The Rock Star Button

They say that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

The sun beams in on my closed eyes and I grimace. I pull the blankets to my face but quickly realize that what I’m holding are not blankets. I force myself to open my eyes and find myself holding my underwear in my face.

In the bleached afternoon sun I can barely make out the image of my naked self—naked save for my unbuttoned shirt—sprawled on my sofa. I have no idea how I got here.

My head is pounding. I want to die. I try to yawn but only end up coughing and gagging; it makes my head pound more.

I let out a loud cry and sit up. The sheer act of changing my orientation sends all kinds of dizzy to my brain. I am suddenly overcome by nausea and I rush haphazardly to the bathroom. Along the way I run through my kitchen and fall over my shoes and pants, which are lying directly in front of my kitchen sink.

Jumping back to my feet, I leap and bound for the bathroom and crash land in front of the toilet. No sooner do I collide with the porcelain bowl than I explode like an oatmeal water balloon. I puke and puke and puke and my headache gets worse.

Brief flashes of the night start to come back to me. I remember dancing with a girl. I remember making out with a girl. I remember drinking way too much. I remember stealing drinks and getting into a physical altercation with some kind of giant cartoonish mascot.

As I finish emptying my guts into my ceramic friend, I struggle to my feet, almost falling in the process. I wash off my face and rinse out my mouth. I look up into the mirror and see the shriveled shell of a man staring back. I look like I’ve been fighting. Fighting or falling on my face—two equally plausible alternatives given my night.

I smirk briefly at my oath to not overdo it last night. Guess I didn’t follow through.

I wander back into my loft in a daze. I try to drink some water and only barely keep it down.

My kitchen is filthy. I realize that the stove’s fan is on and is sucking up a steady but faint stream of black smoke from the oven. My oven is on at 190⁰F. Inside is a tray of dehydrated bricks that were once chicken strips. I can only assume they’ve been baking all night.

As I explore my apartment, feeling a bit like a time traveler just recently arrived in the future, trying to piece together his past, I find my cell phone. Or rather, I step on my cell phone. I pick it up and bring it to life.

Thirteen unread text messages.

“Shit…” I mumble. “That’s not a good sign.”

Suddenly I hear the familiar bing of an incoming message in MSN messenger. My computer is buzzing away, screen littered so badly with MSN windows that I can’t even see the desktop.

JD to Cass: “Hey baby, where you at?”

JD to Erin: “I am so horny right now.”

JD to Mel: “You want to come hang out?”

JD to Carol: nudge… nudge… nudge, nudge… nudge, nudge, nudge… nudge, nudge, nudge, nudge, nudge, nudge, nudge, nudge-


The realization that I was sending out random requests for sex over MSN makes me pause momentarily at my unread text messages. Part of me doesn’t even want to know, but after a heavy sigh I click through anyway.

The first two are from panicked friends asking where I am. There are two from girls who are in my phone, but who I have no idea who they are—I must have added them last night. One says I’m cute, the other says I’m a jerk.

“Perfect…” I mumble.

The next one is from some number I don’t recognize; it says I’m a jerk too. The next three are from friends I haven’t talked to in years, asking if I’m OK. The next one is from a girl from work, telling me to stop texting her. And the next four are from Kaylee, the girl who I was setup with last night… sort of.

“You’re a good kisser.”

“You lost the bet… you owe me a beer :)”

“Where are you? We can’t find you?”

“You are a fucking asshole.”

“Fuck…” I mumble.

Kaylee is a friend of a friend. Kaylee is a cool and sexy friend that I was setup with last night. Or rather, I was introduced to… putting the moves on her was my job. From the sounds of the texts, I guess I did… for a while anyway.

The sun is so bright that I literally feel hot. I’ve been standing naked, except for my unbuttoned shirt, in front of the window for nearly five minutes before I realize. When I do realize however, I figure there’s no point in being bashful now.

On the sofa are my socks, my underwear, my jacket, my wallet, and of course, the object of my disaffection, the object of my pain and suffering, the cause of my blown chance with Kaylee. It is small a simple object. Simple, but dastardly. Resting on my underwear is a round, purple button that reads, “ASK FIRST. Sex needs consent.”

They say with absolute power comes absolute corruption. At a busy club like the one we were at last night, a button like can make you a god. And gods are as powerful as they get.

