The Boston Years Part 1

31 Jul

My first year in Boston was pretty wild.  I was living outside of the Midwest for the first time and was eager to meet the smart, interesting, well-dressed men of the East Coast.  What I wasn’t prepared for was the amount of “bros” there are in Boston.  Bros who wear baggy pants, sports jerseys, and spiked Backstreet Boy hair.  Who use the words “wicked” and “fag” in every other sentence and often have accents so thick they’re unintelligible.  Not everyone in Boston is a gigantic tool, however, and I did happen upon a small handful of nice guys.  During my first year and a half there, I went through a period where I experimented with a few one-night stands.  Here is my little dedication to the wild years of my early 20s.  (Note: These stories do not involve any of the aforementioned “nice guys.”)

On weekends, I used to frequent a bar called The Last Drop with another girl from my program.  The crowd usually consisted of mostly bros, but one night I met a guy who looked remarkably like a young John Stamos.  He was there with his friend, who let’s just say did not look like a young John Stamos.  We spent the evening chatting and exchanged numbers.  The next day, I remembered that I had met a cute guy and gotten his number but I couldn’t remember his name or what he did.  A few weeks later, I was back at The Last Drop with a couple thespians from my school, and the same guy was there again!  I’m pretty sure I called him “John” the entire time I knew him because of his likeness to Stamos… and he never told me what his name really was.  Naturally, I went home with him that night in a bit of a drunken stupor.  The next morning I woke up in a queen-sized bed surrounded by shelves and shelves of books.  I looked to my left, and John was laying next to me.  I looked to my right and my gay classmate was asleep on my other side.  Hmmmm.  I got up and went into a huge modern kitchen for a glass of water before returning to John’s bed to sort out the events of the previous evening.  John and I had hooked up (I definitely remembered that) while my classmate had watched cartoons in the other room with his roommate.  (He told me later he had accompanied me back to John’s house so I wouldn’t get murdered.)  He eventually crawled into bed with us while we were sleeping because he didn’t want to sleep on the couch.  I marveled at John’s leather-bound collection of the complete works of William Shakespeare, and he told me he was a Shakespeare professor at Harvard.  Excuse me?  I excitedly told him about how I was studying theatre and currently working on a monologue from “Pericles”, but he didn’t really seem that interested.  My friend and I took a cab back to school to work on some music together.  I’m sure I ran into John a few more times after that, we may have even hooked up again… but eventually I stopped hearing from him.

There was a bartender named “Chris” who worked at The Last Drop (where I had met John).  He was really cute, spoke fluent Spanish and Portuguese, played guitar in a band, and flirted with all the girls at the bar.  Chris was always working when I stopped by, and eventually he started giving me free drinks and inviting me to hang out at the bar after they closed.  One night, after a few Jager Bombs, he invited me back to his apartment.  This time I didn’t have a body guard with me.  It was the first time I had gone to a strange guy’s apartment alone, but after a brief drunken assessment of the situation, I deemed it safe.  Once there, Chris wasted no time in dropping trou and throwing me on the bed.  His excitement was a nice change from the awkward relations that had transpired with John a couple months prior.  I guess Chris got a little too excited, however, because all of a sudden there was blood dripping down his face and chest.  He flailed around the room and grabbed a discarded t-shirt, holding it to his nose and tipping his head back.  I sat there, naked, not knowing what to do or say, so I giggled and said “Hey, at least it didn’t get on your sheets…That’d be real bitch to get out!”  He told me to leave.  He was obviously horrified and I felt for him… but come on, getting a bloody nose during coitus is funny.  That weekend, I found a new dive bar to go to and never went back to The Last Drop again.  I hear it closed.

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