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Too much swigging at Swig leads to spicy chatter about ... well, you'll see 

Wednesday, Jan 4 2006
Considering how much I go out, I don't really get drunk very often. I know my limit. But this week I have been on vacation, and old friends have been in town, and they have wanted to be my designated driver, and so I bring you, through the veil of dehydration and fuzzy teeth, a Bouncer born from a night of serious partying. And as a special bonus gift to myself, last night I never said anything (too) stupid, did anything (too) stupid, or walked around with my dress flap down, or tripped and fell, or made out with a dayworker named Jorge. Of these things I am proud, and I hope that they portend an awesome 2006.

The evening began at Swig on Geary. I've been wanting to create a triptych of columns based on venues that command you to drink. In S.F. we have Swig, then Sip in North Beach, and then there's one called Cip on Folsom. I suppose I should have gone Sip, Cip, Swig, because no one swigs and then sips. But I started with Swig, which is a good enough metaphor for this, my evening of drunkenness.

Swig is very loverly inside. There's a fireplace, a long bar, square-ish modular seating, bricks, and a DJ booth. It's not all that creative, just a typical, nicely designed, upscale bar.

My companions were some old friends, Coco and Kaylin. Coco is a pastry chef with a New York accent, Kaylin is a 6-foot-2-inch Amazon woman who dresses well and works for a gigantic advertising firm. One thing about these gals, they love to talk about their pussies. Kaylin shaves most of hers and leaves some in front, Coco takes it all off. Usually they get started talking about their pussies with me because they know that word sort of bugs me; not in a feminist way, but because I am a prude. But I am trying to reclaim the pussy, my pussy. Pussy pussy pussy. Kaylin tried to help me once.

"You got to say it right," she said. "It's puhssy."

"Pussee," I said back, sounding more like a 5-year-old calling her kitten.

We all sat at the bar and ordered drinks. All told, I had three martinis and an Irish Car Bomb. Not too shabby. DJ Seamy was playing mellow house-y stuff, and, for the record, "Seamy" is short for "Seamus," which is pronounced "Shame-us," so he is really DJ Shamy. The Irish barkeep was nice enough to point that out to me after I barked, "Hey, are you DJ Seemy?"

But back to our pussies. I know I give guys a lot of shit for the stuff they talk about, so sue me: Us womenfolk talk about our vaginas, and the length of men's penises, and how good a guy is at making us come. Jesus, look at me -- one night with these gals and I'm starting to sound like them. I hope my mom doesn't read this.

Kaylin had a date the previous week, and the guy told her she was tight. Coco doesn't want to dump the guy she is with for the simple fact that they have great sex. I could sort of see that the conversation was moving toward my turn, my time to throw in some nugget of joy about my clam or my currently nonexistent sex life. "Um," I began, "I'm not very hairy down there so I don't need to shave," I offered. They seemed impressed. "Nope, I don't shave this pussy," I added for embellishment.

I also said I was probably tighter than a drum since no one had explored my cave in many moons. They laughed, so I continued. Yep, I said, it's tight all right; in fact there are probably some stalactites that have formed. What I needed was a good spelunker. You know, to explore my pussy and stuff.

Thankfully, we moved off this topic and on to deeper ones (sheesh), like whether or not British men are good in bed. Now here was something I could talk about, having bedded a few Nigels in my time. Unfortunately my experiences were very bad, so I naturally had to write off the entire lot. "Oh, British guys suck in bed," I said. "Too uptight. Trying to get one of those guys to go down on you is like trying to get an Englishman to go to the orthodontist." Man, I was amazed at my sudden comfort with dirty talk. Must've been the booze. I continued: "I remember one guy, he wanted to try this whole cunnilingus thing out. I told him I would help him, that it was easy and he might even like it. 'Oh, I'm sure I will,' he said." I used me best cockney accent when I spoke for him. "'It's just that ...,' he continued, 'well, how does one get 'round the smell?'"

"Oh, God!" cackled Kaylin.

"Oh, please," said Coco in her best Manhattan drawl. "OK, let's just forget it, ya limey!"

At this point I was majorly snookered and ready to talk about my pussy with just about anyone. Hell, I thought I might even shave the thing. I drank my first Irish Car Bomb, which is, like, Guinness with a shot of Baileys and something else dropped in it, and you swig the whole thing down at once. It was disgusting, but I did it. Actually, it was OK, once I got 'round the smell.

About The Author

Katy St. Clair

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