I start to feel like I’m going to puke again.

This is how I blew it with Kaylee…


That night I dress in my finest button up shirt. I consider wearing a tie but dismiss it as too formal. I leave my shirt unbuttoned at the top and put on a thin leather necklace which hangs over the top of my exposed chest. I grab two rings and a bracelet to jazz up the outfit. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I think I look good and trendy.

Jules has told me all about her. She’s told me that she’s just my type, that’s she fun and easy to get along with. She already knows half my friends and they all love her. They all want me to date her.

Initially I’m a little hesitant, given all the implied pressure of your friends wanting a relationship to work out. However, they wear me down. They show me pictures of her and tell me funny stories. They tell me her favorite movies and hilarious anecdotes about her.

Eventually, they change my mind, and I get kind of psyched at the prospect of dating Kaylee. In Jules’ own words: “You’re going to want to marry this girl.”

I’m about to grab my jacket when I notice a button sitting on my shelf. It’s a button that I’ve had for a long time but I’ve never worn. I got it as a joke from a friend a long time ago. In fact, it had been lost in a box until I recently re-discovered it while I was looking for some old pictures. I set it aside when I found it, thinking it would make a playful accoutrement to wear to a club. It’s a round, purple button that reads: “ASK FIRST. Sex needs consent.”

I smirk to myself as I pick it up. At the very least, it will give me an opener with Kaylee. Oh, how wrong I was… And so it all begins.

Fast forward a few hours. Six of us arrive at the club that night already tipsy from pre-drinking, but that doesn’t stop us from immediately pounding two more vodka-Red Bulls at the bar.

Jules tells me to slow down but I tell her that I’m actually a little nervous.

“Not the great JD?!” Jules laughs sarcastically.

“Hey,” I say in all seriousness. “I’m just a regular fallible man like everybody else. I get nervous too you know.”

She laughs and slaps my arm. “You’ll do fine. Just be your same old lovable self.”

“I’m not that lovable,” I smirk.

“There’s more truth to that then you know,” Jules jokes.

Not more than two minutes later, Kaylee shows up with another one of our friends.

I immediately recognize Kaylee as beautiful. I had seen pictures but in person she’s even more attractive. She has long dark hair and one of the prettiest faces I have ever seen. Her nose softly accentuates her looks, while her supple lips add a smirk of cockiness. Her eyes convey a sex appeal that I didn’t think existed outside the movies, and one errant hair hanging in her face make her look as if she’d just come from a good fuck—or was about ready to have one.

Like I said, Kaylee has one of the prettiest faces I have ever seen, and the night I meet her I am instantly attracted to her.

“Talk me up,” I tell Jules, pulling her aside while she is mid-wave to the new arrivals.

“To who?” she asks with a sarcastic grin.


The club is busy. All around us, girls are wandering around in high heels with exposed cleavage. They have ruby lips and immaculate hair. Guys are pushing past us with chic gelled hair and stylish shirts. In several cages around the club girls are dancing.

“You liiiiiiike her,” Jules teases.

I shrug nonchalantly. “She’s OK.”

“What should I say?” she asks me.

I tell her to tell Kaylee how awesome I am.

“And what if I can’t lie like that?” Jules asks.

I push her off. “Just go…”

As Jules goes to talk me up to her friend, I notice something strange. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone blow me a kiss. At least, I momentarily think that’s what I see.

I do a double take and the girl who I thought blew me a kiss is not looking at me. I realize that I probably just hallucinated the whole incident. I briefly wonder if those vodka-Red Bulls were spiked.

I turn to my friend Paul and tell him that I’m probably going to take it easy tonight. When he asks me why, I tell him that I just have a feeling that I should.

Paul laughs, “We’ll see.”

“DANCE FLOOR!” Jules yells as she runs by us, with Kaylee and others in tow.

Cue the hilarious drunk dancing…


When I was younger, I hated dance floors. Like many guys, I can’t dance worth crap. I feel stupid doing it and don’t really get the point of it. Or rather, I didn’t get the point of it, until I started to dance with girls.

You see, when you dance with a girl, you’re not really dancing so much as you are rubbing up against her. It’s a remarkably interesting phenomenon—that dancing allows you to virtually dry hump the shit out of your date with no chance of reprimand. In fact, you’d probably be reprimanded for not dry humping her.

