The Queen and I first met at a bar. It’s not something we advertise. Similar stories usually end in hook ups and poorly.
Many years ago, in another life, long before the Queen, I met a woman during a business conference. She was blessed with black hair and hazel eyes that would bring a good man to his knees. Introduced through a mutual colleague, we got to know each other between breakout sessions and cocktail hours.
It was January ’89 and I had just completed a tumultuous week of fraternity hell sealed by oath to never reveal what happened. After twelve final hours, aptly named Hell Night, of what I sometimes thought would be my death, the chaos ended in a drunken salutation that my blindfolded, beer soaked, humiliated pledge brothers and I were no longer toilet scum but members fraternally bonded in brotherhood.