Whitney is the type of girl who likes to have a good time. Never one to shy away from a hot after party on the weekend, she’s the type of girl that regards two cocktails with dinner as a mandatory daily ritual rather than an aperitif after a long day’s work. She filled me in on this quirky side to her personality at a hip spot on the Upper West Side, all the while insisting I do just one shot of Goldschlager with her.

It thus shouldn’t come as a surprise that Whitney got completely wrecked on our Wednesday after-work date. And “completely wrecked” is actually an understatement. “Trashed” more accurately defines the state of having to carry a stone-cold passed-out stranger of a girl home.

People in the street eyed me with scrutiny as I walked by with this young woman draped over my shoulder, trying to hail a cab with my free hand. One cabbie refused to take us. “I don’t want any puke inside my vehicle,” the East Indian man so brashly disregarded us. Another cab driver insisted I pay him double for the trouble of having him help me get this girl into the back seat. I agreed without any argument. Anything to get out of public view with waste case Whitney.

On the drive back to her apartment, Whitney mumbled a series of incomprehensible mutterings, all of which led me to believe she felt some kind of remorse for her alcoholic display. That’s nice and all but I’m not one to sympathize with those who could easily subscribe to AA meetings and be done with their demons. “It was the whiskey after the Goldschlager, I swear. I don’t normally get this tipsy,” she slurred. Tipsy? Is that what she thinks she was? I wanted to tell her she surpassed tipsy about four drinks ago but instead I said, “That’s okay, go to sleep.” Then, I pet her head to get her to shut up but if she thought I was consoling her, that was fine too.

When we arrived at her apartment, she asked me to come up with her. Most guys would welcome the opportunity to bone a chick who won’t remember it the next day but I pride myself on my technique and actually want to be remembered the next day. Furthermore, I’m not like the average guy who’s just out for sex and maybe this is why this particular date with Whitney was so eye-opening for me.

If I just wanted sex, then why bother going to the trouble of meeting someone over dinner and drinks which could potentially run me the same cost of hiring someone to suck my cock? I’m looking for the right girl and let me tell you, it’s fucking tough.

On the one hand, I can understand Whitney’s desire have a drink or two. There’s a lot of pressure on first dates. She was a little uptight and wanted to make a good impression. At least that’s what I thought at first until I discovered she’s a severe alcoholic. Generally speaking however, when it comes to other girls who don’t have a similar drinking problem and who opt to have a drink or two on a date to loosen up, I understand how a stiff cocktail can come in handy. It helps them relax. Or in Whitney’s case, go ape-wild.

To tell you the truth, I prefer going out with a girl who has likes to share a couple drinks with me rather than the ones who stick to virgin cocktails. They’re the ones you really have to worry about. If they control themselves so much that they can’t step outside their element to get a mild buzz going on, imagine the type of control they’d exercise on me, given the opportunity. No thank you. I already have a mom who tells me what to do and what’s right, when and where and how and whatnot.

Whitney phoned me the next day as if there was nothing wrong and asked me if I thought she was pretty. Did I think she was pretty? “Sure,” I said. “Why do you ask?” She replied, “Because I remember asking you to, you know, come upstairs to my place last night and you didn’t want to. So I just wanted to know if you think there’s something wrong with me.”

Diplomacy has never been a strong trait of mine and beating around the bush always seems like a waste of time before the inevitable truth comes out so I just flat out asked her, “Do you realize you’re a raging alcoholic?” Quick on the defensive which is so typical of alcoholics from what I gather on all the TV shows and movies that portray alcoholics as always denying they have a problem, she responded, “Are you joking? Drinking problem? I don’t think so. Not me.” Instead of arguing with her which I thought was futile, I wanted off the phone with her fast so I said. “You’re right. It’s not you. It’s me.” And I hung up. Just like that.

I mean, had I known her for an extended period of time, I probably would have cared more about her general well-being but having just met her for a few hours, I didn’t feel I needed the responsibility of having an alcoholic acquaintance. I know it might sound rude but I’m just being honest. And can you really blame me for feeling this way?