I met Tavis in my federal drug class that consisted of three individuals. I was awaiting my sentence for the horrific crime of selling cannabis to consenting adults, and the other two guys had finished their sentences and were on probation. They had to take the class because they failed drug tests for marijuana. I am the walking embodiment of all things basic jock white dude, and Tavis looked like an NFL linebacker with dreads and gold teeth. Obviously, we hit it off right away. Race, religion, ethnicity, political persuasion, and sexual orientation all go out the window when two people love the same drugs. We both loved the same drugs.

I couldn’t smoke weed because I was required to provide urine for urinalysis every Wednesday at this stupid class with Tavis, so we did what every normal drug-loving American does when they know they’re getting drug tested: we did lots of blow, drank on the weekends, and tried to drink enough water to be clean by test time. After a few months of getting to know each other in this ridiculous class where nothing was accomplished, I got Tavis a job at Tiger Moving. My friend—who I used to sell weed to—owned the company. Tavis was a good mover but an absolutely terrible truck driver. Between working together and spending all our money at clubs doing blow and finding women, we got to know each other pretty well. Naturally, he was the first person I asked to accompany me when a move to Myrtle Beach came up for our sister company, Gamecock Moving. All we had to do was load up the U-Haul in Columbia, South Carolina and drive it to Myrtle Beach for the unload. The customer was one of the hottest chicks I’ve ever moved, so it seemed like a good sign. I had Tavis drive his car behind me in the U-Haul so we could drop the truck off when we were done and go party. If she ever reads this: you are way too hot for that dude. In short, we were making enough money on the move to pay for a fun night at the beach, and I’m the kind of person who considers that a great deal.

I lived in Myrtle Beach in 2012 and worked as a male dancer. Ladies Night Out was the male side of the club, Masters, and was what we referred to as our home club. We also did our fair share of shows in other places, but nothing was as fun as the nights in our home club. That experience drastically changed the course of my life and gave me incredible perspective and the accompanying ridiculous stories. It also taught me where all the best places to party in Myrtle Beach were and how much fun there was to be had. It wasn’t, however, a sustainable way of life for me.

We got a hotel near the second street pier. I’d been to the bar on that pier many times, and I knew it was as good of a place as any to get the night started. It didn’t take long for us to come across our first big problem: Tavis had somehow dropped the blow at our boy’s crib in Columbia the night before we started the move. Getting mad wouldn’t help a tragedy such as this, and Tavis was just as disappointed as I was. It would all work out, though—this was Myrtle Beach, after all. Someone was definitely going to have blow. Tavis, being black and the one who lost the drugs, was the designated procurer of more cocaine. His strategy was simple: find the black guy who looked like he had drugs. Perfect. So we headed to the bar.

As we took shots of Jameson back to back along with making him try drinks he’d never heard of, he kept an eye out for the perfect person to ask. There just didn’t seem to be a sure thing. When I saw the bartender hitting his weed pen, I realized I’d fucked up the whole mission. Tavis had lost the blow, but he wasn’t the best man for the task we both needed completed. When Tavis conveniently needed to use the bathroom, I called the bartender over and filled him in on our predicament.

As it turned out, the bartender used to sell me weed when I lived down there. He’d been a kitchen worker in this tiny ass local bar named Ron Jon’s. My best friend at the time, Kaylin, somehow met him somewhere, and I gave her money for the weed. One of those “I know you’re my weed dealer, but we pretend I don’t know” situations. We both actually remembered each other, and as it happened, he not only knew where the blow was, he also got off in thirty minutes and was going to go get some himself because he’d just done his last bump in the bathroom. This led to a couple rounds of free shots and the beginning of a very memorable night.

