Mo and I have the kind of fun that should be illegal.

It all starts innocently enough. We go out for sushi and share a Sapporo and the next thing we know it's 5 a.m. and we're in the middle of Queer as Folk.

After a Saturday of manis and pedis ($25 for both! I love the South) and shopping we got dressed up and went down to the Highlands. As we walked through the drizzle from the car to Harry & Sons, Mo said "I feel kind of hoochie."

"Me too."

"Oh my god, there's a kid."

"It's still early," I promised her.

And it's not that we were dressed like hoochies, I swear, it's just that we weren't wearing khakis and jeans.

We put in our name and took seats at the bar (that two men quickly vacated for us) and Mo bought some ridiculous trendtini that cost $10. I think it had gold in it, I'm not sure.

After dinner, where we ate the perfect amount of sushi and scared the two older men sitting next to us, we went next door to Dark Horse Tavern and snagged the last two seats at the bar. We played a little bit of video trivia and tried to shake this annoying guy named Tim who was a close-talker. Eventually he got the hint and we turned our attention to who else was there.

H: What about that guy? The one in the stripes.

Mo: I don't like blondes.

H: Well, he has a friend. I'm going to buy him a drink.

Mo: No! Wait! What if his friend is ugly? Wait until I see his face. . . . Okay - do it. But I get the friend!

As much as this may shock you, I've never bought a guy a drink before. Not like this - where you have the bartender give it to them and then you make a cautious nod and smile across the bar.

We got the bartender's attention, and he was beyond amused with us, and told him that whatever "that guy" was about to order, I was going to pay for it. So the transaction goes down and after the cautious nods and smiles, they made their way over to us.

"I'm going to say that I'm drunk and from out-of-town. That's going to be my excuse," Mo tells me as the guys try and weave through the packed room over to our side of the bar.

"Thanks for the drink," I hear behind me.

We make nice introductions and they buy us another round. Turns out they were in town for work from Chicago. (Of course. Like I'd meet someone who lives here.) They told us they were consultants, which caused about 20 minutes of Office Space quoting and asking if they were "The Bobs." Turns out Blonde Bob and Mo grew up down the street from one another and even went to the same grade school. But because we're ancient, she only knew his older brother and said brother's best friend.

"I loved Craig White!" she told him.

"Everyone loved Craig White."

We talked and drank for awhile and they kept buying the next rounds. Mo announced that she wanted to do a Car Bomb and I think they both wanted to fall at her feet in adoration. A hot girl who likes Car Bombs? I, of course, begged out. Even looking at them was too much for me.

"I only do girly shots."

"What, like kamikazes?" Blonde Bob said.

"Um, yeah."

Eventually we left Dark Horse and after that it was a whirlwind of Miller Lites and bars. We went next door to Limerick for a drink or two before stumbling down to Atkin's Park, where we managed to snag a table outside and did more shots. This led to a rousing would-be-embarrassing-if-I-could-remember-it game of "I Never." Playing with your best friend and strangers is never a good combination because it usually ends up with one of you calling the other out with "Yes you have!" and pointing.

Blonde Bob had his hand on my knee when I suggested the Clermont. I'd told them about it earlier, in a more lucid state, so let the record show that they knew where we were going.

I don't really remember the drive down Ponce, but I know it happened, because I mean, it did. We told the cab driver to come back and get us in an hour or so, the Bobs paid him, and we made it to the Lounge door. The bouncer, who's always there, told us that the femulleted bartender had already announced Last Call but that we were welcome to try anyway. Despite our best arguments that she should give us some PBRs, we were out-of-luck. The bouncer suggested some gay bars and I felt the need to tell him, again I'm sure as I've seen him before, how this is where my friend met her husband. I also told him that I thought they closed later (you know, later than 3:30) and he said, quite logically, that I was probably in the state I was currently in, so I most likely never noticed what time it actually was. Damn you sober logic!

We ran next door to Dugan's where the bartender was much more sympathetic to our plight and gave us beers to go, served up in plastic cups. We waited on the sidewalk for a cab and coincidentally enough, got the same guy.

"Backstreet!" we yelled.

"It's somewhere in Midtown," I told him. As the only Atlantan, I think I was supposed to know where we were going.

He drops us off in some parking lot behind the club and we get in line with drag queens and gay men in tank tops. After a $10 cover and bag searches we're let in. Seriously, I was looking for Hal Sparks, it was that crazy.

Mo needed to get more cash (I don't know why) and while at the ATM I met what I was convinced was my gay soulmate, Mark. I can't even remember it, but it was weird. Maybe he was from Ohio or Houston, I don't remember. But we were both just like, "Hey! I like you! Let's talk!"

Eventually my gay soulmate had to walk away, so the Bobs, Mo and I made our way to the dancefloor. There was a lot of dancing, and making-out on the dancefloor, which is what club dancefloors are for, you know. I just remember opening my eyes and seeing a sea of shirtless men and realizing this night would be hard for even Mo and I to top. Unless we go to Ibiza or something.

Around five, or who knows really, Blonde Bob and I made our way back to the front of the bar, after I almost fell down on the GROUND, and looked for the other Bob and Mo. There was a lot of "Is that them?" "Wait, is that them over there?" "No, that's a drag queen." Finally his phone rings and miracle of miracles he hears it, and they're standing right in front of us.

"I lost my earring!" I kept telling her as we climbed into a cab, passing a huge line waiting to get in.

We all came back here and Mo was convinced she needed to make frozen pizza. I just kept yelling "Make sure you turn off the oven!" I think we also put in some DVDs because the next morning the t.v. was on the aux channel.

Morning came way too fast. I opened my eyes and squinted at the alarm clock knowing that I had to be at work at noon and Mo, obviously, had to drive back to Ohio.

We dropped the Bobs off at the Lenox Marriot, where there was the always awkward exchanging of phone numbers, and Mo and I went to Waffle House. We ate eggs and cold grits and pieced together the evening.

"How does always happen to us?" she asked.

"I don't know, but one of these days we're going to wind up on Lifetime. You know this, right?"

"Our mothers would be so proud."

"All I know is, Backstreet's Back! All right!"

We rushed back to my apartment and she threw her things together while I got ready for work. We hugged quickly, got into our respective Hondas and said a final good-bye from the drivers' seats. And then she was on her way back to Cincinnati and I was mama-less in Atlanta once again.

One thing is for sure, it's harder to find a Mama than a man. Miss you, Mo. Next time you visit I'll rent a kidney.

 

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The notify dances with glow sticks.

 

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