Thursday evening, I got back from my Rocky Mountain homeland after a 10-day trip.
I had spent most of my two flights crying (long story for another post– partly PMS and partly just the usual home-ness), so I wasn’t at my best. I also had my two bags, stuffed full (that Borders final sale is a trap, y’all). But some of my dearest friends were having a party at this amazing brownstone where they were housesitting– an apartment that spurred on a glorious dream of high-class co-habitation with three of my friends that we call “brownstone commune.”
I got there after a confusing taxi ride:
TAXI DRIVER: How are you?
ME: Good, thanks.
(ten minutes later, spurred by nothing)
TAXI DRIVER: You live here?
TAXI DRIVER: Isn’t it scary, living here?
ME: Uh… I don’t feel scared.
(another ten minutes later, while paying for the ride, I “swipe” my card too early. TAXI DRIVER gets angry and short with ME. Then I successfully pay.)
TAXI DRIVER: You are beautiful. Have a wonderful night.
Huh? Also “huh,” because I just HAVE to share my ridiculous state:
ANYWAY (apologies to anyone reading this who actually edits their writing… This is my blog and my attention span is simply too short), when I got to the “brownstone commune” at 11pm, a number of my friends were there. M immediately offered me a drink, which I accepted gladly– a gin & tonic, my favorite. I went downstairs to say hi, and someone offers me a veggie burger, which I accepted heartily (I hadn’t eaten since a bout of overeating TEN hours earlier– I know, it wasn’t good). The party continued in much the same fashion, as everyone, including myself, absorbed the alcohol. I didn’t drink all that much, but I think on an empty stomach, with the time change, with my emotional craziness of the day, I actually got drunk on my one drink (prob it was two drinks worth of gin, let’s be real).
As the night continued, we said farewell to some, said goodnight to others, cleaned some spills, played some Catchphrase, etc. And I flirted with a boy, a stranger, basically. He’s one of my best friends’ best friend, and although I knew his name well, I had never really spent any time with him. My friends reeeeaaallly wanted him to pair up with someone (my gay boys just want everyone to find love, y’know). I didn’t really make any direct moves.
Game change. I decided at some point I was ready for bed, and headed to my “bedroom” (the “commune” has a number of bedrooms, and I’d committed to staying over– why I came at all). As everyone dispersed, I heard the boy chatting with people, unsure where his room was. Now, I was definitely drunk. But I was also completely lucid. I remember everything, perfectly clearly. It was like by-proxy-drunk– since everyone else was wasted, I could just be uninhibited without actually being drunk. Who knows.
Anyway, I pulled the curtain to my room, and called over: “Hey, you can sleep in here if you want. It’s a huge bed. And I’m going to bed now, so if you are too then you don’t have to wait for everyone else.” He waffled a bit, then came in. I took off my pants, took out my contacts, and got into bed. Somehow my hand ended up on his shoulder, and we did that thing where you move a little… wait for the other person to move a little… oh look we’re both awake…. who’s going to make the first move… you inch your head onto his pillow… he tilts his head so you’re closer…
And pretty soon we were kissing. He tasted like cigarette smoke (not ideal), but it was fun. To tell you all waaaaaaay too much, we both kept our underwear on but my shirt was off by the end, and no kind of intercourse was had. What is that… second base? Who knows. Anyway. He did try to take off my panties twice– once obviously for sex (and like a gentleman, asked “is this okay,” to which I moved his hands and replied “not tonight”) and again for oral (same conversation), but in general, the goods stayed in the trunks. Eventually we both fell asleep in each others’ arms. Aw. Sort of.
SO. The moral of the story is: I felt sexy. I know! WHAT?! I felt good about my body? I’m not a drunken hook-up-er at all, but the one time I had a one-night stand (in Brooklyn. Ha) I had the same experience. Granted, I was somewhat smaller then, but still incredibly self-conscious. And BOTH times I was intimate, I felt attractive. I felt connected to my body. And even in the serious, sexual relationships I’ve had, I tend to feel good about myself when I’m having sex, or being “intimate” or whatever you call it that doesn’t sound stupid. It’s different with a boyfriend (in some ways better and some ways worse), but in general, using my body with a boy makes me feel really good about myself.
Is this bad? Maybe. At least I’m not going crazy sleeping around. People have sex. It’s life. If I’m not ashamed, then who cares, right? Right. Maybe it’s good. It’s not like I’m going to go around sleeping with every person in the world, but it’s like a “zone” where every piece of my body is connected to my mind. That, as you all know, is rare. So why not relish it the occasional times it happens, huh?
Anyway, I woke up super early the next morning (hadn’t taken my sleeping pills), and slipped out from under his arm to pee, putting my jeans and a blazer on. I then decided to just lie on the couch rather than going back to the bed. I was ready for some alone time, and I was kind of hoping he’d sleep for a while longer. I dropped in and out of sleep till a more appropriate hour, when my friend came to the living room and joined me. We talked pleasantly and opening and lovingly for about an hour. (I LOVE easy conversation with friends. It’s like a miracle.) At 10 45, he decided to head back to bed, and I decided to head on back to my apartment. As he walked down the stairs, he giggled– “look at me, here in my underwear.” And I responded. “Well, I’m wearing a blazer over nothing, so.” We laughed, and he headed downstairs and I headed home.
The boy was still asleep when I left, which kind of relieved me. And I haven’t heard from him since. Again, I don’t feel shame or anything, but it’s just this silly thing. We are such twenty-somethings. Good lord.
That was a much longer post than I planned on. For starting with a single “moral,” I ended up with a novel. Y’all are just much better bloggers than I am. If you made it this far, cheers. And apologies. 🙂
Till next time,
“A schoolchild should be taught grammar–for the same reason that a medical student should study anatomy. Having learned about the exciting mysteries of an English sentence, the child can then go forth and speak and write any damn way he pleases.”
— E.B. White (Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976)