The dance floor is a haze of poor dance technique and drunk grinding. As we all dance in one big group, Kaylee shoots me a few shy smiles and I take this as a sign to gradually reposition myself nearby. Before I know it, I find myself dancing with Kaylee.

I take her hand and spin her around. I pull her back and catch her. I place my hands on her hips briefly and reposition myself near her. She puts her arms on my shoulders and then falls back.

I tell her that she’s a good dancer. She tells me that she likes my button. I laugh quietly to myself.

As I dance with Kaylee, the second strange event of the evening occurs: A girl across the dance floor waves at me.

At first I do that thing where you look over your shoulder, as if expecting the real recipient to be standing right behind you. When I turn back, she’s laughing and pointing directly at me and she waves again. I smile a little hesitantly and wave back.

Kaylee leans in and asks me who that is.

“I have no idea…”


After a while, the group shifts around a bit. Some people leave the dance floor while others arrive. Kaylee steps away for a bit and I find myself dancing beside Jules. Jules has been talking to Kaylee, so I ask her for a status update.

“She likes you,” Jules teases. “She liiiiiiiikes you.”

“Okay okay,” I say. “Enough… thanks for the update.”

“She liiiiiiiiiiiiiikes you,” Jules continues.

I’m already ignoring her, rolling my eyes.

We continue to dance to the club beats in a mix of strangers under the multi-coloured strobe lights. A moment later I feel a tap on my shoulder. Kaylee is smiling and holding two drinks. She instantly hands me a drink.

“Whoa hold on,” I say. “You’re not trying to get me drunk are you?”

She laughs. “I get this round and you get the next one, how about that?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her playfully, “I usually don’t buy strange girls drinks.”

“But you know me,” she reminds me.

“Well yeah, but you’re still a little strange.”

She gives me a playful shove. “You’re terrible!” she says with a grin.

I shrug innocently. “I could pay you back in other ways,” I say, moving closer to her. She instantly pulls me near and we start to dance. Her legs are wrapped around mine and her arms around my neck. Our foreheads are touching and our bodies are locked. She’s smiling suggestively as she sips her drink. This is why you dance even if you suck at it.

As we continue to dance, we swap around, change positions, and now her back is pressed against my chest, and her ass is in my groin. She’s grinding her booty into my junk, and I slide a hand down to her hip to press her in more firmly. I can clearly feel an erection building, and so can she; it would be impossible to miss with her ass digging into me so hard. She continues to move and gyrate and grind me. OK actually, this is why you dance, even if you suck at it.

Interestingly enough, as I dance and grind with Kaylee, something, or rather, someone on the dance floor catches my eye. The girl who waved at me earlier is still on the dance floor, and she sees me dancing with Kaylee. She sees me dancing and grinding and riding her and she smiles and laughs. She gives me two enthusiastic thumbs up and mouths, “Good job!”

Kaylee tells me that she can’t believe we’re dancing like this. I don’t respond… I can’t stop staring at that girl.

Who the fuck is she?!


After a little while, the excessive grinding with Kaylee, although amazing, has started to awaken the unmistakable urge to piss. I nibble her neck ever so slightly and she coos and turns around. She looks at me deeply, stares back in my eyes, and our lips suddenly touch. I realize that in my attempt to tell her I was going to piss, I inadvertently initiated a kiss.

Ironically, this ended up being way less stressful than if I had intentionally planned it.

As the kiss ends, I brush her hair aside and tell her that I’m having a really great time. She reciprocates.

“However,” I add. “I do have to go to the washroom.”

She smiles and tells me to hurry back.

My entire march to the restrooms I have a spring in my step. I’m sporting half an erection and thinking about the girl who likes me—the cute, funny, friendly, beautiful girl who likes me, Kaylee. I feel like tonight is my night. Little did I know what was in store for me…

As I walk towards the washroom, feeling a little bit on top of the world, I pass these two attractive girls who yell something out at me. Not really used to being the one approached by girls, I pause unexpectedly: “Uh… what?”

I half wonder if they know the girl who’s been waving at me all night. Maybe this is all part of an elaborate hoax.

