Living in a Fraternity

When I was in high school I always used to tell my dad that I wanted to join a fraternity in college. Needless to say, I was not even allowed to rush for the fraternities-sexist pigs. Well my comments, intended to scare and shock my dear father, finally came back to bite me in the ass.

Connor had his good friend Jeff to visit this weekend for St. Patrick's day. Jeff thinks that I'm the peanut gallery and just found out that I live with Connor two days before his arrival. I'm sure when he bought his ticket he wasn't banking on hanging out with the peanut gallery all weekend but that's what he got.

On this fine boy's weekend Saturday morning rolled around much too quickly. I awoke to find the clock at just past 7:30 am and an ice cold guinness pressed between Connor and I in bed like an unwanted stuffed animal. Kevin, our other house mate hovered over our bed telling us to get up and drink! Before I had time to roll over and hide from the day, 6 foot 2 Jeff galloped-or galumphed (hard to tell at that fuzzy hour) into the room and leapt gleefully into bed with us. Two men and two beers was a bit of a full house for me, but what was the other option? 

Fast forward to 8:00: Celtic music is blaring, three guys are laughing at the movie Boon Dock Saints over bloody mary's and I'm struggling into a green leprechaun suit.

I hadn't so much as walked out of the bathroom from an innocent tooth brushing session when I was accosted with accusations of having taken a pooh. In the next half hour I had to defend my honor, tooth and nail to prove that I was a bona fide girl and therefore would NEVER even dare think of pooping. I had to bear the newly coined term of "taking a Lindsay" which was thrown around like chihuahuas at a suburban park for new "moms". It's hard to face this onslaught of accusations from an increasingly drunk, small army of insurgents making merry on my precious furniture, but I bore it with courage, grit and a guilty smirk. Trust me, my explanations of what it is "to be human" did not help my cause.

We made our way to the St. Patrick's day parade by bus and quickly found ourselves in the "beer garden" in San Francisco's Union Square. The revelers went on for miles and miles in every costume imaginable. Connor's sister Quinn quickly made friends with a man wearing a bright green leotard and shaking his booty in the sun for our viewing pleasure. 

The drinking continued endlessly and I was biraged with questions about why I wouldn't so much as have one beer and what kind of Irish person was I anyway. This coming from other friends of Connor's whom we met while roaming with his cousin, sister, friends and more. Well I am not one to back down from a challenge, and when someone implies that I am no fun, I of course have to prove them wrong. Thus began the day of me acting like the drunkest person out there when I was in fact the only stone cold sober person in the crowd of thousands.

I don't remember the details of the live music or who was breaking out the harmonicas because I was "drunk", i.e. dancing like a hyena, laughing like a baboon and forgetting that I was actually not drunk.

Two hot dogs and five hours later we somehow made our way across the city to a bar in Northbeach. From above the blaring music of the bar came an even louder ruckus of sound. It came from the open bay windows one story above, where people hung their intoxicated limps into the California sunshine, enticing passerby's to stop on in. We went up to the what appeared as a dilapidated rat hole where bar crew might store illicit drugs. But nope, it was a someone's house and they had actually been living there for two years. There was a DJ, a balance board to dance on, a big black dog named Baby and well, quite a few relatives of Connor's. I was introduced, among others, to a man and his boyfriend. I didn't question this because one of the guys was wearing red and white long underwear that looked straight out of "Where's Waldo". The other one had a wiry beard as long as an obese hamster.

Once I got tired I assumed I was safe hanging out with the "gay couple". I helped one of them put on his necklace and stroked the other one's wiry beard.....Clueless. Suddenly they started talking about fucking girls in a most vulgar manner.

I said, "Wait, I thought you two were together." They laughed heartily at my gullibility and one said to me,

"No, no I've tried to be gay but I just can't. I love to fuck chicks. As many chicks as I can. In fact I want to fuck that blond chick right now. " I thought perhaps the conversation was over, but I was wrong. He continued,

"If I were going to fuck a guy, I'd do it reverse cowgirl style. You know, but instead of the pussy it would be the ass."

Was this conversation really happening??

I guess I looked a little too confused or innocent because he didn't feel that I understood his gist.

"You don't know what I mean do you?" Before I could assure him that I did, he grabbed the candy cane stocking-clad boy in his arms and bounced him violently on his lap.

"You see, just like this. Uhhh!" he said as he bit his lip and grimaced in mock pleasure.

Just as this was going on, Connor managed to spot me in the crowd...you know, just nestled in with two guys humping on the couch. I smiled sweetly and shrugged by shoulder with palms to the sky as the humping continued. 

Moral of that story: Don't think hanging out with the "gay couple" is safe.

I'll skip the details of the bars that followed, Jeff's increasing incoherence and tendency to want to wrestle, or Kevin's passing out and getting picked up for dinner by a crowd of strangers. Somehow we made it home around 9:00 pm and with more guys than we started with.

I can see the rest of the scene as if a fly on the wall. A group of guys shooting the shit, drinking beers and laughing. A Charlotte-from sex and the city-type nightmare girlfriend shaking in her boots, trying to catch every spill and splater, advising them not to eat on the couch and begging them to sit on her chairs (which I have carefully wrapped in heavy clear plastic, scotch taped everywhere to withstand butt jiggling) and telling her friends that she can't hang out because she has to stay at home and babysit the little devil boys.

With Connor's valiant help I managed to avoid doing the dishes of the employed who ate the unemployed's food (mine fools) as well as vehemently refusing to provide towels for certain gentlemen to make diapers for other gentlemen with a reputation for drunken couch peeing. At midnight after a long long day I crawled into bed with a giggle, a sigh and no unwelcome bedfellows. 

Karma has always been a spiteful bitch. I admit it, I am ever so glad that I never never lived in a fraternity.