The first miscalculation in my plan came in the form of Jane's heavily muscled and tattooed personal trainer/bodyguard/companion, Michael Giovanni. Neither he, nor his biceps, seemed to support my plan to seduce Jane.
But, despite my aversion to tequila, and my new found fear of Giovanni, I still had faith that I could hang with Jane in a drinking contest long enough to score some collateral affection. I based this on two assumptions. 1.) The tequila shots would be partitioned out in thimble-sized, plastic cups like at every other liquor tasting event I've attended. 2.) Judging from the nude photos I studied of Jane beforehand—a petite women with the proportions of an x-rated Barbie doll — I doubted her body had much room for alcohol.
The tables in Penthouse's VIP room didn't look like they had room for much more liquor either. Buckets of ice were packed with an orgy of Diosa Tequila: Silver, Café Carmel, Apple, Mango, Almond. Jane took a shot with her lady friends then tossed me a glass.
“You need to stop being such a pussy and catch up,” she said. "Which tequila do you want?"
“Which kind have you seen people vomit up the least?"
“None. Diosa has the lowest methanol rating in the world. It won't give you a hangover.”
I doubted her claim on several accounts: 1.) My stomach is so pathetic that it occasionally rejects warm milk. 2.) Having grown up in Texas, I know that anything made in Mexico carries the risk of death. 3.) Had hangover-proof tequila been invented, I feel like there would have been a national holiday, or at least a parade to commemorate the event.
Jane's sinister grin seemed to qualify her statement: "Diosa won't give you a hangover," her smile seemed to say, "unless of course you're a pussy."
I held out my glass. My first mistake was allowing Jane to pour my shot. Actually, this was my second mistake. My first was allowing her to pour the highest proof of Diosa, silver, into a highball glass.
I didn't bicker over the size of the shot for fear of relinquishing what remained of my manhood. I gulped the tequila and instinctively scanned the area for a chaser. The tables contained nothing but tequila, ice, and a few limes. Jane wasn’t fucking around. She was here to drink tequila.
“Jesse, I need a picture of you with Shawn for the paper,” said Al, the photographer for ModelsandMMA.com.
I did not argue. Posing with Jane was part of my seduction strategy.
“Now let’s do one where you're pouring tequila down his throat,” Al said, coaching Jane.
How could kneeling in front of a porn star with my mouth open expectantly end badly? She poured in mango tequila with no sign of stopping.
“Keep going,” Al instructed.
He snapped a picture, then another, and another until the liquor rolled down my chin and splattered on my shirt. Money shot jokes were made.
“Now let’s get all the girls in the picture with him,” Al said.
He had quickly become my new best friend.
“Why don't you bend him over like you're banging him with a
strap-on," Al said. "Maybe pull his hair.”
Al was dead to me.
I’m still unsure what exactly Jane and her troop of women did while they had me bent over — I tend to block out traumatic experiences involving my butt—but I do know it was not the kind of affection I had hoped to score at the party. Nor was I sure what “paper” would print such disturbing images.
The experience left me dazed. I stood in the corner, getting my head straight with apple tequila while reformulating my plan to slip past Giovanni's biceps. About this time, Jane turned to the nearest warm body — which happened to belong to fellow adult star, Janessa Brazil—and she started groping the shit out of the unsuspecting brunette. Al diligently took photos, though I assume those too were for his personal collection.
A stream of Jane’s fans poured through the VIP room. Jane posed with them for photos, signed autographs, and occasionally took shots with them. I hung in for a few more rounds of tequila, but it quickly became clear that I wasn’t the only one losing a drinking competition to the petite blonde.
Around 1 AM, Al suggested he drive me home. Part of my brain—the part drowning in alcohol—couldn’t comprehend why we would ever leave a place with free tequila and frisky porn stars. But, my rational brain knew there were only a few ways the night could end if we remained: 1.) Maria blacklisting me from all of Tampa's strip clubs after I coated her club in vomit 2.) Giovanni's biceps squeezing my skull until it popped like a pimple. 3.) Jane continuing to make me her bitch by drinking me under the table.
As a consolation prize, or possibly just to soak up the tequila in my stomach so I didn't unleash it in his car, Al bought me a hot dog. On the ride home, I reconsidered my plan to seduce Jane, and how it had ended with me sitting in a two-person sausage fest.
How could a woman with such a tiny and hyper-fit body like Jane's consume that much tequila, then wake up and do it all again at a different club the next night? Was she on some new, west coast diet that involved replacing all of her meals with fruit-flavored tequila? Was she a cyborg from the future — a machine with a perfectly crafted body built to run on tequila and sex? Or maybe I should have just learned my lesson about trying to out-party porn stars, especially one who owns a liquor brand and who travels around the country hosting tequila parties.
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