I’ve come to the conclusion that there are four types of American drinkers: those who drink socially at most once a month (these are the most successful adults), those who think themselves sophisticated and solely drink wine or scotch at mealtimes or during tax season, the vast majority of college students, and the alcoholics. Now, the college students in question are, in a way, alcoholics, but I grant them their own category due to the fact that they are functional alcoholics. Not once have I ever found someone over the age of 26 who’s capable of downing 10 beers and half a bottle of hard liquor (drinker’s choice) on a Tuesday night, and still managing to yank themselves out of bed for their 8 am class Wednesday morning.

Looking at the four categories, you can see that it goes from drinking once a month to day-drinking on a Tuesday. This leads to the idea in America that drinking any more frequently than the once a month schedule places you on the alcoholic track, which, college student or not, isn’t seen as a positive. In, Europe, this is not the case. It’s perfectly normal to come home and have a beer, or to go out to your favourite bar/pub on a weekday, without the negative connotation. Here, if I grab a drink from the fridge on any day that isn’t Friday or Saturday, or at any time before 6 in the evening, suddenly I’m an addict. NOT THE CASE.

In addition to being able to drink whenever I damn well please, another great thing about living in Europe is the ability to handle my alcohol. Many of my friends cap out at 3 beers and maybe, maybe, 2 shots of hard liquor before they start dancing on tables or stealing shopping carts from the nearest Walmart. Thanks to an adolescence spent surrounded by old Scottish men who’s blood alcohol level is always above the legal US limit, I developed this insane ability to think whilst intoxicated. I know; wild. You’re probably wondering where all of this is going, and to be honest, I got side-tracked, but I’ll get it together.

So, with all of this crap on Mia’s end of whatever the hell this is, I can’t tell which way is up anymore, and I’m beginning to lose interest in doing so. I was told that she was “drama-free”, and that I would love it because fuck that noise, but she is on some American bullshit and can’t seem to understand that being uncomplicated is as simple as not complicating shit. That’s exactly how that works. There’s no secret, no trick, no traps. It’s amazing how easy things can be when you don’t make them difficult. Last night I was discussing this very bullshit with two of my closest friends, one who has causes the same problems for himself that Mia does and one who has her own unique set of issues but could almost pass as European, and after a glass of wine or 5, my reservations were just faded into the background enough that I sent a “You up?” text, which yes, I know, is the move of a fuckboy. I spent enough time acting like one that I’m very familiar with the process. I absolutely went into that situation with the intent of sleeping with the guy. After all, he’s actually a good person, I’ve known him long enough to be comfortable around him, and it wouldn’t have been the first time we’d fucked around. He’s my friends-with-benefits, when it’s convenient (and before you start judging me, he and I have had that conversation, and it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, not me keeping him on a hook for when I can use him, so get off your high horse, thanks). I went to his place, talked over some of my frustrations with America and Mia, and then things got a little bit tense (we’re talking sexual frustration).

Part of our conversation was about the fact that I make no attempt to keep secrets, mostly because I don’t see the point, and I think lying to someone is a dick move. He took that as his cue to start asking questions people don’t usually ask, and many of them were very typical guy questions, like what my kinks were, if I’d fuck him or this other guy, and if my best female friend and I had ever had a threesome together. Predictable as all get out, and very stereotypical of a horny straight male. Jesus. Things progressed, and by that I mean barely. There was definite groping involved, and some notable dry humping, but to be honest, I wanted to be turned on more than I actually was. I wanted to want it. Quite frankly, I feel like this might be a result of my being a lesbian with a capital L, but I’m still a bit unsure on that front.

I 10/10 love women, and the discovery of Mila Kunis in That 70’s Show was the start of a long period of questioning for me that peaked in the 7th grade. I had a sleepover with two of my friends who were girls, Skylar and one whose name I honestly can’t recall, and while I’m extremely fuzzy on the details of how we got to this point, I do know that we ended up in our underwear, essentially doing repeated rounds of 7 Minutes in Heaven with every possible combination of the three of us, including all three of us. It was pretty intense for 12-year-old me, and after that, I was sold on the idea of bisexuality. Around the age of 14 is when I began exploring sex with men, and I’ve yet to have good sex with a man, and I can’t decide if that’s because all of the men I’ve slept with are seriously bad in bed, or because I’m just not into sex with men. I’m starting to think the latter is the truth, because fairly consistently lately the idea of the penis makes me drier than Death Valley. Maybe there’s a big big reason my favourite guilty pleasure television series are The L Word and Skins.

Post questionable groping, he started to push for more, particularly a blow job (what usually happened right then), and I just couldn’t. Part of the why is that I steer clear of any and all complications in romantic and physical ties, because fuck that. I get tested for STDs between every sexual partner, always use condoms, stay on birth control, and never, EVER, involve myself in any way with more than one person at a time. Whatever is happening with Mia, I can’t be fucking around with anyone else until I know what’s going on and have some goddamn closure. However, thanks to standard American communication, or notably the lack thereof, I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll get closure in any way other than ending things entirely myself.

Steele