Dateline: "If I'd worked my way farther back towards sobriety, I might not be sitting on his bed…"
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10:30 p.m. – I get to this party out in Bushwick (bringing new meaning to "fashionably late") that I thought would be one of those large warehouse parties filled with scarves and discussion of the new hip album on the block, but is actually just somebody's loft with my friends, who told me they were going to set me up with this guy who was totally my type, totally cool, and totally not going to turn out to be straight.
11:15 – I meet said totally-not-straight-guy after I get myself a drink. I'm a little nervous seeing him, mostly because he's attractive and he looks cool, but also because I'm not a drinker (I puke very easily) and I can't magically vanish away into a land of warm fuzzy hysterics if things get bad. I'll probably just throw this beer away when it's half-empty. We talk a bit: what's your major, that sort of stuff.
11:45 – We're out on the deck, sitting on these strange plastic chairs, smoking, he's trying to quit, I tell him that it doesn't seem to be going too well. He laughs and smiles. It's one of those smiles where you wonder in your mind, "Is this a moment?"
12:00 a.m. – We're still smoking, talking about a movie that just came out and how we both hated it. The party's still pretty big back inside but nobody's on the deck. While he's going on and on about how fake people in Hollywood are, I just want to be spontaneous and do something like kiss him, or whatever, but I feel like I'm glued to this seat and every time I lift up, I get nervous and sink back down, getting sucked deeper into the plastic.
12:30 – Turns out I was wrong about the drinking thing. He kept bringing me drinks while we were talking, and I drank them because they were in my hand and I liked the thought of him trying to get me drunk.
12:45 – We're walking back to his apartment (I didn't realize so many people lived off-campus) and as we're walking, he holds my hand. It's a little weird in public. But I don't really notice, because I'm looking on my arm for tally marks — when I was younger, at those parties I was never supposed to go to, I used to pace myself by marking how many shots I'd had on my arm. I'm really drunk. I tell him I have to use the bathroom and duck into a Starbucks. I puke in the toilet (shamelessly, this isn't the first time Brooklyn has seen me puke) and I look frantically for the gum I put in my pocket, chewing three pieces like the mighty warrior Beowulf chewing on mutton, before I throw them in the trash.
1:00 – We make it back to his apartment, decorated with the fanciest movie posters and piles of books. He turns on the string lights in his room and puts on some music — I think it's New Order — and I sit on his bed. If I'd worked my way farther back towards sobriety, I might not be sitting on his bed. He sits down next to me, and we spend a short time just looking at each other. Then he moves in to kiss me and I close my eyes as the song starts to sound really good.
1:15 – We're making out and hands are wandering, he kisses my neck. Details ensue. I thought puking would sober me up but it definitely didn't, and I pass out on his bed as he asks if he can go down on me. I hope he's not offended, but I only really wanted to make out anyway.
11:40 – I wake up in his bed, but I'm alone. My mouth tastes like cigarettes and gum and I sit up. He walks out of the bathroom and sees me; he smiles and asks if I have anything to do today. It's a Saturday, so no. We spend the rest of the day smoking, listening to music and making out.