The next problem showed up when the three of us got back to our hotel room. Who was going to drive the car to get the blow? Of course, the bartender drove a moped because of multiple drug and DUI charges, Tavis was on federal probation, and I was on pre-trial. Simply put, if we got pulled over, we were all going to jail. Using an Uber to purchase drugs was a risky proposition. Sometimes you find an Uber driver who will do the drugs with you. Sometimes you get a middle-aged lady handing you Jesus tracts and asking if she can pray for your souls. Somehow I got voted as the driver—a poor decision in retrospect, but understandable. I was the one getting the free drugs. We’ve all made that deal, right? Someone? Anyone? No? I’m the only person who makes bad decisions for free drugs? I don’t believe any of you. This story doesn’t end with a DUI and cocaine charges, so fuck y’alls judgmental asses. It was a great deal! This part of the story stayed otherwise uneventful, but it lays the groundwork for the ending. 

Back at the hotel room, it was getting close to T-shirt time. Doing lines, taking showers, smoking a little joint we could flush out of our systems by Wednesday, playing music loudly while all three of us talked at the same time about nothing while doing more lines. Y’know, normal shit to a boss. The bartender knew where all the hottest spots were, and he told us about a new bar on the strip that had a sick rooftop view. “Sick rooftop view” always equates to really hot drunk chicks or enough alcohol to make them hot. I was down.

When I go out, my whole mission is to wind up with the hottest girl possible. Early in the night, I look for something eight or better without question. If it gets to be later than 12:30 a.m. to 1 a.m. and I don’t have anything in the bag, I lower expectations and drink more heavily. It was still early, 7:30 p.m. or 8 p.m. at the latest. I always assume every male has the same goals as me when going out and getting drunk. This proved to be a misguided assumption. Apparently, I was on a completely different page.

When we got off the elevator and onto the rooftop bar, I saw three girls immediately. The hottest one, also known as “mine,” was sitting at the corner of the bar. I took the seat next to her at a ninety-degree angle so we had the perfect ability to talk to each other but also turn toward our friends and shut off communication if the vibes got weird. One thing became quickly apparent: the vibes between her and I were not going to get weird. Her two friends were attractive, as well, and I honestly thought the night was already made. Three of us, three attractive chicks who were already down. People go on vacation with their same-sex friends to fuck random strangers and never have to deal with a chance of getting caught. I said what I said. Tell your boyfriend whatever you want.

While I was busy drinking and falling deeper in love for the night, my two companions took a completely different approach. They saw an opportunity for the other thing people look for on vacation: drugs they don’t normally do. Tavis and the bartender started hustling blow and pills to the entire bar. I made a couple trips to the bathroom myself for a bump, but I knew I was going to need to get my dick to work later, so I tried to keep it light. Having coke dick while trying to show off in bed is a bad look. Bad for company morale. I’m sure I didn’t lay off nearly enough, but after twenty or so shots of Jameson, who really knew which substance to blame for the poor performance. One could only hope she’d be just as drunk and wouldn’t remember, either. What I do remember for sure is that we suddenly had to leave the bar.

Tavis came up to me and told me he was going outside with some people. The people were a group of Irish dudes who had somehow decided Myrtle Beach was where they wanted to have their mate’s bachelor party. I noticed who they were because they were trashed, had heavy Irish accents, and had tried to hit on “mine” a few times. As the doors shut to the elevator, the bartender showed up and asked where Tavis went. I pointed at the elevator and told him he left with the Irish dudes. He immediately started sprinting toward the stairs. I realized at that moment that my partners were really getting themselves into some shit while I was predictably mackin’ on a baddie.

A minute later, the elevator opened again and Tavis was with the bartender. No sign of the Irish dudes. They walked up to the bar with an urgent pace and an even more urgent look on both of their faces. I knew it was time to ask for the check. The bartender had run down the stairs in time to greet the opening elevator at the bottom with a gun, made the Irish dudes get out of the elevator at gunpoint, and rode back up to the top with Tavis. Somehow he thought the Irish dudes were going to fuck Tavis up. I have no idea how it all got to that point. All I know is that it was time to go and I needed “mine” to come with me. Her friends had long since given up hope that my friends would dick them down, but they still seemed to like me and put up no fight about their friend leaving with me alone. Fuck it. My friends might be crazy, but at least I was banging an eight or better tonight. That was always a win.

