The Alcohol Diaries: Vodka in a Sprite Bottle

My friends and I met Carlos at yet another frat party in Allston.
Fraternity guys at parties usually fall into two camps: those who are creepy and those who are uninterested and unable to begin a conversation with girls they don’t know. Which is okay, as I too have trouble striking up conversations with people I’ve never met (and never really had any desire to meet) while bad rap music blares in the background and there’s nothing but warm beer to drink.
But anyway, Carlos was different. He was comfortable, but not cocky. He dressed well and talked to us like it came naturally to him. He was a little weird, but undoubtedly approachable.
It’s because he was gay, of course. My friends and I couldn’t believe our luck: we had met a decent guy who wouldn’t scam on us but would hook us up with party invites and booze (an extraordinarily rare breed in the treacherous world of college). So when he invited us out the next weekend, we jumped on the opportunity. Frat houses aren’t so bad when you have a nice gay dude as your party Shaman, after all.
Upon meeting Carlos and his friends to walk to the house, he handed over a Sprite bottle swelling with vodka. Even better: I wasn’t a beer drinker yet and hard liquor can be hard to come by at parties. Although I know better than to accept alcohol from guys I barely know, this one was gay – so what was the harm? In hindsight, mixing a drink upon arrival while my friends lined up behind the keg was incredibly stupid. But I did, and spent the next hour dancing, mingling, and sipping on vodka from a Sprite bottle.
I knew something was off when Carlos summoned me to the beer pong table. Any idiot knows how to play beer pong, but at the time I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. I had little to no idea what Carlos was saying and absolutely no idea what I was doing. It was time to go home.
The details are hazy, but I know I pulled Maya away from a couple of fratters and together we stumbled towards the train. I’d been known to burst into drunken song between stops, but I don’t think I did on this night. I remember being tired and hungry, but not particularly upset or afraid – just ready to get into comfy clothes and my snack stash. It wasn’t until I was home and stuffing my half-asleep face with Trader Joe’s microwaveable Asian noodles that I realized what had happened.
Carlos texted me the next morning: he had a great time last night. I responded with a word or two and never spoke to him again.


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