“I said, ‘What if my friend just wanted a kiss?’” the girl tells me.

I do the same over-the-shoulder check that I did earlier on the dance floor, to make sure she’s actually talking to me. “Uh… a kiss…? From who?” I ask bashfully.

She laughs. “From you!”

Her friend is a shy red head with a blond streak through her hair, who’s giggling in the background.

I give them a confused look, not really sure what the hell is going on. Part of me wonders if maybe that last drink I had was laced, or if I’m really even awake right now. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do.

She smiles and crooks her finger at me, inviting me to come over.

I feel like I’m in a porn, or like I’m about to be mugged. It’s got to be a trap… Part of me wonders if Ashton Kutcher is hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to jump out and punk me. But really, two cute girls are asking me to come hang out with them, what can I do? I walk over.

“Do kisses need consent too?” she asks.

I finally clue in: The button!

“I uh…” I stutter. But without hesitation the girl suddenly leans forward and gives me a suggestive smooch on the cheek.

“Uh... wow…” I say blankly, not really knowing how else to respond.

She leans back and is laughing. Stunned, but uncharacteristically cool, I don’t miss a beat: “Hey hey now,” I say. “You can’t do that without buying me a drink.”

She laughs and asks me what I want.

What I want is to piss. But I’ve somehow commanded the attention of these two pretty girls, I’m not going anywhere.

“Something strong,” I say.

I have no idea what they order, but it is strong. Strong enough that after we shoot it we all end up coughing and gagging frantically. Despite the clear pain to our throats, we all end up laughing together. When all is said and done, the girl who first got my attention smiles, puts out her hand, and introduces herself: “I’m Trish.”


I end up hanging out with the slutty super friends for a while. I learn that the shy one is named Jenna and her more outgoing friend is named Trish. Somehow I’m managing to keep them both entertained, and both laughing. Although, I start to realize that I’m hanging out with two girls who are not my pre-determined date for the evening. I feel a little bad, and realize that I as fun as it is to get fawned over like you’re a celebrity, I really shouldn’t be flirting with these girls.

“Ladies,” I say. “It’s been fun but I should get back to my friends.”

I’m about to leave when the girl who first pulled me over, Trish, pulls me back. “We need a photo of you before you leave!”

She throws her arm around me and Jenna snaps our photo.

“You guys look like strangers,” Jenna says, reviewing the picture.

I want to remind her that we are, but I don’t.

“Pretend you’re a couple,” she says.

Trish leans over and gives me another kiss on the cheek. Another flash of a photo snapped.

“Is that how you kiss your boyfriend?” I ask her sarcastically.

I let Trish go but she doesn’t leave. As Trish processes the question, I can literally see a switch go off in her head. Whereas everything up to now had been harmless flirting, her eyes suddenly turn dangerous. And it’s hot.

She leans in and gives me a real, honest kiss. I’m taken aback a bit. To be honest, I made the remark off hand, didn’t really expect it to lead to this. As she pulls back with that devilish look in her eyes, suddenly a switch goes off in my head too.

We pull each other near and literally start making out right there by the bar. I don’t even know if another photo was taken—I kind of hope one wasn’t.

Were I more sober, I maybe would’ve considered my actions a little more carefully. Part of me feels a little guilty that I’m making out with this girl. I literally just finished kissing Kaylee not more than ten minutes ago, and yet here I am with some random stranger doing the exact same thing.

Then again, another part of me reminds me that I’m not dating Kaylee in any real sense of the word. We just met for Christ’s sake. And even if we were dating, we never ever said we were exclusive.

Maybe it’s bad form to make out with other girls on your first date with someone else, but Trish is pushing her tongue around my mouth and biting my lower lip. She tastes sweet, which means she’s either been chewing gum or drinking mixed drinks. Either way, it’s amazing. Caught in the moment, I push my guilty thoughts out of my head and just go with it.

After we finish she’s smiling and so am I. Then she asks me about her friend.

“What about your friend?” I ask.

“Jenna was the one who wanted to kiss you,” she says. “I wasn’t lying about that.”

I’m about to laugh and call “Bullshit” when suddenly, as if on cue, Jenna appears in my line of sight. The command centers in my brain are setting off alarms and telling me to evacuate the situation. They’re telling me not to blow it with Kaylee and that these two random girls aren’t worth it. Yet, as I push Jenna up against the bar, with my head spinning, all I can think is how I can’t fucking believe it.

