The Margarita Incident

A few years ago, I was invited to a house party by a new group of friends I’d recently acquired – a delightful mix of chaos, charm, and questionable decision-making. Naturally, I didn’t want to rock up empty-handed like some sort of social freeloader. So, I did what any self-respecting guest would do: I brought tequila. But not just any tequila. No, no. I brought the full works for my signature steamy margaritas. Emphasis on steamy, as in “wow, are you trying to melt our organs?”

Now, I pride myself on making a drink that slaps – both in flavour and in unforeseen consequences. These margaritas were weapons-grade. Potent. Irresponsibly delicious. We were all positively sloshed within the hour. The type of drunk where time bends, people get increasingly touchy, and someone ends up weeping over a plant. Standard.

Amidst the tequila-induced haze, I caught the eye of a fiery Irish redhead. She had the kind of confidence only found in people who’ve never once Googled “symptoms of liver failure.” She was flirtatious, persistent, and – let’s just say – keen.

Now here’s the thing. Sober me? Firmly not into women. Tipsy me? Occasionally curious. Absolutely hammered me? Apparently down for anything.

She kept trying to whisk me away for a cheeky snog or fumble. I was intrigued... then I wasn’t... then I was again. It was a whole journey. But before I could make a rational decision, my inhibitions packed their bags, left a note, and vanished into the night. Next thing I know, we’re in an Uber back to hers.

Right. So. We get to her flat and she’s... erm, enthusiastically invested. Things are happening. To me. On me. Around me. I, however, was struggling to return the enthusiasm. Why? Because I don’t actually fancy women. You’d think that’d be a dealbreaker, wouldn’t you? Apparently not.

But wait, it gets better (or worse, depending on your taste for awkwardness).

Enter: her boyfriend.

Yes. This man – whom I had met before and already decided wasn’t my cup of tea – strolls in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And suddenly, I find myself slap-bang in the middle of some surprise threesome scenario. Except I wasn’t in the middle so much as trapped on one side, watching the chaos unfold like a polite hostage.

She’s doing things to me. He’s doing things to her. I’m trying to look spiritually unavailable. He tries to touch me – I recoil like a cat from a cucumber. Absolutely not, sir. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.

Eventually, I made my excuses – and legged it. I walked home in the cold, mascara slightly smudged, questioning every decision that led me there.

And thus began a self-imposed hiatus from margaritas.

So, there you have it – a cautionary tale of strong cocktails, shifting sexualities, and the unexpected perils of open-plan relationships.