I recently went out to drinks with a publicist gal. While I was sure we had agreed to meet for professional reasons (her clients were interested in working with me), and I vaguely remembered meeting her before, I, in no way, remembered her being as pretty as she was. Our chemistry clicked as our wine glasses clinked and before long, reassuring arm touching and playful hair tossing was constantly occurring.
One bar turned into two, then three, then four. Rapidly, we were losing our motor skills and inhibitions. As we climbed into a cab back to my place, our eyes turned lustful and we locked lips. Breathless promises were exchanged in each other’s ears and libidos were racing.
Entering my bedroom was a feat, with door handles being particularly tricky when inebriated. As we stumbled towards my bed, clothes were literally being ripped off, and in seconds she was naked before me, fumbling with my pants and belt. Her body was perfect. With soft, pillowy breasts atop a firm stomach, she playfully bounced around my room with drunken oblivion before falling on top of me.
What followed was one of the hottest sexual encounters I’ve ever experienced. I lost control of my muscles. I made random guttural sounds I never knew I could. I heard angels. For a moment, I believed in God.
What followed THAT was sheer lunacy. Claiming sobriety was “setting in,” she made herself a drink. Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t anywhere near sober, and this last drink put her over the edge. Unfortunately for me, she’s a crazy drunk.
As she raced from room to room in my apartment, still completely naked, she jumped on anything that looked large enough to support her. This included, but was not limited to, my roommate’s (thankfully empty) bed, the couch, a kitchen stool, our counter, the toilet, my bed and a desk. I have to agree with the ancient Seinfeld episode in which Jerry decrees that there are some positions you never want to see another human being naked in. Crouching on my counter awkwardly would be one of those.
While I chased her around, attempting to ensure she wouldn’t fall over, she suddenly bolted for the door of my apartment, grabbing a knit cap and sunglasses as she entered my hall. Tearing after her, I found her near the front door of my building, clad in her new accessories, telling anyone within earshot (READ: a four-block radius) that “I’m going to do a handstand! I used to be a cheerleader, you know.” Then she crouched down. Sweet Jesus, not that angle again.
As I moved towards her to ferry her back to my apartment, and hopefully her clothes, she put her face towards the floor before extending her feet upwards. (FYI, this picture is from Google, it’s not actually my date.) For a brief moment, she actually nailed it, and I was impressed. But as any drunken physical exertion goes, this also ended in a painful collapse. Her right arm buckled and she gave way, slamming into the floor. The brunt of her fall was absorbed by her face and I made it there to catch only her legs from hitting the floor.
As I carried her back in to bed, she slurred, “Are you proud of me?” Tremendously.