“Wanna go to a party Friday night?”
Sigh. “I don’t know, it has been a nearly 60 hour week. Friday I work late, too.”
“Meet me at 9:00. It’s all you can drink.”
“Had me at all you can.”
On Friday, I came to the office dressed to work with a bag of dressed-to-party set beside me. I was proud to have thought of everything, down to deodorant and perfume (Ralph Lauren, Romance. Always.). It wasn’t a date; it was one of my too many guy friends in the city who aren’t vying to date me (they crazy, clearly!), but there could be hot friends of his up for the taking. I came prepared.
As I left the office in a tight black dress with my hair newly straightened and face freshly made up, I felt good. Confident. Sexy. Until I passed by the White House, when suddenly, a bolt of panic jolted through me, crashing me into the gate, forcing me to catch my breath.
I forgot the right underwear.
I hate panty lines. They make me more self-conscious than a pizza sized pimple would. It’s a thing. I’m neurotic. So what? Right before I reached my hand up my dress to take them off right there, a police officer walked by. His serendipitous approach kept me from getting arrested for public indecency. Bless that man.
I made it to the bar (ducking behind trees, walking up against buildings, etc) and ran to the bathroom, throwing them in a ball in my purse before the door closed.
The Disaster Master, as I affectionately call him, was at the bar waiting for me. All-you-can-drink ended at 11:00, and it was already 9:30; we had some catching up to do. We downed two before grabbing a third and meeting his friends.
Of the seven of us, two were couples, two were… us… and one was a questionable guy who questionably had a girlfriend. It didn’t stop him from hitting on me. It didn’t stop me from letting him and flirting back.
By 11:30, Disaster Master had to drag me from the bar, as I giggled and, he swears, batted my eyelashes at his cute, possibly unavailable friend. Yes, I’m a disaster master myself, sometimes. (Okay, all the time.)
We meandered drunkenly, laughing, back to his place in Shaw, making fun of each other for, well, everything. He made us some concoction he called a cocktail. We drank and swapped stories, getting drunker and increasingly easily amused.
In the background, music was playing – some bizarre mix of top 40 and ‘80s. I hadn’t noticed it much, until an oldie came on. And I mean, an ancient oldie. Some 1950s hit that I’d never heard, but the Disaster Master jumped up and started belting and dancing. My eyes were wide with mock horror. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up to dance.
The alcohol had given us each about six feet, and we stumbled over each other and the lyrics, laughing harder than I had in a long time. It was so fun I forgot where I was or what time it was, and the next thing we knew, we were still dancing around his cramped living room at 3:00am.
I stopped spinning. “I’m exhausted.”
And we burst into laughter again at the ridiculous declaration.
“Let’s sleep,” he said with equal declaration and walked to his room.
With a shrug I followed him. We’ve been friends for so long I had no qualms with sleeping with him – and plus, no way I was taking the couch.
“I even have a t-shirt you can wear,” he said, tossing me an old college shirt.
Without caring he see me in my underwear, I caught the t-shirt and pulled my dress over my head in one swift motion.
…and then the room stood still. His head snapped up, and he stared at me. Stared. His eyes went wide with shock.
I was confused. And then it hit me: the White House, the policeman, the bar, the bathroom, the -
HOLY FUCK I’M NOT WEARING PANTIES.
Mortification swept through every cell, every fiber, every inch of my body as the realization hit: I was standing bare-vagina, in only a bra, in my dude friend’s room.
Then my body acted without bothering to consult my mind:
I took off my bra.
WHY DID YOU TAKE OFF YOU BRA? I screamed at myself, as I realized I was now standing butt ass naked in my dude friend’s room.
I mean, sure, if I had shown my embarrassment, I would never have lived it down. Not ever. Maybe somehow, subconsciously, I thought I would avoid all that and act like I didn’t care? Without thinking, my body acted again:
Then I threw on his t-shirt, walked to his bed and jumped in, my heart pounding so hard I could literally feel it in my bare ass vagina.
He watched me, his eyes trailing every move I made – a look of shock and dismay and confusion taking over his entire body, and his jaw dropped.
Then he slowly, hesitantly, started to pull on a pair of shorts, his eyes still stuck on me, a mix of terror and shock still filling them.
“Nope,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm, considering my insides were nearly vibrating with terror. “If I can’t wear pants, neither can you.”
Did I just demand my dude friend get in bed naked with me? What the hell is wrong with me?!
He confusedly and slowly walked over to the bed and lay down. Carefully, very carefully.
I rolled to face him to say goodnight before giving in to total mortification and embarrassment and hope that we were much too drunk to remember this in the morning.
But before the words came out of my mouth, his mouth was on mine, his hands on me, and we were hooking up.
I guess that’s what happens when you forget you’re not wearing underwear around a guy friend, get naked in front of him and demand he get into bed without pants?
Yeah, I guess it is.
Moral of the story: Too many to count, y’all, too many to count.