I realize this is really, really bad, but somehow I end up making out with Jenna too.

I can’t fucking believe it.

I can’t fucking believe this night.

I can’t fucking believe my luck.

I can’t fucking believe this button works!


Making out with Jenna is almost twice as awesome as making out with Trish. It’s like being in a makeout-threesome. It really does feel like I’m in a porn. In fact, a little horny, drunk voice in the back of my head is telling me to forget about Kaylee. Go for the threesome!

The ironic part is as good as it is to makeout with Jenna, I really do have to piss. So I stop the makeout and tell them that I really do have to go.

“Wait!” Trish calls after me. “What’s your name?”

The way she asks, I feel like some kind of action hero who just saved them both: “Wait… what’s your name…?” I want to turn back to them heroically and spout off something like “James Bond”.

I pause, and turn over my shoulder. “They call me… JD,” I say with one raised eyebrow.

They both laugh.

“So do you make out with girls like this often?” Jenna asks me.

“Honestly…” I say, “no.”

She smiles and offers to buy me another drink.

What the fuck is going on…

I tell her yes, but that I really do need to piss.

She tells me to come find them when I’m done.

I wander away dazed and confused, but feeling like I’m the fucking king of the club. I stumble awkwardly towards the restroom, partly from the alcohol, and partly from the fresh erection I’m sporting in my pants.

I look down at my little purple friend—No, not that one! The button! – I look down at the button and grin cockily to myself.


Away from the slutty super friends, I get a sober moment of regret as I wash my hands.

I think about Kaylee and start to feel bad. I mean, it’s not like I made a commitment or anything to her… we did only just meet. But Kaylee is great. She is cool and my friends love her, and she likes me. She likes me and I kissed her.


I kissed her and made out with two other girls.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I wash my hands and realize what I just did. I curse myself momentarily and proudly promise that I will not return to the slutty super friends. Instead, I will go to Kaylee. I will not tell her what I did of course, but I will certainly not let it happen again.

I find Kaylee standing alone by the bar. I sneak up behind her, which is surprisingly hard without a good sense of equilibrium, and in a stern yet slurred voice say: “Excuse me ma’am, is this yours?” She turns around, startled at first, but quickly grins when she realizes it’s me.

I’m holding up my cell phone, with her text on it. It reads: “You are a good kisser.”

“Maybe,” she says coyly.

It takes only a moment for us to end up kissing again. The bartender interrupts us to tell us to order a drink or get the hell away from the bar.

We pound two more shots and the whole world starts to feel very distant. I realize that those last shots were a mistake and I make a mental note to drink nothing but water the rest of the night—I don’t want to overdo it tonight.

Suddenly Jules bursts in and tells us everyone else is on the dance floor. Before I even get a chance to order a water we’re back on the dance floor.

The dancefloor is a haze of lights and sound. The whole world is spinning and gyrating. Kaylee is pressing body into mine. I realize that I’m having trouble concentrating and that maybe those last two shots were a bad idea.

I move my hands up and down Kaylee’s body, pressing them on her hips, and pushing her ass into my groin. I brush her hair aside and breath gently on her neck. She swoons and twists her head back to kiss me. This quickly devolves into making out on the dance floor.

Consciousness drifts in and out, and my experience on the dance floor becomes a fog of grinding, touching, booty grabbing, and kissing. At different points I find myself dancing with other friends, with Kaylee, and for some reason I somehow get pulled into a few different groups.

I have images of girls telling me that they respect my button, and then immediately dancing with me. A mixed group of friends tells me I’m funny and start to dance near me. And I spot two heavyset chicks spying me from the edge of the dance floor, licking their lips.

In fact, as I momentarily drift out of my drunken daze, I realize that I’m getting way more attention tonight than I ever do at clubs.

Kaylee is grinding into me heavily and I’m at the familiar point of rubbing my hands over her breasts. I push her hair aside to whisper something into her ear when I suddenly realize something is very wrong: Kaylee does not have blond hair… yet the girl I’m grinding with does!

She pushes her ass firmly into my crotch and pulls one of my fingers into her mouth.

