Wet Dream

I walked into the bar alone.  Cinqo de Mayo fell on a week night, and no one was returning my calls.  Three feet through the door I ran into a kid I knew from around the neighborhood.

He turned small talk into a boring lecture about college.  Art school fag.  He moaned about being a walking cliche while I struggled to remember his name.  I eyeballed the bar nervously, more interested in a drink than anything he had to say.

“So, uh . . . where are all the hot, straight chicks?

As if I hadn’t just insulted him, he pointed and walked across the bar.  He sidled up to a little co-ed – cute, dirty blonde – and wrapped his arms around her.  She sat at a table with some soggy looking poof.  Art Boi leaned in and whispered something to the Blonde, and pointed at me.

Her eyes lit up.  She waved me over.

I walked to her table and she pushed the chair out next to her with her foot.  As first impressions go, this was more auspicious than most.

“Alcohol would be good,” I said.  My version of an introduction.

Art Boi made proper introductions around the table.  The fat poof looked like he spent most nights crying and jerking off to Bauhaus.  We were one chair shy.  Art Boi stood.

“What’re we drinking?” I asked.

“Ooh, Jager?” she said.

“Be a sweetheart?” I pulled out a twenty, holding it across the table to the fat poof.

He looked hurt.  The blonde looked over at him.

“Oh, come on,” she cooed.

“Fine . . . ” he said, pushing himself away from the table.

“You drinking?” I said, looking up at Art Boi.

“No . . . ” he showed me the large X drawn on either hand in black marker.  He took fat boy’s seat.

“Oh, right.  Straight edge.”

I made small talk with the blonde.  Where do you go to school?  What’s your major?  What color panties are you wearing?

It was a thong, actually.  Pink.  She stood to show me the strap.  I was only being a smart-ass, if deliberately rude.  I couldn’t believe that worked.  Fat Boy returned with our shots.  Blondie slid into my lap so Fat Boy could sit.  She wiggled and snuggled up to me.

What God had I pleased?

“So, what did homeboy whisper in your ear?” I murmured.

“You’re hot . . . ” she stammered.

She giggled and reached down between my legs, feeling her way up my thigh.  She shifted her weight indelicately and palmed my crotch, rubbing me through my jeans.

Dear Penthouse Forum . . .

Then she turned to kiss me.  If kissing is a skill, she didn’t have it.  Her spit ran down my chin.  I could taste the alcohol on her breath.  I was only on my second drink.  My motivation faltered.

I had said less than a full paragraph worth of words to this girl.  It was actually happening – her squeezing reminded me – but I could hardly believe that this girl had just fallen into my lap.  I suspected I was committing a crime.

I made her show me her I.D.  She was 20 – or 21 – depending on which card I looked at.

Game on.

I stood her up and marched us to the bar.  The bartender was surprised to see me.  I hadn’t been around in months.  The next pair of shots were on the house, and I bought another double for myself.  I had catching up to do.

We hopped to the next bar.  Art Boi scored us a free round before disappearing.  A few more drinks and a few more bars and Blondie was hanging on my arm for support.

I suggested calling it a night.

She suggested that we go back to her friend’s house.  I insisted on a cab until she told me where we were going.  I was parked two blocks away.  The walk to my car was longer than the drive to her friend’s apartment.

Stupidly, I marched us to my car.  Not a block later she was whining in my ear.  It’s cold!  Where’s your car?  Let’s call a cab to your car!

I dragged her the distance.  By the time I unlocked my doors, I hated her with every fiber of my being.  She fell into my passenger seat, and I rolled out of my space with surgical delicacy.  It was only a few more blocks to her friend’s apartment.  All back streets.  I multi-tasked between clutching, shifting, and removing her hand from my groin.

All of this while glancing frantically in my mirrors for cops.

We crash landed on a couch in the living room of a dank frat pad.  I was given a brief introduction to the leaseholder, who casually shrugged me the consent to fuck on his furniture.   He hit the lights on his way out.

I had barely sunk my teeth into Blondie’s shoulder, with a hand up her shirt, when Fat Boy reappeared.

“There aren’t any spare bedrooms . . . “

I groaned loudly, my noise barely muffled by her skin.

“What happened to the room you slept in last night?” she howled.

“Someone else is passed out in there . . . ” he muttered.

He said nothing else.  He was hammered, and he curled up on the adjacent couch.  My hand froze.  With all momentum lost, I unhanded her breast.  In the back of my mind, I was grateful not to be balancing on one foot, or counting to thirty.

Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three . . .

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I woke before she did.  We were spooning.  Sunlight filtered through the bedsheets that passed as curtains.  The room smelled like piss and puke.

My clothes were soaked with sweat.  Everything was damp, even the couch.  My arms were wrapped around her.  The crotch of her jeans was wet.

In a panic, I reached between us and checked my groin.  Still dry.

Fat Boy was stirring.  Before long, Captain Frat and a roommate stumbled  into the living room.  I was desperate to be anywhere else.  She didn’t even say good morning.

After the most awkward conversation of my life, I climbed over her and staggered out of the apartment.  Now that I was moving, the hangover began to throb.

Out in the cool morning air, I checked to see how much I had been peed on.  I scraped two bumpers dislodging myself from my parking space.  I didn’t remember her name.