For the first time that I can remember, I went out drinking with co-workers: Ruth Blackwell, Cherry Poppens, and a new girl on the Porno Circuit, Alyssa Jordan.

First, a few words about Alyssa: she’s 26, and she looks like she’s barely-legal cause she’s in braces; I shot her that day in her very first interracial scene for Blacks on Blondes, right after we got back from the filthy dirty gloryhole; she doesn’t have a lot of friends in Porno Land yet cause she just moved here from far away, and she’s just as fucked up as the rest of us…but of course I say that in a good way.

After we wrapped, we headed to Fred 62, my very favorite place to eat dinner right now, and then strolled down to The Dresden, a bar made popular from the movie “Swingers”. We listened to Marty and Elayne sing funky, jazzed up versions of “Muskrat Love” and “My Funny Valentine”, drank Key Lime martinis, and listened to this kooky regular named George tell us about his life, which mainly consisted of staving off suicide one day at a time.

We grew tired of George, and Marty and Elayne went on break, so we walked down the block to a total dive bar and drank more.

Lots more.

Well…not all of us. I was drinking a lot, but for me, anything after a 3rd beer is a lot; Cherry’s a natural drunk; Ruth was throwing them back for sure; Alyssa had an audition the next morning and was taking it easy….well, easier than we were.

On our little walk to the dive bar, Ruth Blackwell decided to be Ruth Blackwell and spit in my mouth as we strolled down the sidewalk. I was drunk enough not to care much, either, so I let her. I kinda enjoyed it, as a matter of fact, which probably means there’s something terribly wrong with me.

As we crossed the street and headed for the dive bar, I decided to grope Alyssa. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was…cause when I felt her up, I felt what had to be the wettest pair of panties I’ve ever felt in my life.

Wet. As in she just pissed her pants wet.

I don’t recall asking her if she actually did piss her pants, but I do recall she told me her pussy is that wet “all the time”.

Wet pussies and alcohol seem to trigger my pervy-creepy side, and suddenly I got a total boner, and, to make a long story short, proceeded to finger Alyssa’s soaking wet twat at the bar as we drank some more.

Which didn’t seem to bother Alyssa at all.

Ever try to carry on a normal conversation at a bar while fingered the girl you’re talking to? While watching her eyes roll up in to the back of her head? While people are all around, drinking and laughing and having a good time?

“Your panties are getting in my way,” I said. “Please go do the ladies’ room and take them off.”

(Note the appropriate place for the apostrophe in “ladies’ room” please).

“No,” she said.

(Note the lack of an exclamation point after her reply, so we all know what that means.)

“Get into that fucking bathroom and peel off those dripping wet panties and get back here right away!”

(Do I really have to talk about punctuation any more?)

Which is to say she got up and walked directly into the ladies’ room, and came back immediately and sat down right next to me, and we continued our nice, normal conversation as Cherry Poppens watched.

But we all grew bored after a few minutes, so Alyssa went to flirt with a “cute boy” at the end of the bar as Cherry and I had more quality conversation:

“Go piss in your beer bottle and bring it back to me. I want to drink it,” Cherry said.

“Right away, my love,” I said, then pecked her on the cheek.

And I did.

And she did…but first she performed fellatio on the beer bottle, then took a big gulp of my piss, and then spit it right into my face.

My Piss.

My Face.

Then, a tap on my shoulder.

It was Suicide George, from The Dresden. He wanted to talk to us. He was lonely. He wanted to “flirt with porn stars”, too, and tell us about his problems, and after he told us about his life, and how he’s “between suicides” each and every day, I asked Suicide George if he’d like Cherry Poppens to spit in his face.

“Um OK,” mumbled Suicide George.

Cherry smiled and turned Suicide George’s face into a target, and he enjoyed each and every loogie Cherry served up.

We closed that bar down.

We said bye to Suicide George as he stumbled home, and I still smelled like piss, even though my shirt was dry, and we all walked all the way back to my car, which really wasn’t all that far at all, and Cherry tried a number of times to jam her finger up my ass, which isn’t a very appropriate thing to do, especially on a public sidewalk.