Tolerance to booze

After a long week, I meet up with N for drinks. I feel like I really need one (or a couple) of glasses of alcohol in order to make me forget about the crap that has been going on. Hopefully, the booze will take the edge off. The company, of course, is an added benefit.

We go from one place to another, and by the second drink, N and I are having a good time. Him more than me. He tells me he’s a lightweight and that after his first drink, he’s already feeling the effects of the alcohol. I’m not feeling anything.

Time flies and more drinks pass through glasses and down our throats. The edge is disappearing, but I’m not feeling the buzz. Still, we’re having a good time. N and I begin to make comparisons between the girth of our wrists to the girth of another part of our body. I tell him it isn’t true and that I’m proof of it. Fortunately, I wasn’t drunk to prove him wrong while sitting at the table. I’m a gentleman, after all.

He tells me after one drink he feels lightheaded. The only time I feel a little woozy is when I have to walk down a long hallway to the loo. There must be a direct line from my throat to urethra, bypassing everything.

By the time we leave the bar, we’re playfully bumping off each other. I think he’s doing it because he’s losing his balance. I’m doing it because I’m trying to be cute. We keep on making a series of dirty jokes as we walk to his place and then he asks me if I’m drunk. I say I’m not (while smirking) and the jokes are totally sober. He wonders if I have a high tolerance level to alcohol. I don’t think I do, but maybe all of that wine at dinner has an effect. Whatever.

All I can say is the rest of the night goes well before I hit the sheets and black out.