Bacchanalian Adventures or God, Did I Really Say That?

I think Pavlov's feted research (ie: action-consequence) is fatally flawed.

We had a Big Night Out last night.  It was the first time Humphrey and self have frocked up together in approximately four years so naturally it had to end up involving way too much alcohol and trivia about my vagina.
After a good twenty-something years of imbibing the fermented grape (allowing unfiltered, possibly probably inappropriate and offensive musings gush from loose lips, gyrating on dancefloors like I think I'm a Pussy Cat Doll and hugging strange balding men) you would think I would know better.
But no.  I'm a recidivist.  A Bacchante. And now here I sit chewing on Panadol like they are jelly beans and wondering what happens to dead brain cells.  Do we pee them out?
I'm also hoping that the people with whom I gushed and/or gyrated (including minor television celebrities, former sports stars, my doctor, Members of Parliament, used car salesmen and miscellaneous women in baroque pearls) were as inebriated as yours truly.  Or deaf.  Yes, perhaps each time I opened my organ of verbosity they were striken with deafness.  Or instant amnesia.
I feel better already.
Unfortunately these poor souls can't un-see what I inflicted upon them by way of bare-foot dirty dancing, but never mind.
Humphrey was singularly unimpressed with what I saw as my glittering social butterfly-edness, fluttering from one table to the next engaging in witty banter and generally blinding people with my interpersonal megawattage.
He knitted his brow at me over the chilli prawn entree.  "What?"  I asked him as I sat down for a bite before heading to Table 6.  "Just slow down," he said nodding at my emptying glass, "Remember the taxi, Dequetteville roundabout, and sparkling burgundy?" (I'm saving that story for later).  He should have known better.  Humphrey and I operate exclusively on reverse psychology.  He had slipped up.  Red rags and bulls sprang to mind.  So I drank his glass of red. And flounced off.
It all climaxed post dessert.  Or degenerated if you're of the glass-half-empty ilk.  My doctor gave a rather good speech about rural mental health and was receiving a rousing round of applause when I blurted "That man has seen my vagina!"  Now what kind of response did I expect from a statement like that?  I mean really. Not the sort of statement one would expect from a woman who wears Alice bands and pearls. And why would I even think of my vagina when I looked at him anyway?  I believe there may have been some cosmic interference.  My shrink is going to have a field day and a new beach house with that one.
Humphrey, praying for anaesthesia,  rolled his eyes and swigged more wine.  Two male companions told me they'd like to see my vagina too and Bootcamp Bitch had an post apocalyptic vision and dragged me to the dancefloor......where I morphed into Jennifer Beals.  Which is all very well.......when you're 18.......and don't have crows feet and multiple chins.
This morning I was musing on the fabulous entertainment when Humphrey said:
"Of course you liked the entertainment....you were the entertainment." 
Pass me the ice pack.