On Sunday, I was at a sex show. Contrary to what that sentence might lead you to believe, it was more of a literary thing than anything. Or that's what I tell myself. It's a monthly event I attend and sometimes read at; it involves people reading their (creative non-fiction) sex stories, audience participation in sex-related trivia, and audience questions answered by the hosts. The stories I have written for the show actually inspired the creation of this blog. I cannot publish them on my other blog; additionally, I have some stories I would like to share, but behind the veil of anonymity.
I was not reading this particular week and showed up a bit late. It's a bad idea for me to show up a bit late to any event held at a bar, as I'm a big fan of "catching up" on drinks. My friend Samantha had two empty High Life bottles next to her and a nearly empty bottle in her hand. I ordered whiskey on the rocks and started drinking.
Though not necessarily consciously, I was also engaging in a Very Bad Idea; that is, I was involved in some reactionary drinking. I do not always realize that I am drinking in reaction to something until the hangover subsides and common sense kicks in. Late Monday afternoon, I figured this out.
I was drinking in reaction to - what else? - some minor romantic disappointment. Now, here's an equation that results in a few moments of self-loathing the next day: Sex Show + Reactionary Drinking + Single Men - One's Friends.
I was becoming increasingly intoxicated while my friends gradually left. Some went home because they didn't feel well or had to work the next day; others moved on to another bar and I did not have the funds to cover a cab there and then home. I was left at the bar, finishing my "last" drink, when a man I'd noticed at several sex shows sat down on my right and another man eventually grabbed the seat to my left.
Things get hazy here. I know I was talking to them both for awhile. I have no idea what the subject matter was. The job market? Politics? Fisting? I haven't a clue. Then I was outside, sharing a cigarette with the man to my left. Then we were making out on the sidewalk. Shortly thereafter, he walked me home.
He spent the night, which is rather jumbled in my memory. My next memory is of him waking me up and suggesting we fuck again. Though I could not tell whether I was insanely hung over or still drunk, I accepted the proposition. He came on my back and we went back to sleep for about a half hour before I had to wake up and get to work.
My right nipple hurts and I have several small bruises and hickeys on my chest. He's currently texting me and I cannot tell whether he's interested in me or another piece of my ass. I mean, maybe I was a witty, charming woman on Sunday night. I wouldn't know.