Lucas Lascivious

Foe of moderation, champion of excess

Month: May, 2015

My Five Worst Drunken Experiences


I’d say being an avid binge drinker just shy of full-blown alcoholism has been positive 90 percent of the time. With any positive, though, comes a negative and, trust me, when that 10 percent of the negative comes to play, it’s no holds barred. Case in point:

The time I was reminded why I hate Xanax
My friend and I made the decision to start drinking poolside at noon, only to decide (me drunkenly so) that evening it’d be a fantastic idea to go downtown. At the first bar we hit, I was fine, albeit still on the low-end of drunk. The advantage to having really gorgeous fag hags is that when dudes offer to buy them drinks, they usually buy the gay sidekick one as well by association. Cut to a few drinks later and we head to another, more upscale bar, where two guys from the previous bar proceeded to buy several bottles of wine. At some point I remember taking a Xanax, which mildly drunk me would normally have the sense to refuse because my body does not handle the Xanax/booze combination well; however, at this point, I was right on the border of being “everything in hilarious” drunk and blacking out, so I took a Xanax (or two). Worst. Decision. Ever. From there, I remember trying to get up from the table, only to fall over and knock down all of the glassware, which in turn caused everyone to turn around to witness the shit-show. This is the part where I only have two distinct memories: one is falling on the sidewalk outside of the bar and the other is the flashing lights of an ambulance. From what I was told, I got carried out by someone, made it to the sidewalk, and fell and busted my chin. In my state, I naturally brushed it off as being nothing, but my friend happened to be a nurse, and she’s the one who called the ambulance. Now I’m thankful she did, because after seeing photos of it the next day, it was an enormous, deep gash that only felt like I’d grazed the cement. After hitting the sidewalk and seeing the ambulance lights, the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital lobby with my mother and sister at 3 AM, where I eventually had my chin stitched up. I mean, she and I have been friends since middle school, so she’s seen me in various states of messiness plenty of times, but this incident by far took the cake.

The time I woke up in a bank parking lot in downtown Athens
The scenario: I’d driven up to Athens, Georgia to visit a friend of mine for my 19th birthday. There used to be a 21+ gay club there, which I eventually got kicked out of for being an idiot and shouting, “I’m 19, bitcheeeees!” while there was a bouncer standing right beside me. After she caught wind of what I’d just said, she told me I had to leave, but as I was, I slipped down a flight of stairs. I don’t remember any of that happening, but at that point, everyone kind of decided it was time to leave because I was acting like a drunken circus sideshow. Allegedly, I was told to wait for them outside after that, but in the time it took them to pay their tabs I somehow managed to wander off in my drunken stupor. How I managed to even walk is beyond me, because I woke up in a Wells Fargo parking lot several hours later. When I say the parking lot, I mean I had literally fallen asleep on the asphalt. Somehow no one noticed me (or maybe they did and just didn’t do anything—it was Athens, after all. From there, I remember trying to crawl into the backseat of a car that was, thankfully, locked, passing out against the car, and then eventually mustering the strength to try and find a cab. Along the way, some random guy asked if I needed help, to which I (presumably in jumbled jargon) explained I needed to find a cab. He pointed out that I was standing right next to one. Miraculously, I recognized a landmark as we drove around that led me back to my friend’s apartment complex, but by that time, they’d all passed out and the only money I had was inside of the apartment. After an hour of my banging on the door and no one opening it, the cab driver left with a promise he’d come back for the money (he never did). At maybe 7 or 8 AM the next morning, my friend opened his door to find me and the dude who’d helped me back passed out in the foyer he shared with the people that owned the duplex connected to his. Needless to say, he was non too pleased at the sight, given his neighbors. At this point, I was covered in scrapes, bruises, and dirt, but I nonetheless ended up having to drive the guy home to what ever public housing complex it was he lived in. To cap off the weekend, a friend of his and I tried to fuck in his bed before an entire party of people came bursting in to stop us midway through. I woke up the next day and realized he had a “la bella vita” tattoo in the same location as Lindsay Lohan, because that’s apparently how obsessed he was with her. Oy. To this day, I maintain I was slipped something, given a group of dudes kept buying us all drinks, and because I handle my alcohol better than that. It’s only when drugs come into play that I become incomprehensibly fucked up.

