I arrived at the Beechmont Tavern to begin another night of drinking, just as the autumn sun was setting on the horizon. A fall wind blew through my overcoat, as I walked through the crowded parking lot toward the front door. I thought I knew what was to come, but no alcoholic really knows where booze will take him or her.

Once inside the neighborhood bar, I shook the chill off and immediately recognized the usual crowd. Dave the welder nursed his Coors Silver bullet at the far side of the bar. Kiki, the flirty bartender, unbuttoned two more blouse buttons to ensure a good tip night; Donna and Karen, the “We’re not lesbians, we just look like it” roommates whispered with Kiki’s husband, Eddie, about a low-level coke deal they were planning.

I waved hello to everyone and walked over to the Barcelona 1950s circa jukebox, as Don McLean’s “America Pie” was just finishing. I slammed two quarters in and punched selection 124 twice from memory.

“Whatcha gonna play?” Dave hollered.

He already knew, though, since I always played the same song. “Starry, Starry Night,” I said.

I sat down, threw back a shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, Kiki had waiting for me, and chased it with a hard pull on a longneck Budweiser.

​Kiki came over and poured me a fresh Jameson. I slowly mouthed the words to “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. Kiki gave me a hello kiss and a good peek at her 40 triple D’s. She calls them her “Girls.”

​“How are the Girls?” I asked.

​“Just got them ready,” Kiki said, pushing her breasts together. “These Girls are gonna make some tips for me tonight.”

The Beechmont’s regular customers (including the woman) are impressed with the “Girls.” Not me though. Been there, done that. Last summer at Kiki’s birthday barbecue, she grabbed me, dragged me into her bedroom, and had me suck and pump the Girls for almost 30 minutes. When she first took them out of their harness, I was impressed, almost intimidated. The Girls have areolas the size of sand dollars, nipples like giant red raspberries, and are definitely more than a mouthful.

Eddie began arguing with Dave about the Hartford Whalers making the playoffs, so I excused myself to take a leak and buy a Lucky Strike soft pack from the bar’s outlawed cigarette machine. When the town voted to remove cigarette machines, a politician at a news conference said something about making it harder for teenagers to get their hands on cigarettes. Those politicians should see the bang-up business this place does on a Saturday night catering to teenagers, I thought.

​Kiki had another Jameson ready when I returned from the head. I threw it back. Just then, I noticed a stunning beauty at the other end of the bar. I first saw her legs. She had legs all the way from the floor to her ass. She wore her scarlet hair tied back in a bun. She sipped a Manhattan and teased her lips with the stirrer.

Sinatra was still playing on the jukebox. “I said it once, I’ll say it again, I did it my way,” he and I sang. I glanced at the woman and she beckoned me to her with her right index finger. I sauntered to her, leaned over, and brushed my lips against her cheek.

“How would you like to come back to my place and do it my way?,” she whispered in my ear.

“I only do it my way,” I said.

“My place, my way,” she said.

She told me her name was Candice and she had an apartment nearby. I thumped a twenty on the bar to cover my tab and grabbed my coat. She held the door for me, as I waved back to my bar mates. Eddie and Dave already ordered another round in my honor. My head spun.

​I tailed her to the light at the exit of the parking lot. She beat the light, but waited for me at the corner. We zigzagged through a condominium development, then another. I was swerving. Only God could have helped me pass a breathalyzer. She finally stopped in front of a three-story townhouse.

I asked Candice why she was at the Beechmont that evening while we walked toward the door. I knew the Beechmont was not her kind of place. She stared at me for a second or two, while she struggled to find her keys to open the outer door, but she never answered. Perhaps, she was searching of a moral reason, but could not find one.

A handrail steadied me between the second and third floors, as the Jameson caught me by surprise and kicked my ass right there. I went from a hard boozing, self-proclaimed sex god on the verge of a night of ecstasy to a punk speeding on the blackout highway in minutes. I held my breath and hoped for the best.

The next thing I remember is awaking on a luxurious poster bed piled high with mounds of designer feather pillows; my head pounded so hard. “Fuck,” I thought to myself. “I am never drinking that much again.” I found my boxers balled in a corner. I could not sit to put them on because my ass hurt.

Candice entered the bedroom. She was already showered and dressed for business. I tried to give her a good morning kiss, but she brushed me off, and handed me my overcoat.

“I gotta get to work, so you’re going to have to leave,” she said.

It took her a few seconds to get impatient, while I struggled to cinch my belt.

“Like now.”

I stuffed my boxers in my pocket and slipped on my shoes without tying the laces.

“Was I good?”

“Truthfully, it was the most fulfilling experience of my life,” Candice said. “I have been struggling with my identity for sometime and I am so relieved I can now share myself, completely.”

“What a relief, ‘cause I can’t remember a frickin’ thing.”

“You really have to leave. Go out the back.”

“Are you sure it was good?”

“Trust me. Neither of us will ever be the same.”

Candice kissed my lips. I exited through the sliding glass door that opened onto an elevated patio. I stumbled down each flight of steps stopping on each landing to look up at her. She motioned me to get moving each time I stopped.

I kneeled down, pulled up the tongue of my right shoe, and tucked in my shoelace once I reached ground level. I looked up just as Candice was adjusting her robe. Hanging between her legs was a huge cock. She blew me a kiss, waved goodbye, and disappeared back through the sliding glass door.

“What the fuck?”

Two teenage boys tossed balls against the building and snickered. The taller boy pointed at me and began to sing a song I could not hear. If I had to guess, I would guess he sang “My Way.”

Just like yesterday morning, and thousands of other mornings before, I swore I would never drink again. Maybe today will be the day I keep my promise.