My 19th birthday, as confirmed by everyone there, was the best of all the 19th birthdays: I was last legal, so there were no logistical issues upon entry. I got to have one final round with my fake, because I was determined to turn 19 at Ménage on a Wayback Wednesday, but wasn’t legal until Thursday midnight. (Hotel was my club, but turning 19 at Ménage was a childhood dream. For the record, though, my taste in music has long since evolved.) I was as drunk as one should be when turning 19. I’m pretty sure the entire club saw my hot pink thong at some point, because my dress – as per my teenage years – ended just below my ass, and my concern for it rising significantly diminished with each additional shot. (Pink underwear with a black dress? My perspective back then was if people are going to see it, they might as well get a good look.) I took over a booth with my friends like we bought it (we didn’t). I danced so hard that I was limping to the point that one of the guys carried me to the car at the end of the night. And almost every single one of us, girls and guys, hooked up with some beautiful stranger.
Mine was a UFC fighter (not that I knew this yet – we’ll get there). Ladies, I’m not sure what your preferences are when it comes to guys’ occupations, but I like anything that ensures they have solid arms and solid abs. Although I do love a guy in a suit, that is simply because suits are hot. (By the way, in Paris, guys ride bikes in suits! #loveit! Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the stereotype that the French walk around with baguettes in hand all the time: totally true.) It has nothing to do with what the suit represents. Forget lawyers; I like tradesmen (though I most commonly and unintentionally end up on dates with the engineers that oversee the tradesmen #sigh). Present me with a guy that builds cases and one that builds houses, and I am partial to the construction worker. Re: Solid arms and solid abs. So, give me a not-too-jacked-but-inevitably-well-toned UFC fighter on my 19th birthday, and there we have the ultimate 19th birthday gift. (Thank you, slutty little black dress and flashy little pink string.)
I think his name started with an F. I believe he was in his early twenties. I probably initiated the conversation I don’t recall taking place before the inappropriate make-out. But what I can clearly remember is that he was hot. He was a whore, for sure, but did I mention I was flashing neon pink? #notonetojudge. Best part? No awkward realizations – that night.
Months later, I was chilling with my roommates in Guelph. Surely procrastinating on writing some paper about the benefits of stripping (I seriously wrote a paper on this, and I seriously aced it) or studying for some insignificant-to-my-future exam (yeah, I’m a big fan of post-secondary school; just ask the little sister of mine I encourage not to apply), I played an episode of Keys to the VIP. I don’t remember how I found this show, but it was my way of feeling connected to the Toronto club scene while I was unfortunately situated in my hick university town. During each episode, two Toronto guys would compete for a free night out with a booth and bottles by completing challenges to pick up girls in clubs. It was hilarious! I don’t know what was funnier: the guys that epically failed or the chicks that foolishly/drunkenly fell for their shit. (Oh, we’re in luck! I found the first episode I ever watched. Click here.)
Fortunately for me, most episodes took place at Wetbar, possibly the most popular club of my clubbing days, making it the least popular in my books. I could count all four times I ever stepped foot in there, so my chances of encountering one of the guys featured on this show were slim. This particular episode was no exception. That rooftop was admittedly unforgettable – for its co-ed washrooms.
“This guy’s a UFC fighter,” one of my roommates pointed at the screen.
“What’s a UFC fighter?” I asked.
“A guy who fights in the U – F – C,” the other answered, as if that clarified.
I correctly assumed that to mean some sports-related thing I’d have no interest in, but made a mental note: UFC = solid arms and solid abs. After thorough examination of this guy’s, my eyes trailed to his face.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, pulling the laptop from the table onto my lap. “This guy looks familiar! What did they say his name was?”
“[Something with an F.]” they answered, zoning in on the screen with me.
“Oh my God!” I repeated as I brought the laptop even closer. “He’s the guy from my birthday!”
We simultaneously threw our heads back in laughter.
“Yo, go me! I made out with a guy on TV who fights in the UFC!” I cockily applauded myself, still unsure of what UFC stood for.
I disregard Wetbar’s existence, and a Keys to the VIP contestant still successfully plays me, I laughed to myself before realizing: I’m one of the chicks that drunkenly fell for his shit.
About the Author
Maria Bellissimo was the protagonist of a sad, boring life until she turned her story into a happiness experiment. She chronicles her search for happiness on her supremely awesome and appropriately named blog, The Happiness Experiment, which she hopes will inspire others to launch their own happiness experiments. Follow her adventures on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.