The clock strikes three am. You frantically look yourself in the mirror, makeup smeared down your face, alcohol seeping out of your pores, when you decide: I’m getting laid. Now.
The man of the hour is in his room while you are still making sure you look semi-decent to a belligerently drunk alpha male, but you seem to have a problem. You can’t look yourself in the eyes, realizing how utterly sick you feel, and how even more sick you look.
“Just turn the lights off,” you tell yourself. “Sex is always better in the dark.” True.
You go into his room, and you turn off the light, only for him to turn on the lamp.
“What the hell is he doing? Is he that drunk? Why would he want the lights on? I didn’t bring my concealer.”
All the thoughts are racing through your head but soon slip away when you board the poundtown express train. Your nonstop trip to pleasuretown. Until the unthinkable happens. He looks you in the eyes. And won’t look away.
Now, the problem has gone far past how you look, he is reaching into uncharted territory, and it is just straight up weird. Is he planning your murder in his head? Is he performing a Wiccan ritual on you and you don’t even know it? Even worse, is he trying to be romantic and make you fall in love with him? You can’t see his soul through his glassy, half opened eyes, but you do know one thing, nothing can kill the mood faster than your hookup looking straight into your eyes for five minutes while you’re having sex.
Maybe they think it’s sexy? Maybe they think it connects our souls? But it’s not sexy. It doesn’t connect our souls. And it makes you never want to have sex with him ever again.
Until the morning, anyway.
The clock has now struck 9:30 am. His alarm goes off, and he tells you that he has to help his friends move apartments, and you must be on your way.
“But we were supposed to have morning sex,” you mumble in your half asleep, still fully drunk voice.
That sentence alone is enough for him to ditch his friends for another ten minutes. Things start to escalate, rather quickly, because morning wood is real and you are back on your nonstop train, until, the unthinkable happens, again.
HE IS STILL LOOKING YOU IN THE FUCKING EYES. And he won’t look away.
What do you even do? Do you start kissing him even though you are the only one who hasn’t brushed their teeth this morning? Do you turn your head away from him? Do you punch him unconscious? Do you ask him to go down on you instead?
If you are anything like me, you try all the above options. But none of them work. You are stuck with Creepy McCreeperson gazing into the deepest parts of your soul when all you want is for him to be in the deepest parts of your body with his face down on the fucking pillow. Not to mention, by this point you still have no fucking concealer on your zits.
To be quite honest, I don’t know how you make it out alive without feeling like you have been violated, robbed of your innocence, and creeped the fuck out. It will make you never want to have sex with him again.
Until three am next Saturday rolls around. He has robbed your soul..