Drunksplanation and Addendum.

dılɟ cup, spilt beer (as opposed to spilt milk), vodka-tinted glasses don’t make things rosy but they do make them spin. dancing’s easier when you’re drunk and so is your mother. “poker face” and hip action. i’m probably embarrassing myself now. there went my social safety net. with it, my sanity. walking is like tripping, or are we running? take the escalator stairs one at a time (because they’re too big to take faster), but arrive at the top with no destination. or does he have one in mind? maybe i ask, but there’s no answer. that might just be the ringing in my ears. the lights are still on and the doors wide open, but boy does he ever look good. legs splayed, leaning back in a hotel conference chair, and it’s my invitation to pull a stripper move. it’s not so hazukashii when i’m this drunk. did i drink red bull or rockstar? i feel more like the latter. in that case, is he the former? lips are good, but since when am i the one leaning back? fast hands, faster breaths. it’s no time to joke about heart arrhythmia; something notable’s about to happen. did i say noteable? in five minutes, i’m going to realize i meant regrettable. cavalier when i ask what’s your name, again? like it wasn’t even something i’d fantasized about. what the hell was that fake british accent about? skyy is missing its cap; can’t conceal it any more. wrong elevator, back stairs. did i just piss in a public stairwell? god help me. frantic texts; is this cause for concern or celebration? fall into bed. am i wearing pajamas? nearly three-thirty a.m. eastern. committee starts in four hours.

Four hours and fifteen minutes later, I’m being woken up by a half-insane Elias. He’s throwing papers and electronics into an overpriced suitcase and I’m supposed to be in committee ten minutes ago. Good thing I’m the Chair; fifteen minutes late is actually fifteen minutes early, and if I don’t shower it means on time. I didn’t get count on being hung-over. I don’t get hangovers. But in committee, I’m barely functioning and I’ve already had three glasses of water (unusual). The first caucus has my head on the table, asleep within minutes. The Director sends me home. Does he know I’m hung-over? Does it matter if he does? I’ve ruined my chances at an award by accept this useless figurehead position. I might as well enjoy the fruit of my mistakes in the most comfortable bed in which I’ve ever slept.

Sometime around noon, Elias is back and I can’t help but tell him the essentials of the story. He insists that I buy emergency contraception; I don’t even know if “John” came. Was I really that drunk? I’d rather chalk it up to that than admit inexperience. So Plan B it is, but this would be my Plan Z. Going to the Duane Reade with the Greek Psycho to pick up drugs to stop any potential alien persons from gestating. Gross. And I haven’t even begun to think about the possibilities of infections. That concern will come later. Did we have pizza that day? I don’t know, but I remember tripping in my heels a block from the drug store and completely losing my cool. Having a crazy foreigner (whom I don’t really like at this point) making fun of me all the way isn’t helping my composure. How many times do I have to ask this Hispanic/ambiguously Asian/Middle Eastern/useless employee where the emergency contraceptive is. And why is that burly black man staring at me? Doesn’t this happen to all irresponsible young ladies at some point? I’m guessing not.

Plan B is expensive. And it’s neither very big not very exciting. Two doses; one within seventy-two hours and another twelve hours after the first. They even give you a place on the package to write down the times. I want to get rid of the evidence as soon as possible. Committee goes on and so does life, but I’m thinking this’ll make a great story.

Huddled in bed, I peak my head out to recount my evening to Elias and Kaitlin. The best part is Elias’s Seizure Face™ when I inform them that approximately twelve hours ago, I was a virgin. I flapped the unflappable, and that almost made my evening worth it.

Back at home, there are people to be told and tests to be done. I’m focusing on the positives (great party story) and not the negatives (reckless, potentially dangerous. Was it even consensual?) when I retell it. PAP smear hurts like a bitch, but I have to have two in as many weeks because Plan B makes me start my period two weeks early. Better cramps than an unwanted baby, right? I have to keep reminding myself of this. I don’t bother with the syphilis test because even though I don’t know “John”, he didn’t seem like a shoot-‘em-up heroin addict. I’ll have to trust my drunken instincts on this one, because after diligently stalking him on Facebook, all I got was this lousy message: “Sorry but I don't really know what to say.I think it's best we go our seperate ways though.” He can’t even spell separate! He’s a freshman, I found out. So my proclivity for younger men never went away.

An upside to all of this? I’m no longer into Phil, but now I’ve got a weird attachment thing for someone in Georgia. I just can’t escape home. And I got some extra points because John has a girlfriend. Did I ever tally them?

Penetrative sex with delegate from another school: +4

Public space: +1

Partner has S.O.: +1

Loss of virginity: +1 (that was a new rule, ironically made to save my dignity, as if there was any left)

Unprotected: -1

I thought I’d had ten. Oh well, it’s sort of like I have zero, because I totally fucked up.

It’s been a month (second Tuesday of April then and now it’s May). Lisa mentioned today that maybe I’ve gotten two periods since Plan B (that extra one, and now the same old thing) because the pill had “some work to do”. Fuck, that’s terrifying. It’s a good party story, but is that something I’m willing to think about in the sober light of day? Or the differently sober dead of night?

Soon, I’ll even lose the right to look at his profile pictures on Facebook. And then.

ɐʌlıs uɥoɾ

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