I was 18, a sophomore in college, and attending a party off campus. I’d never tasted alcohol before or even been very close to it. There was none of any kind in my upbringing among religious folk. Somehow that was the night.
I started with sherry, which I’d expected would be wonderful because of all the British novels I’d read. It really wasn’t very pleasant, so next I tried beer, which I thought was nasty and gross. I ended up with Southern Comfort, and by then I was already too wasted to care what it tasted like, but it wasn’t very comforting.
I distinctly remember my date’s telling me, “You have ceased to be an intelligent conversationalist.” I thought that was hysterical.
The next morning I woke up (in my dorm, quite safe and unharmed) with a powerful thirst and gulped down two Cokes, and somehow I ended up feeling drunk all over again. All the girls in my dorm came in to view the spectacle. I’d had a reputation for being pretty strait-laced up until then—much more so, in fact, than I actually was.