The next bar was a blur. I guess we thought going directly across the street was a good enough place to hide from whoever could potentially be looking for the guy pointing a gun at people getting out of an elevator. I just remember that was where the making out, hand-holding, and lap-sitting started. Then it was last call.

Of course, the bartender knew where we could go next. He took us to a bar where they continued to serve us as they closed up, probably because the bartender brought them cocaine. There were maybe twenty people still drinking and playing darts. After a drunken game of darts no one kept score of, me and “mine” decided there was no point in dragging this out. We had long since passed the point of knowing what was happening later, and I didn’t feel like I needed to be present for my drug-dealing, gun-toting companions any longer. In fact, I couldn’t even find them to say bye. I hit the “Uber, please come save my drunk ass and take me back to my hotel” button and Kim (yes, I do remember her real name and follow her on Instagram) and I headed back to try getting naked.

The fucking key—one of those credit card-style keys that apparently stop working if you put it too close to your phone all night—wouldn’t work. No big deal, we stumbled to the office and got another one. The details of the sexual encounter between myself and “mine” are blurry at best. I know there was an incredible amount of pussy-eating while I tried desperately to acquire any semblance of a boner. Typical blackout drunk mixed with cocaine problems. Where was the fucking Viagra, anyway? I had the weekend radio Pandora blaring from my phone to a Bluetooth speaker and was eating her out to the music as is my go-to. Did it ever work that night? I can’t fucking remember. I do remember her body was incredibly nice.

At some point, I passed out. Hard. Probably while continuing to eat her pussy. Yes, I regularly fall asleep drunk while eating girls out. It beats falling asleep with my phone on my chest, unlocked, with my girlfriend around. Not that I know what that’s like… Anyway, the next thing I remember was her waking me up and hearing my phone ringing incredibly loudly. It was still connected to that fucking speaker. My head felt like I’d been beaten with a club. Tavis was calling me. I already had eleven missed calls.

The sun was shining in the window as it rose over the Atlantic Ocean. I knew it had to be early in the morning, but I couldn’t figure out why the fuck he was blowing my phone up. He had a fucking key. Oh yeah, we had to get a new key the night before. His probably didn’t work, either. The second I answered the phone, he started screaming at me to open the door. When I did, he busted inside and I literally thought he was going to kill me. I’m pretty sure Kim thought the same. She was doing the whole “cover herself with the blanket” thing because she was still naked. He was pacing back and forth in the room, visibly considering his chances of murdering me and getting away with it, yelling about how I abandoned him at some club and left him to wander the streets, almost getting mugged because I wouldn’t answer the door. It wasn’t the best time to point out that he could’ve just gone to the front desk and gotten another key. There was apparently another incident that involved being held at gunpoint over a girl at a late-night club that I should’ve remembered because I was there. But I wasn’t there. I never went to any club. That was when I realized that he’d been even more fucked up than I was. He was really furious that I stole his car keys. Ah, back to that part of the story. When I drove to get the blow, I put his keys in my pocket and forgot about them. He demanded that I give him his car keys back. I grabbed them from my pocket and handed them over, hoping it would save my life but also trying to calm him down enough to remind him that he was my only ride home. He took the keys, grabbed his bag, and left my ass in Myrtle Beach.

Fuck it, I’d deal with it later. I crawled back in bed with Kim and went back to sleep. We woke up in time to fool around a little more before check out. I do remember that she gave incredible head. Unfortunately, I was way too hungover to finish, and this disappointed her. Those are the best women in the world, the ones disappointed that you haven’t come yet. We got an Uber and went to Starbucks while I tried to figure out what the fuck I was going to do. She went on her way and I went to the airport. I figured a plane or a rental car were my best options. Boy, was I wrong. A flight was going to clear out my bank account, and I didn’t have a credit card to get a rental. The bus to Greenville was a 19-hour trip, but I figured out there was a way to get to Columbia on a bus in just four hours. A dude I worked with at Tiger Moving happened to be visiting family in Columbia that day, so he agreed to pick me up at the bus station and drive me back to Greenville.

So, fuck it, it all worked out.