Dark Side of Drunk: We're Not in Kansas Anymore
The skinny: Corporate Training in Kansas City. Well, to be truthful, it's Overland Park, but close enough. Below, an account of how close you can get to people you hardly know after a couple of cocktails. Truly, the Dark Side of Drunk.

"The Bomb is too cool for us!" I say Wednesday afternoon. The rest of us are going to lunch, but The Bomb keeps dissing us. (They've settled into the habit of saying, "Shakira? Where are we going today?" since I've established myself as the Meal Planner. Hey, I plan what I'm eating for lunch about nine minutes after I eat breakfast.)

"Too cool for you…oh yeah, that's right, Missy, we're going for drinks tonight!" he says.

"Oh, are we?" I challenge, hands on hips. "Name the place." And it's done.

The beginning of Happy Hour is tame enough. I plan to be home by 9 after running a couple of errands. As I get up to leave, though, they beg me to stay. They look so pleading and I'm such a sucker for (1) beer, (2) peer pressure and (3) people who think I'm fabulous (not necessarily in that order) that I run my errands and come back. Just a few minutes. I won't be far behind, right?

Wrong. As I come back to the bar and sit down, they are in full discussion of ball shaving. Yes, you heard right: Lizzie mentioned she once shaved a man's balls, and the guys are all over that tip. I order a new beer and give my opinion.

"Well, it's important because sometimes the hair gets stuck in your teeth."

They turn on me.

"WWWHHHHHAATTTTT?! You actually…do that?" The men are intrigued, shocked and surprised.

"Well, yeah. I mean, you gotta keep your man happy, right?"

There's a moment of silence and it's time to change the subject. Unfortunately, we go from ball-shaving to sex in Las Vegas, as Iowa tells us about the sex show he and his wife went to a couple of years back. (Iowa is in full denial of his southern accent, and refuses to eat anything green. He also is allergic to the protein in flour. The hell?)

"The sex show was full of seamen," Iowa says in wonderment.

"Well, of course it was," I say to Lizzie and elbow her.

"And the seamen were full of come?" she says, downing her third shot. We crack up while Iowa tells his story. We're laughing so hard we miss the next tale about receiving a hand job on an airplane while an old lady was sitting next to him. No, she wasn't the one giving the hand job. But still: ewwwww.

Meanwhile, Blond Tom Cruise and The Bomb are having a discussion about whether or not they're sensitive.

"Are you sensitive?" The Bomb asks. (The Bomb: A gay man from Las Vegas who is super fabulous and calls me The Princess. He's known me for about 12 hours and he has me pegged as spoiled rotten. And his favorite phrase? You guessed it. EVERYTHING is "the bomb.")

"I think I'm sensitive," Blond Tom Cruise answers. (I swear to God, this guy is aptly named. He has Tom Cruise's mannerisms, his voice, even his NOSE and his attitude. Blond Tom Cruise is also obsessed with motorcycles and lost half of his right index finger in what I imagine was a fiery crash that probably scared him so badly he was unable to get back on a motorcycle again, until a redhead or a blonde told him that he had to get back on that motorcycle and RIDE, dammit! It's the only thing that has ever meant anything to him! And she believes in him, and by God, he will ride again.)

***

It's the next night that they convince me yet again to go out, though I've barely dragged myself through a spectacularly brutal hangover day.

"Fine, I'll be there, I just have to work out. I have to get the poison out," I tell them as I leave class. They can't call me a quitter!

The Bomb comments on my lipstick as soon as I arrive at the restaurant. This continues to be the theme for the night, as he makes observations about the size of my mouth and the fact that my lips would be termed DSL. No, kids, we are NOT talking about Digital Subscriber Line. Do you know what it is? I'll let you figure it out.

"Hmmm. Haven't heard that since high school," I tell him. "But let me tell you this, I ain't never had no complaints."

The Kid Machine almost chokes on his stuffed chicken. "I can't believe you said that." (The Kid Machine and his wife have five kids at home. He's been fixed, though so we'll have to change his name once he accomplishes his next goal in life: playing in the PGA Tour.)

The Bomb and the waitress go head to head as he gives her unending grief and I have two glasses of wine that make me think of nothing but sleep. Her parting comment as we leave the restaurant, two bottles of wine, ten cocktails and one Death by Chocolate later?

"As far as men go, nine and a half fingers is just fine with me." And Blond Tom Cruise puffs up like a rooster.

Ladies and gentlemen, I retract my earlier statement. I AM a quitter. I head for the hotel.