When you roll with us

We enter under the tubular arches filled with flashing sketches of neon reds and blues, the lights illuminating the street like one of those old theatres on a Friday Night Premiere.

We are seated at one of the many long tables varnished in deep red, sitting down in tall slender chairs like kings.

We recount our last few weekends, our trips to Vegas, Cabo, college towns in Arizona and Texas scoring on undergrads, and count our collective kills.

We order drinks, and, like a procession we are delivered foamy beer in fake wood kegs, sake in vials that look like they're made out of porcelain, and know this won't be the last porcelain we drag our mouths across, just as long as it isn't in this bar's bathroom, but our own.  

We look at the prospects referring to them as girl in black or girl in pink or girl in blue.

We have our waiter do a countdown for the first bomb, and quake our fists against the tabletop at the rush of three, chopsticks tripping off, sake cups plunking in beer mugs, shooting up syrupy squirts of high gold that are caught as we raise our glasses and kamikaze them down our gullets.

We announce our birthday boy and frenzy our eyes over potential birthday girls.

We do another bomb.

We stand on our chairs and do another bomb.

We announce our names and state that we like ladies and do another bomb.

We order sushi platters and make bets on how much we can eat and which girls we can get, the girl in black the girl in blue or the girl in pink, and do another bomb.

We shimmy our asses against the asses of other girls standing on the chairs next to us, and we do another bomb.

We hand over our empty kegs of beer and sake containers and ask for more and in the meantime with what is left do another bomb.

We try to eat our food and decide that we are too full to eat but not too full for drinking so we pour more into our glasses, pound the table, and raise another.

We spill sake, beer, and soy, and the trays and plates slide closer to the edge as if at the end of a flat world's ocean, and we do another bomb.

We cheers to the birthday boy being a fag, bang and do another bomb.

We cheers to someone else coming out of the closet, laugh our asses, slam and do another bomb.

We cheers to all the girls we will crush, and do another bomb.

We cheers to all of us being the man, and do another.

We are the only ones left and do another, pay the bill in a flurry of twenties, and do another.

We are still reeling from all the bombs we dropped as we exit on the slick sidewalk undulating at each step and wish we could do another, but we got the motion down now for the next bar, and the next night, and the next group of girls.  

The only thing we haven't figured out is the next morning, our cracked lives appearing fine in a hazy mirror blurred by our own eyes.