Here's a story that I wouldn't be able to tell without alcohol:
It's this past summer, and I'm in Florida for a cousin's wedding. He's loaded, as is the girl he's marrying, and the whole weekend is really extravagent. We're eating at some restaurant the night before the wedding, and I notice a girl across the room. She's pretty, and I'm single. However, this is a crowded place (crowded with my relatives), and I'm pretty reserved anyways, so no moves are made.
The next day, I see her again at the wedding: she's a bride's maid. I'd still like to talk to her.
After the wedding, we file off to a reception. It's at an art gallery on the water - absolutely incredble - it looked like the reception in Wedding Crashers. Of course there's an open bar, dance floor, great band, etc. I don't know a whole lot of people (besides my family members), so I throw back a few.
Suddenly, I'm James Bond. And dammit, I've got a mission.
I see the girl again, lock eyes, and jump into I conversation she's a part of. We start talking about something I have since forgot. I am quite charming in my intoxicated state, and we tear off to the dance floor. I'm now drunkenly dancing with this girl in front of multiple southern Baptist generations of my family. I'm pulling out moves from high-school, and she's digging it. Some people are staring.
After the reception ends, we flood out into the city. I've met a lot of my cousin's friends and we are having a great time. The girl is really funny, and conversatioin is great. Pretty quickly, I pull her aside and we make-out in a gazebo by the water. I was still pretty hammered, but I kid you not, it was actually romantic. It was just a beautiful spot, such a primitive, passionate moment, two souls connecting in the cool breeze, stars out and yachts cruising by. Or maybe it was just the booze.
After a few hours, we head back to my hotel. I'm in a room with my brother - there are two twin beds. He's not back yet. 30 minutes pass (no detail here because NO SEX AT ALL) and my brother comes back, holding a bottle of champagne from the wedding, absolutely obliterated. He's slurring his words, telling dirty jokes, just generally making an *** of himself and ruining a good thing for me. Eventually he passes out.
I resume bidness (my brother was not waking up). 20 minutes later, we're locked in the grips of passion when my brother starts coughing. We're laughing at him. Then, he leans over the bed. To quote myself, "Oh ****."
He unleashes the fiercest stream of vomit I've ever seen in my life. It's a freakin deluge. This is the Vince Young of power-pukes, it keeps going long after you think it's stopped. He saturates the space in between the beds, COVERING THE GIRL'S DRESS which had been tossed on the floor. The moment is totally surreal - 5 am in Jacksonville, me sitting on a bed with the object of my desire, who has now been deprived clothes by my idiot brother. I am laughing so hard I am crying.
I jump in the shower with the dress and do a decent job cleaning it off. The girl was actually pretty cool with it - since it was the wedding dress she wasn't planning on wearing it again. I'm just pissed I had to give her my favorite pair of athletic shorts. After a fitful night of sleep in a room that smelled like vomit and lysol, we part ways, friends. I'm pretty sure she gave me strep throat, which I suppose is karma for my brother ruining her dress.
So there you go, without booze I don't have a beautiful connection with some girl (whose name I can't recall, although we are facebook friends now) and I don't have a funny story to tell my friends. I say unapologetically and without irony that some of the best moments of my life were enabled by booze. I've got dozens of comparable stories, and 90% of the time, alcohol is involved.