I’ve stumbled into a window of soberness and I realize that I’m cheating on Kaylee… again!

I attempt to separate myself from this random girl I’m dancing with but I realize that someone else is grinding into me from behind. I literally stumble out from between two girls on the dance floor.

“What the fuck…” I mumble to myself.

The blond quickly pulls me back though. She says something about what I promised her. I have no memory of ever talking to this girl before. But I realize that I’ve been dancing with her for at least the past five minutes.

Suddenly two more girls show up on the dance floor holding drinks. They call me by name and hand me “the drink I wanted.” I have no idea who these girls are or what drink I asked for. They introduce me to two more of their friends. They tell me that Tina is the single friend and she blushes as we meet.

I realize that I need to find my friends. I need to stop this. I am too drunk to continue on here, to trust my own decisions. I need to find Kaylee, I need to get out of here, and I need to end this night immediately.

It takes me only five minutes before I find myself making out with Tina.


The truth is that with great power comes great irresponsibility.

Whatever semblance my evening had of me trying to be a good person and do the right thing is now a distant, drunken memory. Two more girls give me drinks and my limit is forgotten while my conscience becomes a remote recollection. My consciousness is fading in and out and what I remember is just dancing with and kissing random girls.

I’m wandering around, desperately looking for my friends or for Kaylee, but all I find are booties and lips. I accidentally wander behind a bar and into some kind of backroom; an offense that nearly gets me kicked out of the bar.

Lost and confused, I realize that the layout of this club is super-confusing when you’re smashed. I bump into the slutty super friends again and get scolded slightly for ditching them. However, I mumble something about not being able to find them and it’s not long before I have images of making out with them once more. I’m 90% sure that one of them cups my balls while we are kissing too.

I’m now wandering around the club with no clear destination, bumping into all kinds of people I don’t know but who know me by name. People are introducing me to their friends and their boyfriends. Girls are buying me shots, grabbing my ass, kissing me. At one point I’m dancing in a cage that’s normally reserved for girls.

The whole thing is like some kind of bizarre wet dream come true. The craziest part is it’s all feeding off itself. Every make out seems to make me more confident, more cocky, and after every make out I seem to be able to find more willing girls faster and easier. In fact, I haven’t even approached a girl all night, they’re approaching me!

I start to wonder if maybe girls are slipping me roofies.

For the first time in my life I legitimately feel like a slut.

After making out with a cute Asian girl, I ask her why my button is so powerful. When she asks me, “What button?” I give a confused look and slur, “Well if you didn’t read my button, why are you making out with me?”

She smiles and tells me that it’s because I’m famous.


She nods.

It’s at this point that I come to the realization that the button’s power is surpassing its own physical form… people no longer need to see it to know who I am. Everyone in this fucking club knows me. Everyone thinks I am funny. Everyone wants to meet me or introduce me to people they know. And everyone who doesn’t know me wants to know how everyone else does!

The more girls who hang off me, who dance with me, who flock to kiss me, the more other girls wonder who I am. The more other girls wonder who I am, the more they want to approach me, and start the whole sequence all over again. The button has created a self-perpetuating cycle of popularity. I’ve become a club god.

I tell the Asian girl that I’m a producer and pull her face back to mine.


Somewhere between making out with the entire fucking club and grinding with every girl on the dance floor I somehow meet two girls who tell me they want me to take them home. I’m not even surprised anymore. One of them literally tries to reach into my pants as we interact.

For the first time in my life I legitimately feel like a whore.

I tell them both that I need to hit the bathroom one last time and to wait for me.

As I strut to the washroom, I feel like a king on parade. In my mind, I stride triumphantly through the crowd—never having been more comfortable or commanding in a club in all my life. But in reality I’m sure I’m barely keeping my balance, pushing past people, and nearly tripping as I make a zig-zag path to the bathroom.

As I wander through the crowd I inexplicably grab someone’s drink right out of their hand and chug it. No sooner do they start to protest than I’ve done it again. Now two people are yelling at me. I give them a drunken fuck-you stare, with half-open eyes. Then I just keep on walking.

I end up stumbling into the women’s washroom, without even noticing, and taking up a stall. I realize I’m in the wrong bathroom when girls are banging on the door accusing me of line cutting. I ignore their complaints and urinate aimlessly, hitting the toilet, the wall, and floor more than I actually get it in the bowl.

