Anticipate This, Bitches.

May 2009:
I am wasted at Bar Anticipation in Belmar (fuck that, Lake Como is not a town, it's a fucking lake.) I am about 80 miller lights into the night and am rocking the truck out in the middle of the dance floor. My friend, Bryan, has been doing loops around me while I dance, making sure the monsters perched at the bar enjoying their gin & tonics can't get close enough to swoop in and dance with me.
Bryan missed one.
I am approached by a man in a pink polo. He introduces himself as Doug and asks if he can dance with me. "FUCK YEA, I DON'T GIVE A FUCKKKK," I eloquently reply, as he takes me hand and we begin to "waltz."
When the song is over, Bryan begins to drag me away, whispering in my ear, "Whitney, you're being a dumb ass, this dude is not sexy, let's make moves." But Doug swoops in once again, asking me for my phone number. I give it to him.

8am-11:30am, the next morning:
I have received 15 text messages from Doug, asking me "what is up?" or "sup?" or "you awake?"
Holy shit. Bryan was right. This dude is nuts.
I strain to remember what he looks like, but the cheap beer has taken over my memory, and all I can remember is his pink polo. Whatever. No big.

June 15th, 2010:
Standing with my group of friends, fully inebriated, I admire the Bar A bouncer standing on the stairs who I've boned a couple times. "Dude, I FUCKEDDDD him," I brag to my friends.
"Whit. We know. Congrats. Have another beer," they sarcastically reply.
I take their advice, and while I sip my miller, my bouncer boyfriend turns around and winks at me. We fought earlier in the day. I wanna spend more time fucking. He spends all his time working, so he suggested I give him a blow job at the bar. I refused his offer, sassily and relatively irritated. Come on, I do have some standards. He winks because he knows I can't stay mad at him.
My focus drifts passed the bouncer and I make eye contact with a man in a blue polo. He walks up the stairs, passing the bouncer and slides next to me.
"Hey. Wanna do a shot?"
I contemplate the idea in my mind; if I have a shot now, I can probably run to the bathroom afterwards and puke it up, come back, and keep drinking.
"Game," I reply.
Dude grabs my hand, leading me down the stairs and over toward the nearest bar. Wait, what am I doing again? Who is this guy?
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Doug."
Suddenly, I have a moment of clarity. I remember the pink polo, and a fog is lifted, and I can see his face. It's him. This isn't just any Doug. This is fucking DOUG.
"Oh christ," I utter, as I let go of his hand while his back is turned, and RUN back to my group of friends.
The bouncer is pissed. I forgot he was even there. He's watched the entire thing.
"HIDE ME," I scream to my friends.
Doug approaches the staircase, and Bouncer blocks his way.
Fuck. Yes.
The two exchange words in an epic transaction of alpha male dominance. Bouncer comes out on top. Doug walks away with his tail between his legs, off to drink another gin & tonic and find his next dance floor victim.
Bouncer turns around and glares at me. He's defended my honor, but not happily. I'm too drunk to give a fuck. I drunk text Bouncer 80x more than I should have, leave the bar, walk to a convenience store, and steal a King-Size Reese's. I sit outside on the curb, feasting in defeat.
I walk home and sleep naked.
Hello, my name is Whitney St. Paul, and I am a train wreck.