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His face cracked into a crooked smile, his top lip much thinner than his bottom one. I can't remember kissing him. I'm sure I must have, we obviously slept together. "What's mine?"
"Brian?" I guessed. We were still lying naked next to each other, but our bodies weren't touching. Brian was the name of the last guy I slept with.
"Ethan," he said, stressing the second syllable like a petulant toddler. "You didn't seem that drunk," he added defensively.
Now I smiled a real smile. With a few fantastic exceptions, I was a champion at never seeming that drunk, always seeming surprised if I sloshed my champagne to make it seem like a sexy slip-up, instead of something I'd do again and again and again during the course of the evening.
With as much dignity as possible, I scooped up my clothes and brought them with me to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, idly wondering if I'd sleep with him again. I splashed cold water on my face and pulled a towel around me. I decided that I would sleep with him again, if he wanted to.
He didn't.
With as much dignity as possible, I scooped up my clothes and brought them with me to the bathroom. |
After that, I tried to reform. I made a point not to hook up at parties, not to drink at all on first dates, and then to consciously pace my drinking on subsequent dates so I'd never drink more than the man I was with. It was productive. I dated a medievalist and a lawyer and an unemployed guy who did triathlons. I've done dates over coffee, at the movies, once even kayaking on the Hudson. And they're fine.
Still, despite the myriad bad points, there's something irresistible about a drunken hookup, something that I can't quite give up, no matter how hard I've tried. It's a mini-relationship in one night, both simple and Shakespearean as we move from strangers to partners-in-crime to lovers to strangers again. I love the meandering conversations about favorite childhood books, the spontaneous decision to go to another bar down the street, the moment at which the first-date nerves are nonexistent and all that exists is in-the-moment fun, the way no permission needs to be asked before we kiss, the way the bartender sends over a complimentary round of drinks. For those few hours, the world just seems a little more magical.
And that's where you came in, Mr. I Can't Believe that Drunk Girl. Because, while I'm sure I'll never see you again, I want you to know that getting drunk with you wasn't really an accident. It was something I did on purpose. The point — and what I was trying to say with that third vodka shot — is I'm restless and scared and terrified of growing up, and I figure, if you liked me drunk, then you'll love me sober. And I'd be happy to talk about it more. Over a drink.
n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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J.L. Scott is the pseudonym of a
writer/editor in New York City. |
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©2009 J.L. Scott and Nerve.com
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