[Continued from "Alcohol (Part 8)."]

When I moved to northern California to go to college, I kept on drinking, but at a slower pace.  Not because I had to study – I went to junior college the whole time I worked at Q’s – but because I didn’t have access to free booze.

But the boyfriend (later the Ex) did like drinking.  He had trouble making friends, having lived either with or down the street from his sisters his whole adult life, so we tried to have people over for dinner we thought could be our friends.  It didn’t always work out.  One coworker he had over overindulged in cheap beer to the point I had to ask the Ex to get him the hell out of the house.

We tried to befriend the Ex’s boss, and even went to his place for at least one dinner-and-a-movie night, but he turned out to be rather nutty.  I was really shy, and we didn’t live on campus, or even in Berkeley (we lived in Oakland), so it was difficult to have acquaintances over.

The Ex and I built up our own bar.  We had proper wine glasses, and buckets (rocks glasses), and highballs.  Of course we had a cocktail shaker.  And some margarita salt.  That’s what we made a lot of back in the late 1990s in that little apartment on 33rd in Oakland, margaritas.  On the rocks, with salt, please.

We didn’t go out to bars very much when I was in college.  Partly because we didn’t have any money, but also because we didn’t want to drink and drive.  On a big night out we’d take BART over to “the City” (a term that still makes me cringe), but on the weekends BART stops running about midnight, which I think just encourages drunk driving since bars don’t close until 2am.

Fast forward to law school.  By this time I lived in San Francisco.  The first year of law school there were a lot of efforts to get classmates to know each other.  One was to have everyone in the same section (five sections in our class) have every single class together.  Another was to have a multitude of social events.  Social events that inevitably included trips to local bars.

Because I worked a lot of nights when I was in college, I didn’t have much of a chance to do the usual college bar hopping.  Once I was at university, I was older, and worked even more nights – only not at a bar, I worked for the campus police department on 11pm to 6am shifts.  Working the first year of law school was verboten.  That meant that even though there was a shit ton of studying to do, and I attended every class, there was also plenty of time to drink.

My law school is in the Tenderloin, where there are plenty of bars, and even more dive bars.  There are some bars that are between dive bars and nicer places.  Temple Bar was such a place.  Irish pub in nature, including having Irish bartenders and Irish patrons, I supposed because they felt comfortable ordering beer from someone who could understand them.

One night a few of us were at Temple Bar having some drinks when we happened upon a guy with an Irish accent.  I said to him – mostly aware of what it would lead to – that I had once fucked a guy solely because of his accent.  The Irish chap perked up.  I assured him that it was true.

Before long, we were walking the few blocks to my apartment.  The apartment in which I lived alone because my husband was still living in southern California with our dog so I could concentrate on studying.

It was less than three months after I got married that I was on my knees just inside the front door to my apartment with the Irish guy’s cock in my mouth.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued.]

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