Know your limit

zsumoz

A couple of years ago, I met a girl in a bar in the East Village. Our eyes locked and, rather than smiling and looking away like the shy wimp I usually am, I walked up to this beautiful chick and introduced myself. It was late at night, and after about five minutes we were holding hands. Five more and we were making out.

Cut to her apartment, an hour or two later. We're on the couch of her living room, I'm wearing nothing but a T-shirt, her black dress is now a six-inch tube top scrunched between her breasts and belly button. In other words, sex was on the table, but before we could seal the deal, the awful feeling that I had been trying to ignore since we starting rolling around overcame me. I excused myself and ran to the the bathroom with just enough time to hurl in her toilet.

It was a one-and-done kind of puking session, but when I returned to the living room, I found her fully clothed again. Moments later, her roommate and her roommate's twin sister came home from their night on the town, and an awkward introduction flowed right into, "I think it's time you were going."

Here's the happy ending: she walks me into the hallway of her apartment building and we start making out again (why she agreed to this, I have no idea) and the next thing I know I'm on my knees, face in her crotch, going to town on this woman I had met two hours earlier and whose bathroom I'd just vomited in. I have a permanent black stain on one knee of the trousers I wore that night.

And here's the weird epilogue: we set a second date, hit it off, and spent months happily hooking up. Eventually, her "ex-boyfriend" moved back to New York and she suggested we "cool things off." A few weeks later some innocent Facebook stalking, corroborated by friends, told me she'd married him. But it was fun while it lasted. — Keith

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