Hit the open bar, Stoli on the rocks, begin the mingling.

Made it my mission to make sure the little brothers got their share of booze. Had to dodge a diligent uncle trying to avoid his nephews from steering the porcelean bus. Wasn't gonna put them into blackout mode. Just letting them feel the nice. No intention of having my deviant freak pass revoked by ignoring an opportunity to contribute to the deliquency of minors.

The finger food cocktail hour spread was impressive and delightful. I especially liked the lady who circulated with the tray of medium rare duck meat medallions on toast rounds. Basically whenever there is duck to be consumed, I'll pile it in double fisted. Also the various flavored chilled vodka bar with a caviar and smoked salmon accompaniments was all about the fantastic flavor festival in my mouth. Tastebuds rejoice! I was sucking on the sweet nipple of Russia's national potable all evening. For me an endless stream of free vodka is damn near erotic. If I ever discover a woman with cute feet and natural tits who produces vodka from her clit, then I will definitely settle down.

A tall chick with an attractive wide smile appears to one side of me. I know I don't normally go for the taller ones, but she was all dazzle in the face, and sporting strappy heels that exposed the fact that she fortunately avoided the monkey planks normally associated with the long ladies. Plus she looked at me with please insert your cock here eyes. She is a coworker of the bride and groom. That's right people! They met each other at work, dated for three weeks, he proposed to her at an Irish bar in Chelsea ( one barstool away from me, ugh, grabbed the bartender by the lapels and demanded that my glass, for the love of Zues, never be empty ), they moved into her over an hour commute to sweet sweet Manhattan childhood home in Jersey, and now they are married and still working at the same joint, same department. I could not possibly imagine a more perfect matrimonial incarceration nightmare scenario that I would claw at the walls to escape, or deservedly write a manic run-on sentence about. Breath.

Okay. Back to the chick. She immediately wanted the inside scoop on my opinions of things. I shared. At this point in the story I would like to welcome in mack spanky. Welcome my pussy divining rod pal. So, we are hitting it off famously. We become inseperable. Switch our place settings around so that we sit next to each other. Hit her with the pimp ray. Zap.

Completely not paying attention to the festivities, I get startled at the emcee's prompting for me to approach the mic and unleash the best man's toast. A few grumblings were circulated later on the appropriateness of it. Here's what I said from the top of my head ( like I was gonna prepare something ).

D***** and I have known each other for a long time. We've had some amazing fun, and we've seen the worst of each other. Love the guy, and he deserves to a have a wonderful life. And, G*** seems like the chick that might be good for that. ( Laughter ) To the bride and groom!

Apparently the word chick doesn't belong in a marriage toast. Also the fact that I am a cynical skeptical bastard using terms like "seems" and "might" points to the fact that I have laid odds of the shelf life of this union, kinda put straw in people's panties. What the fuck did they want after open bar madness? Chaucer? Whatever.

The bride invites me to polka. I have no shame. Moments later after a brief tutorial on polka steps, I'm tossing the bride around the dance floor. She's a lovely little mover actually.

Back to the babe table. The fact arises that the chick I'm macking on is actually the live-in lesbian lover of another one of the bride's guests. I back off slightly. Not overtly motioning to my hotel room, but just simmering under the surface as I feel her out more. A private moment with me and the married man intimated that, yes they are lesbian lovers, but they often shop around for a guy willing to be used for cockage. Interest piqued.

So as we all were going on our seperate ways, she asks for my digits, info on when I am performing ( let it slip that I perform in an improv comedy show ), and when I'd like to hang out. Zero problem over here becoming the human equivalent of a dildo. When she calls I'll come a runnin.

Got home round midnight. Decided that I might as well continue the debauchery till four. Called the crew. Met a school teacher that night. Like I'm gonna not fuck with you and leave that story for another time. Peace, love and hair grease.