When I’m done, I don’t even bother putting my dick away. I just start wandering out of the stall and casually slip it back in my pants as I’m mid-way out the restroom. I don’t even care that I flashed half the girls in line my cock.

As I exit the washroom, I pass a guy and a girl talking in a corner. The girl is wearing a short red dress and has bangs covering one eye. She is cute. Without hesitation, I slide right in between the guy and the girl and start to kiss her.

This is about the point where hubris meets humiliation, and the guy throws me off of her. Maybe this is why you black out when you drink too much; sometimes it’s better not to remember.

I land on the ground, hard, and he yells something about his girlfriend. I give him an angry look.

Doesn’t he know who I am?!

By all accounts, I am so drunk right now that I shouldn’t be able to win the fight against gravity and stand back up. But I somehow I make it back to my feet. I turn to walk away from the angry boyfriend, but I don’t get more than a few steps before a bouncer, escorted over by a few girls, grabs my arm and tells me that I have to leave.

Maybe it was the line cutting, the pissing all over the women’s washroom, the cock-flashing, the drink stealing, or making out with a few too many girls, but I am being kicked out.


Whatever happened to those two girls who wanted to come home with me, I’ll never know. To be honest, I’m kind of glad I didn’t take them home. Not only did I avoid the most definite risk of getting an STD from at least one of them, but I’m pretty sure my beer goggles were on overdrive near the end of the night. At that point in the night, my ability to discern attractiveness had degenerated to the point where the only thing I was sure of is that they were probably female. I can only imagine what they actually looked like.

The few remaining details of my evening aren’t totally clear to anyone, especially myself. No one was around to see it, and so I have only the shattered remains of my alcoholic memories and several obscure voicemails and text messages to guide my reconstruction.

My friends had long since left the club. They even apparently tried to get me to leave with them when they did, but I refused to go.

I wander around aimlessly for a few hours downtown before I realize I am going in circles. I give all my money to a homeless man, and end up trying to convince a few cabs to drive me home for free as a result. I puke, take off my pants because they are too hot, and end up getting into a fight with a giant, inanimate, storefront mascot of some kind. I’d like to say I won the fight but I don’t think anyone wins when you fight an inert cartoon mannequin.

I fall asleep beside a pizzeria, wake up and try to make out with girls in line at said pizzeria, get chased away from said pizzeria, and somehow find a couple coming home from the club that are kind enough to walk me home.

Maybe they feel sorry for me, or maybe they remember me from the club and see what has become of their fallen deity. I can’t tell you for sure, but I’m just glad no one that I know saw me.

As I finish puking into my office trashcan, head still ringing, I sigh at the tattered memories of the night before, and at the button that instigated it all. In some respects, it was the most awesome night of my life. But if that’s true, why do I feel so shitty about it?

Kaylee’s text is accurate, I am a total asshole. Not to mention a slut and a whore. Or at least, I was. I got greedy and drunk—a dangerous combination.

Kaylee was fun and cool and interesting. She was pretty and all my friends wanted to see us together. She liked me and wanted to be with me. Yet she has no interest in me anymore. But I don’t blame her. It was I who screwed it all up.

I text Kaylee an earnest apology, but I will never get a reply.

I look over the dozens of texts and messenger windows that no doubt deserve apologies too. Several open MSN windows appear to have been me simply mashing the keyboard.

JD to Steph: KfdfJHFRHr938vskjh vckqw2 1 8 yekjbhHKJHJKKJHJM>
Fucking button…

I still have the button, but I can’t bring myself to use it again. Like some kind of forbidden game-giving fruit, it almost has too much power. I don’t know if I could trust myself with it.

I guess I could say that I regret using it, but that would be lying. The night I wore the button was one of the craziest times I’ve ever had at a club. It made me feel like a rock star and gave me an evening I will remember forever. Nix that, an evening that I will kind of remember bits and pieces of forever.

But still, to this day I feel kind of bad about what I did to Kaylee—I don’t want to be that guy. And so as fun as it was, I don’t think I’ll ever use it again. I like to think that this was a choice I made to exercise great responsibility over the great power of the button, but really, it’s just a choice I made to keep myself from being an asshole… again.

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