Good Morning. Who the Hell Are You? Part 2
Continued from Good Morning. Who the Hell Are You? Part 1
The next morning, I woke up before the stranger lying beside me, as per usual when I spend the night with a new penis. I gazed at my suitor (or abductor), asleep with a ray of morning sun shining on his face.
He was cute — very cute in fact — and I was relieved to know that even in an alcoholic stupor with short-term memory loss, I was able to maintain my superior standards of good taste.
However, I had lost my buzz, and man, did I feel awkward. I didn’t even know this kid’s name, and felt it would be rude to ask at this juncture in our relationship. I noticed a pile of mail sitting on his nightstand when an idea struck me. I grabbed the stack of envelopes and sifted through it. I located his name on the label: Chase Boudreau.
Excellent! I am one step further from looking like a complete asshole. I felt so darned clever. I congratulated myself on my astute sleuthing skills.
A few moments later, he woke up. We engaged in some strained chitchat about whatever you discuss the morning after you spend the night with a person you don’t remember meeting, much less screwing.
I announced that I had to leave, and he handed me a black ball of my clothes. I asked if I could borrow his sweatshirt and a pair of shorts for my walk of shame, and he obliged.
He escorted me to the elevator and it was time for the uncomfortable goodbye. He said he’d had a fun night with me, and told him I did, too. Of course, I had no idea if I had or not, but what was I supposed to say? Then he asked the question:
“Do you remember my name?”
“Of course,” I replied, smugly. Ha-ha, he’ll never know the truth. “It’s Chase. Wait… do you remember mine?”
“Um, no,” he replied sheepishly.
Would you get a load of that? All that detective work to avoid an embarrassing moment and HE doesn’t remember MY name. I was deeply offended.
I told him my name and he said he would call me. Of course you will, frat boy. And I never, ever get drunk and go home with boys I’ve only just met. I chalked this up to a one-night stand and a doozy of a story for my girlfriends.
When I walked into my sorority house, a bunch of girls were in the living room, hungover and watching Saturday morning cartoons. I expected some catcalls and applause, but instead I heard, “Holy shit! What happened to you?!”
They were staring at my legs. I looked down to see that they resembled what Rhianna’s must’ve looked like after a date with Chris Brown. I had about 13 grapefruit-sized, multi-colored bruises up and down both calves and thighs.
I had suspected a gang bang, but hadn’t suspected the gang had banged on my legs with baseball bats. This didn’t seem right. Chase seemed so nice when we parted, pretending like he would call and everything.
Throughout the day, I interrogated my friends, trying to piece together what happened after the tequila. Their testimonies included:
“Um, I think I remember you on the dance floor, leading everyone in the Macarena.”
“I saw you after the party ended and some guy had picked you up and was twirling you around in the street and you were laughing and screaming, ‘Stoooooop! Stoooooop!’”
“Well, at one point we were in the bathroom together and I was squatting over the toilet and my head was down watching myself pee, then I heard a big crash and I looked up and you had fallen into the bathtub with your legs sticking straight up.”
I resigned myself to the probability that I would never know how I picked up Chase, how we happened back to his dorm, how my legs turned purple or who the extras were in the room.
To my bewilderment, Chase did actually call. He informed me that nothing happened that night, referring to coitus I presume. Also during our conversation, I found out that we went to the same high school, but not at the same time — when I was a senior, he was in the eighth grade.
This completely freaked me out. Today, of course, dating a man four years my junior is no biggie. But at the time, cougars weren’t en vogue and I creepily felt like I should be the first female contestant on Dateline’s “To Catch a Predator.”
I suddenly had to study for an exam and got off the phone quickly.
Several months later, I saw Chase at a party and I was naturally in my lightweight, lush-like state. We hooked up again, but this time I remembered it, and it turns out he was a fantastic kisser. I didn’t care if I was a pedophile; this boy had lips like sugar and I was a recovering diabetic. We kissed all night along and I was disappointed I didn’t remember it the first time.
I never saw Chase again, though he would call from time to time saying he wanted to “party with my ass.” But I decided I wanted my last memory of him to remain the night of drunken, delicious and decadent kisses in the cab of his truck at the beach.
I haven’t touched a drop of tequila since that night. I was fortunate enough to have emerged from the situation relatively unscathed – save for a few bruises and lost dignity. But I knew that I might not have been so lucky. The guy could have been really ugly.
Koo koo ka-choo, Mrs. Robinson.