I alluded to this night a long time ago, but never fully explained. Maybe because parts of it were not my finest moments. Today, I am finally ready to share.
I took a trip to NYC in early December, where I had my first one-night stand (and second sex partner ever). It felt awesome. During my walk of shame, I imagined slow-motion wind blowing my hair back while “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta” played in the background.
There was only one tiny problem about this liberating night… I hardly remembered it. In fact, I wasn’t even sure whether or not we did it. Must have been great sex, I know.
To say that I was pissed is an understatement. I like sex. A lot. So to have it with someone new for the very first time and not remember?! Well, fuck me. From that moment, I was on a mission. I was going to get laid and remember it like a champion.
On a fine Monday evening, I returned to the same bar where I found my first one-night stand. My inebriation was evident. The wine from dinner, the full glass of bacon-infused whiskey, and the slew of antidepressants whose labels told me I shouldn’t be drinking were not playing nicely together. Oops.
About five minutes into a conversation with a cute guy at the bar, I grabbed him by the scarf and kissed him hard. Good god, if my sober self had seen this she would have punched me in the face. But maybe drunk self has it right, because I have never seen a man so turned on.
We chatted for a while and kissed, until he took me to another bar for water and grilled cheese (you know you’ve had too much when the man trying to get in your pants wants to sober you up). Everything was going great. His apartment was above the bar, and my plan to sneak into his bed was unfolding quite nicely. I ate my sandwich, drank my water, and then… made the least sexy move I have ever made.
I threw up. On me, on my friend, on him, everywhere. This part is a little hazy, but there was definitely vomit. Smelly, disgusting vomit.
At this point, it would have been fair to stop. Mood killed, no sex, time for bed. Instead, he took me upstairs to his apartment and helped me clean up (which apparently involved stripping me of my clothes, throwing them into the shower, and running it… wearing wet pants home the next day was lovely). After some tooth brushing, mouthwashing, and water, this guy was ready to jump me. That’s right- I projectile vomited on him, and he still wanted me. Right then and there.
Luckily, I was much more in-touch with reality after puking up a half ton of alcohol. This made the experience much more enjoyable. We literally didn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours. I have never seen a man ready to go so many times. It was absolutely unreal. It’s like after all the shit I had been through, this was my reward. A man with a real penis who was not afraid to use it.
I left in the morning and he got my number, but I never heard from nine times man again. That is…. until now. Yes, almost three months after our encounter, nine times man has managed to locate me on facebook and send me a friend request. What a strange, strange world we live in. Stay tuned.
**NOTE: I forgot a completely hilarious part of this story. As Mr. Nine Times stripped my vomit-soaked clothes from my body, he encountered an obstacle: a shiny broach on my shirt. Not sure what he did with it, but I vaguely remember bleeding profusely in the shower. It wasn’t until I was putting my clothes on in the morning that I saw the enormous gash on my upper thigh. There is still a scar. Ah, the memories.