impact.

Then there are those who fall into deep sleep before you even realize they’ve finished their glass. These people ignore all queries of intoxication. Their favourite way of announcing their surrendered sobriety is by vomiting, on themselves.

I belong to a third bracket. I’m a dipsomaniac, I confess to being drunk and I always use this to validate my actions. I will admit to being drunk at the slightest chance possible only to indemnify my actions for being horribly mean to people.

Ejecting the hassle of having to babysit sloshed individuals, they actually prove to be some of the best entertainment. Especially so when I’m well tanked up myself and think everything is a great idea, even urging them to walk unsupported.

MS was already beyond the recall of sobriety. I knew this for a fact because she was a human pinball machine. In the brief 5 mins of having her walk unsupported back to the room, she was bouncing off the walls and toppling over the hotel ashtray bins.

I only stopped laughing because there was a woman SCREAMING in the next room. It took me 10 secs for the alcohol to retract from my brain to realize that the couple was fucking and I no longer had any interest in watching MS bruise herself silly.

In all honesty, nothing beats a woman who is barely-able-to-stand drunk and simultaneously horny. It’s like a wildcard. They are unpredictable and you really never know how anything is going to materialize until shit actually happens.

It started with a slow striptease. Part provocative, part teasing and entirely pleasing. I was no longer laughing like the little bitch I was at the door while watching her bodyslam herself into walls. She was no longer the human pinball, but masterful at her craft of seduction, peeling off her clothes with so much grace (and eroticism) that I almost forgot she was drunk.

The skirt fell to the ankles as she teasingly bared her midriff. She inched closer. I tighten my grip on the pillow. And then in a split second, she went from lips licking to having her head bounce off the mattress.

She had tripped, fell face first right into the bed, her head catching the edge of the mattress, snapped back and I suddenly lost sight of her.

She crawled up but the only image that was implanted in my mind on constant freeze frame was the slight winch on her face just before her head impacted the mattress. Without hesitation and chivalrous inhibitions, I did the only logical thing.

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

She started laughing along with me and I no longer thought it was funny. You see, embarrassment fuels my proclivity to hold on to a laugher longer, taking that away only leaves sympathy. I just hate people when they are drunk. The only obvious solution to obviate further ‘self-induced’ injury was to pad her up NFL style.

The night was stacking up with much induced familiarity to me whenever alcohol is introduced into the bedroom frolics. She was drunk, had bruises that she probably will only feel the pain in the morning and very determined to have sex. I was high, very amused but too tired to want to be fucking anyone for the next 4 hours at least.

On top of that, I was having a bad stomach and if I were to discharge anything from my body that night, it would be shit.

The bedroom bargaining was in place and I knew it was going to take a lot of convincing on my part to persuade her to keep her clothes on.

She: “I want it tonight.”
Me: “You are drunk, I’m tired, you have your period and I have a bad stomachache. We’ll fuck in the morning.”
She: “Period's over. Let’s fuck now and again in the morning.”
Me: “I’m tired.”
She: “You can sleep after sex.”
Me: “I might shit on you while having sex. You sure you want that?”

Apparently even when a person is drunk, being shat on is still very repulsive. I know that for a fact, because her face contorted with so much disgust, she looked like she had a botox malfunction.

The good thing was that she stopped bugging me. I don’t know if it was my threat to reign my fury of fecal matter on her or she passed out entirely from the alcohol. Either way, it worked to my advantage.

The next morning, she woke up to shower and I got woken up cos she was shouting at me to get her under-garments, which somewhere in the moment of our brief frolic, was lost between the bed and comforter. I flipped the comforters off to find the greatest morning wake up sight ever.

There was a huge dark patch of stain on my side of the bed. I didn’t have my contacts on and my high 300 odd degree eye-sight wasn’t helping my visual interpretation either. I started piecing matters together.

1. I had a bad stomach.
2. I remembered farting once. Maybe twice.
3. I slept naked.

Did I? Could I possibly have? This cannot be possible, now can it? Did I.. shit the bed?

I was now facing the greatest dilemma of my 26 years as a man. Do I throw the sheets out the window and destroy all evidence? Do I examine the stain closer? I even contemplated swiping my own ass just for a whiff.

Wetting the bed is bad enough, but shitting on it? I’m pretty sure this would be some customary practice every Monday morning at the old folk’s home when I’m 90, but a young healthy adult? I’m sure this qualifies me to lose my rights as a human. I should be stoned.

Then there was more.

On her side of the bed, there was this long ‘skid mark’, that ran all the way up to the head of the bed. Now surely, I could not have done that. I mean, how the hell would I have shat such a thin line and the only way my ass was going to be position like that was if I slept with my ass on the pillow. I couldn’t have done that, not even when I’m drunk will I be blessed with such dexterity.

It was 10.30am and I was examining the bed and postulating Locard’s exchange principle’s on trace evidence. Some holiday this turned out to be.

Then it hit me. It wasn’t shit. It was blood.

Me: “MS!!!!!!!”

She ran out of the bathroom, still soaking wet, confused and very naked.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

I pointed to the stains like a master reprimanding the puppy for peeing in the house. She grinned then went back to the bathroom.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK!! I NEARLY THREW THE SHEETS AWAY THINKING I SHAT ON IT! AND I THOUGHT YOUR PERIOD WAS OVER?!”