Why You Really Shouldn't Go Down On Someone After You Drink

Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.

While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high heel-wearing, winged liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame.

But hey, don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend fuckups that are screwing up your life. Here's this week's Very Important PSA: Don't go down on someone with a dry mouth, darlings.

Hi, babes. It's the weekend. And you know what? It's going to be a long one.

That's right. It's ~Columbus Day weekend~ and thank sweet baby Jesus, because it's been a week from the fiery pits of hell, hasn't it?

But you know what happens during Columbus Day weekend? In case you've forgotten about what goes down — perhaps you chucked back one too many gin and tonics this summer — allow yours truly to sweetly remind you: People drink a lot on Columbus Day weekend.

Why do we drink so much? Well, isn't that a loaded question!

Besides the fact that we're collectively overworked as a society and need to drink to forget that the best years of our lives are being spent staring blankly into a static computer screen (and regardless of the fact that we have massive, empty gaps, blank spaces and dark voids in our lives that we're not sure how to fill, so we turn to booze for temporary relief), it's also a long weekend.

A long weekend means that we have one extra day to recover from the hangover. It means we can recklessly have our Sunday Funday without having to trudge into work the next day in a terrible, vulnerable, hungover state.

Because we all know that's the most disheartening way to start the week, when the week is already hard enough! I know, babes. I know it too well.

But while chugging back the champagne on a sweet fall day is blissful at 2 pm, things get dark around 9 pm. By that time, we're not just sitting around a cozy pub in our oversized, maroon, Ralph Lauren sweaters, over-the-knee, black-leather boots and wax-finish jeans. No, we're fucked up.

The oversized maroon sweater has come off. We're in a tank top, if we're lucky, but if we've been mixing champagne with liquor, we might even be in our bras.

Don't act prim. I've seen it happen to women of all ages. Look how cute my friends and I were last weekend when we fall day drank?

You should've seen us at 2 am.

Suddenly, our berry-colored lipstick is smeared, our blown-out hair is a wreck and our under-eye area is crinkly because we're sorely dehydrated.

And then, the boy (or girl, if you're a lesbian like me) sitting at the other side of the bar looks way cuter than they did hours before, and you, brimming with liquid courage, decide to strut (stumble) over to him or her and introduce yourself.

"I'm Zara," you'll slur.

"Hi, Zara," this cute (drunk goggles) creature will slur right back.

And the next thing you know, you'll be in a taxi with the "cute" creature, heading uptown (because you're a sexually-charged human being, high off liquor, the leaves falling from the ample trees and God knows what else). You'll get out at 92nd Street and think, "What the hell? I live on 14th Street!"

The cute creature will giggle and say, "We're at my apartment. You said you wanted to go home with me."

You'll say, "Oh yeah," as you suddenly remember it was your idea to go back to the creature's apartment.

The next thing you know, you're in a steamy hookup. You're all twisted, hot and bothered in their super-soft, 1000-thread-count sheets.

Suddenly, you decide you're really turned on by the idea of going down on them, which is rare because we all know you're a bonafide pillow-princess, who prefers to just lay back and let them do the hard work.

Feeling inspired, you shove the creature down with a newfound confidence you didn't know you had, and you're going down on them.

Except something feels off. And it's not them. It's you. Your tongue is so dry that it's hard to even move it properly.

The more you go at it, the drier it feels. And you can tell they can feel it too, because even though they're moaning, you can tell they're just being polite. Your tongue is like a rough cat's tongue.

With every moment, your mouth is getting drier and drier. It's so dry that you're having vivid visions of oceans and a huge plastic bottle of Fiji water.

The whole thing is miserable. You have to cut it off early because your mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls. Plus, your dry mouth isn't exactly fun for your partner, either. The whole point of oral is the wetness of it all, isn't it babes?

So, darlings, if you're going to get drunk and have a hookup, even if it's with your long-term partner, (Don't give up on oral, even in a long-term relationship!) chug water. Or better yet, use dry-mouth spray:

Yes, there are literally sprays to use before oral sex to cure you of this problem. Let's just say your lesbian big sister may or may not suffer from dry mouth anyway due to her antidepressants. So when she's been drinking, it's really, really dry, and sometimes, she has to spritz some spray in there.

And if you're tempted to go down on someone and think, "Screw what Zara says. I'm going to give him or her head, regardless! After all, I don't take antidepressants. My mouth is fine," then you're wrong.

And you need to imagine me standing behind the bar. I'm your bartender tonight, honey, and I'm dressed the part: a tight, black tank top, an uncharacteristically-padded bra, a black, velvet choker, winged eyeliner and really obnoxious, shiny lips.

I look harder than usual, like I've had a few too many rough nights. And maybe I have. I am 30, after all, and I've been doing this dance a long time.

I'm pouring you a glass of water, even though you insisted on white wine (with an ice cube, nonetheless, which is very trashy-chic of you).

"Drink the water. Drink the water. DRINK THE FUCKING WATER," I yell to you, my Long Island roots making a rare appearance.

I want you to have the best sex because you're my little baby sisters and gay-boy brothers, and you're under my lesbian protective wing now.

Message me if you need support. I love you. I don't know you, but we're family. And blood is thicker than water, but water will keep you from giving bad head.

XO,

Zara, your lesbian big sis