The Flaming Lamborghini

There are probably different recipes but this is how we did it. I forgot the measurements, we never followed recipes anyway, and it was always good. Damn…it was great 🙂

Coffee liqueur
Blue Curacao liqueur

Pour the Sambuca + Kahlua + Absinth in a cocktail glass.
Pour the Bailey’s and Curacao in separate shot glasses. Set fire to the cocktail glass, try not to burn your eyebrows as you sip from the glass with a straw. While you drink, add the Bailey’s and Blue Curacao. Drink the whole thing in one go.

And drink and drink and drink and go!

When you and I crossed path, you were carrying some heavy baggage.

That was a euphemism; please allow me to clarify: When we met, your life was a disgusting mess, with metaphoric flies buzzing around the real scumbag that you are, as you bulldozed through everything life had given you.

A former junkie of the lowest sort, you were reduced to chasing highs in a swamp of vodka and tequila, with the comfortable determination of those who stumble through youth on purpose, rolling in the mud with gusto. It was all-good because your Daddy made sure there will be a warm cushion waiting in the end.

I had long black hair (blue black said the label on the bottle) and so much eyeliner I could hardly open my eyes; you called me your princess. BANG!

Oh it was a proper courtship. You phoned at 3 am to make me listen to a song you liked, you made mixtapes for me because my car didn’t have a CD player. One mixtape every morning for a week, what girl could resist! You wrote me a poem, A POEM THAT YOU READ IN PUBLIC! And it was good (Seriously, you’re a better writer than I can ever hope to become).

So there was no way I was going to listen to all the reasonable voices around me: friends, even your family, even strangers, including the bartender at your favorite bar: “Destructive destructive destructive” they all said. I answered with a laugh: “Appetite for Destruction” (awesome album, stupid answer). To be fair, I’m self-destructive enough on my own, I would have found a way to fuck up even without you, and I’m glad it was with you.

You psycho wacko! You toxic tornado! You beautiful bastard!

Flamboyant fucker you had style.

Everything you did, you did with panache, with a loud scream, with a war anthem. Your talent for life, your voracious hunger for booze, for speed, for sex, for ME was spectacular.

Oh I knew I was a poor substitute for something you once heated in a spoon, but I had never been desired with such enthusiasm. Always a force of nature, when you held my hand, when you went down on me, when you just smiled at me. Your moves in bed, your sense of rhythm, and the earth-shattering orgasms you gave me! Every time was the original Big Bang, as many times as I wanted, everywhere I felt like it. I just had to tickle your arm and you knew what to do, even if it meant doing it while our friends were waiting in the next room. Shameless, I know. Few have made me feel so gloriously lustful, so religiously adoring, so dangerously uninhibited.

Hormones are amazing. In between my permanent afterglow and all the drinking, I didn’t mind all the disgusting things about you: poor hygiene, disgraceful language, Sojok-flavored kisses from Mano’s even though I’m a vegetarian. Once you even left bits of kafta in my mouth (I just gagged while typing this).

We were starving for each other, loving each other with such urgency, probably aware that our bright flame would be quick to burn (too cliché? Sorry). It was my first semester at university and I zombied my way through classes, sometimes already drunk by noon. I quickly earned my “weirdo” label and was soon shunned by the cool kids, those who had accepted me in their inner circle the previous summer.

Whatever… you were my Splendour in The Grass, the Sal Paradise to my Kerouac and you were certainly more fun than Sky Bar (even the original Sky Bar, before they moved to Biel) and whatever club was cool at the time. We were having homemade Flaming Lamborghinis and drinking cheap vodka from the bottle on the beach in Jbeil. We fell asleep with our pants off in your car, somewhere on the road to Beiteddine, and never made it to that concert. We went driving very fast on the highway at midnight, which was very stupid. We went tiro shooting while drunk, which was incredibly stupid. And then we had that very loud, very public fight in front of Khalo’s shop in Monot, and a friend from high school saw me. This time I was mortified.

It ended disgracefully for both of us, but I’d rather not remember that part. It ended absurdly because passion is our only compass, and sober we make quite a useless pair. It has been more years than I care to count (Almost 10), but every now and then, someone notes (with admiration) how well I can hold my liquor. This is when I think of you and smile.


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