Drugs on the first Date

MjAxMy1hYjgxMTE0OTAwZDRkZDczI have a friend who has a friend, who was spending some time in LA. He had been kind of disappointed by the lack of potential boyfriend material- where were the glamorous Hollywood guys he had been promised!? He wanted to find that perfect guy, ASAP!

Then one day, it happened. It was a true Hollywood story- He: A dark, Spanish Heir, all European delicacy and class. He: A Clark Kent with an Ivy League background and a name to be reckoned with in La-La Land- just the right shade of Rich and Famous.

They met at a dinner party at a mutual friends house and bonded over wheatgrass shots and raw vegetables. Perhaps this was the Dude he had been looking for? Wedding bells tolled in the mind of the Heir, as Clark Kent asked him out on a date, and he started to get nervous. Like, really, bloody, fucking, nervous. Like, Girl, Interrupted, nervous. What was he to do?

After consulting his most LA-chic friend, he decided to embrace the new culture which he had to become a part of. Prozac nation! Weed! Drugs for everyone! His LA friend gave him a spliff the size of his brain and he thankfully smoked it like a last life line- this was sure to calm him down.

When he arrived at the luxurious restaurant, his nervousness had turned into a calm stupor- what was supposed to just relax him had now turned him into a braindead zombie. At the dinner, the poor Clark tried to engage him in conversation whilst trying to wrap his head around this obvious epic fail- he couldn’t recall the Heir having a … speech impediment? Severe problems focusing? Sitting upright? The Heir tried to wade through a puddle of drowsiness, but it was too overwhelming. What the F was this shit anyway? His frail European construction clearly wasn’t meant to hit up the Ganja.

In his head, he waved a little white flag in capitulation. He had to succumb to the overwhelming tiredness- he HAD to fall asleep! And so he did. At the table, face-planting the soup (how cliche). While the Heir was doing his best Michael Phelps imitation in his bisque and nearly drowning, the Clark, patiently observing his narcoleptic nature, began to form a plan.

In life, we have to deal with the cards we’re dealt, and now the Clark had clearly been dealt one of narcoleptic misery. Misery, unless…

The delicate Heir suddenly awoke in a place unfamiliar to him- where was he?  Gradually, he started remembering the events of the evening and was struck by utter mortification- how embarrassing! The Clark would surely never look at him again…. oh, the horror! He looked around and realised he was in a really pimp crib. But where? He was relieved when the Clark walked into the room -what a gentleman, to take care of him like that, regardless of his little, erm, culinary nap earlier. But the relief quickly gave way to surprise when he realised that neither he nor the Clark was wearing a shirt, and he looked kinda… oily? That surprise then gave way to shock when he was followed into the room by a little Asian guy, equally oily, wearing only a jock strap. Oh. My. Gaaaaawd.

“I got so worried about you, so I took you back to my place. I hope you don’t mind? And yeah, my friend here stopped over, and we thought you know, when you woke up, we might hang out. All three of us.”

There’s nothing to wake you up quite like a jock strap and baby oil- he stuttered some excuse or other and made for the door. He managed to make it back to the safety of home, where he could ponder the events of the evening and reach the conclusion that perhaps LA was not for him.

With a faint echo of wedding bells, The Heir fled as fast as he could back to Europe and swore on his signet ring never ever to smoke weed again.

(i)moral of the story: If you can’t handle your weed, stick to Dutch Courage.

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