My 21st birthday
It’s a given you’re supposed to throw down on your 21st birthday as a societal rite of passage. Usually that entails going out with your friends and getting comfortably drunk, but since I’d been drinking, and sneaking into bars and clubs since I was 16, I felt as if I had to go 10x harder than usual for my 21st. Frankly, the only thing I remember is having two dudes back to my friend’s apartment, where we downed two handles of whatever kind of liquor we happened to be drinking between the three of us and my friend walking in as we were playing Truth or Dare, which is sort of foreplay for those who are too pussy to just say, “Let’s have a threesome.” I’ve had 22 shots of Malibu Coconut Rum for Spring Break at 19 and that hangover isn’t even within the realm of the kind of hangover I had the night after my 21st birthday. I couldn’t even crawl into my friend’s bed, because I was literally crawling to the bathroom every 10 minutes for hours just puking up bile. Lesson learned.

The time I unknowingly stayed with a major drug dealer
I’d been talking to this guy for a while and he eventually invited me to come up. Full disclosure: I was already half in the bag when the invitation was extended, so I of course gladly accepted. I knew I couldn’t drive, so I just took Groome, wherein I continued to drink from a big girl Thermos of wine on the way. To make a long story short, I eventually found out he was a major dealer in Atlanta. When I found that out, I fully expected the DEA to make an appearance at anytime and ended up steering as clear of him as possible. Fortunately, all the shit he was on made him paranoid to even leave his house and he didn’t even wanna fuck as recompense for paying for everything, which was well into the thousands of dollars at this point. Thankfully I was only there for two nights and then booked it stat.

The time I was rescued by good Samaritans
It was about 11:30 AM on a Sunday and I was walking the four blocks to the liquor store to buy booze in an effort to drink off my hangover. I made it to the gas station perfectly and even spoke coherently, but somewhere in between the two block between the liquor store and my parents’ house, the shit I’d taken the night before combined with the fact I was still intermediately intoxicated hit me like a ton of bricks and I literally fell face-first onto the cement in front of all of the people coming from church. I tried to shake it off, but the more I walked, the weaker my legs got. I got about one more block before I fell into a pile of branches, which I was about to make my slumber nest, until a van full of people just getting out of church pulled over and offered to give me a ride, meaning they drove me one block. That would have been fine, except the child that was in the van happened to be one of my mother’s students. As if basically crawling for dear life wasn’t awful enough, I ended up being rescued by parents my mother had regular interaction with in a professional setting. I’d already felt like drinking, but after that ordeal I basically just pounded the booze I’d just bought. Mind you, while I may have been scraped and bruised by the time I got home, my glass-contained spirits were in mint condition. Priorities.


Is Drag the Gender Equivalent of Blackface?


Within the gay community, drag is sort of an inevitable cornerstone, so it begs the question: is drag anti-feminist?

On the one hand, I see how females could find drag insulting, because drag primarily relies on perpetuating gender stereotypes, but I can’t comprehend it being offensive. People pretending to be the opposite sex is an exhausted and, frankly, overused trope. I’m sure people like William West found blackface to be highly entertaining until the likes of Bert Williams came along to point out that it’s grotesquely offensive. The difference, however, is that drag isn’t innately meant to be insulting.

For the record, I see drag as an outlet that allows people of one gender to take on the features of another gender, as generic as those components may be. So, in that sense, I’d say drag is more about defying gender roles than portraying a caricature. Plus, let’s just state the obvious: Kim Kardashian wouldn’t have gone from looking like a video ho with heavy lip liner to being on the cover of Vogue had it not been for her makeup artist learning the tricks of the drag trade. Drag queens were contouring, snatching, and coiffuring to the gods long before it became a part of the mainstream. I won’t blatantly say that women should necessarily be thanking drag queens, but there should be an understanding that drag isn’t meant to be demeaning; if anything, there should be mutual respect.