The East Village is nothing but trouble. It’s a bad place to be. If you want to go somewhere in the East Village to get a “quick drink,” forget about it. You’re going to get wasted and go home with someone unattractive. It’s just the way things are. Don’t get me wrong, I love getting into that sort of trouble. But there is no place else in New York where I can black out completely and still safely make it home—with someone ugly, of course.

I started my evening at a bar called Three of Cups. This basement bar is the sort of New York joint you see on TV. It’s dark—darker than black dark, except for a couple of red lights sprinkled throughout the bar, so it’ll take your eyes a couple of hours to adjust. AC/DC, Metallica, and Led Zeppelin seem to be the only music options, but you do get the option of loud, louder or Jesus, what the fuck did you say? Loud. My plan that evening was to get two drinks and then go home. I wanted to maximize my time, so my roommate and I got martinis. Ten bucks and four martinis later, we decided we didn’t want to spend that kind of money anymore. So we went to a liquor store.

The East Village has plenty of liquor stores and thankfully, we were even able to find one that would serve little ol’ me: Within two weeks of moving to New York, my wallet was stolen, so I was using an expired learner’s permit from when I was 15.

That’s another wonderful thing about the East Village: No ID? No problem! This is the usual exchange at a bar or liquor store when I don’t have my ID:

Clerk/Bartender: You got an ID?

Me: Nope, sorry.

Clerk/Bartender: You know you gotta be 21?

Me: Yep.

Clerk/Bartender: You look pretty young.

Me: I know. I’m 25. This is so embarrassing. Can I have my have my 40-ounce/wine cooler/ZIMA/Seabreeze now, please?

Clerk/Bartender: Sure kid, but make sure you keep it in the bag. I don’t want you gettin’ arrested.

Me: Thanks mister! (This is where I usually grab my bottle, in addition to any comic books or lollipops I bought and skip out of the store).

That night, we bought a $2.50 bottle of vodka, went to McDonald’s and made two stiff vodka Sprite cocktails in their foam cups. We then met our friends at the bar next door and continued to get sauced. After finishing our cups (and shots that were bought by my generous and more “employed” friends), it was time to ditch everyone.

When I’m alone and drunk, I’m unstoppable, and a place like the East Village only makes me more powerful. My first stop was a gay bar called the Slide. The bartender knows me and always slides a two-dollar Pabst my way as soon as I walk in. That night an old man in his 50s decided to take a crack at me. He slurred something unmentionable and offered to buy me a drink. Of course I said yes, and then spent 10 minutes swatting his hand away from my ass. He stumbled to the bathroom and I slipped away. I was wasting valuable bar time on this man, and I needed to make it to my final destination: The Cock.

I had heard about The Cock way before I moved to New York, but I didn’t believe any of the stories; they were far too outlandish. I just couldn’t believe that amount of debauchery would be allowed in a bar. Boy was I wrong. The Cock is quite possibly the dirtiest, nastiest, filthiest gay bar in New York City. I love it. When you walk in, you notice one thing. It’s hot. It’s fucking burning up. Your first thought is that they have the heat cranked up, but you soon discover that the heat is being generated by pure, unfiltered horniness. It’s not unusual to have a conversation at The Cock about the weather while the man next to you is trying to unzip your pants. That night, there was a nude man standing at the bar. Nude. Completely naked, except for tube socks and tennis shoes.

He did not work there. He was just visiting.

And he was very popular. Did I mention naked? There was someone else in the corner closely examining a man’s zipper ... with his tongue. This anything goes attitude is what makes The Cock a favorite for people watchers, drunkards and horny men alike. An hour later, I realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink, but I still felt an undeniable urge to vomit. I politely asked the man next to me to let go of my crotch, and I stumbled to the subway.

After that night, I swore off liquor completely. For 12 hours. Then I found myself doing the same thing all over again. It’s a constant struggle, and the East Village always wins. The battle continues night after night, but if it’s going to be this fun, I’ll happily lose.