The night in question began like any other. I was reeling from the bitter slap of rejection, delivered to me in the form of almost twenty-four hours of radio silence from the not-quite-a-boyfriend who had made me extremely diligent about my birth control. I was peeved, and not just because I knew that his silence stemmed from his desire not to discuss what we should do for formal, the foreseeable future and the rest of eternity tied together in matrimonial bliss.
I don’t handle being ignored well, nor do I enjoy sitting around waiting for someone else to get their shit together. As a self-proclaimed “mature young woman,” I decided to say fuck it and do what anyone would in this situation. I was gonna get my drink on.
I texted the group chat of my pledge sisters and found out that yes, fifteen of them were going to a themed party that night, and yes, they would be ECSTATIC if I tagged along. I needed no further encouragement. I was angry, I was bored, and I wasn’t about to spend all night waiting to hear from someone who would booty-call me at 2 a.m. to ask if I wanted to grab some pizza and come “chill.” Instead, I got the address, grabbed a bottle of wine, and dashed into my closet to find something theme appropriate.
In the spirit of a Gym Rats theme, I slipped my tightest sports bra over the best pushup I owned, pulled my best “sporty” leggings up far enough so my extra fat was compressed into a nice, flat expanse of stomach and some tennis shoes. The one thing I did not add to my ensemble was a pair of underwear. I never wear underwear with leggings. Maybe it’s because I am a grown ass woman who has enough shame to know panty lines are embarrassing. Maybe it’s because wearing a thong reminds me of what I assume it must feel like to wipe your ass with sandpaper. Who knows?
I stumbled into the party, tipsy and ready to get drunker. Somewhere between my third shot and second glass of mysterious mixed drink, I realized my friends had broken the number one rule of sisterhood and left me to go flirt with boys. Fueled by renewed anger, a desire to also be kissing someone, and enough alcohol to take down an NBA player churning in my stomach, I started to get a little flirty. I spotted a guy who I had done a project with earlier in the year, draped myself across him, and started to do my thing.
After a few hours of us hanging around together, he not so subtly began to indicate he wanted to get out of there.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered into my ear. “Let’s head back to my place.”
I’m not in a relationship, but even though my current main squeeze might not want to acknowledge it, we’re monogamous enough that if I were to go and hook up with another dude, he’d be pissed — and rightfully so. But in my inebriated state, I didn’t really want to explain the bizarre dynamics of my not quite relationship.
“I uh, can’t. Not yet. I’ve got to walk my friend back to her place,” I lied, gesturing to one of my pledge sisters, who was using the makeshift bar top as a crutch.
“Meet me there. Change into something sexy,” he whispered into my ear. “Just let yourself in. It’ll be so hot.”
He then proceeded to reach into the waistband of my leggings and gently rub my hipbones. I knew in that moment that things had definitely escalated beyond my control and I had to get out of there, fast. I pushed him off me, grabbed a drink and my friend, and hightailed it out of there.
I was kind of horny, but not enough to seriously consider having a 3 a.m. rendezvous with an overly handsy classmate who felt it was appropriate to fondle the belly fat I’d wrangled into a lycra-enclosed prison. Instead, I poured the rest of the drink into my mouth and began the long walk home.
When I awoke the next morning, an all-too-familiar sight greeted me. Surrounding me was a partially eaten box of pizza, two sleeves of crackers, and yes, the boy who had ignored me. I had been drunk, horny, and apparently, very willing to betray myself (and my diet). But my boobs ached from the double-bra contraption that gave them both the lift and perk I desired, and leggings had shifted into a very unflattering camel toe. As I got up to go fix the monstrosity that was my makeup and hair, I felt something hard and cold between my legs.
I reached down into my pants and fingered around until I managed to withdraw the offender. When I had to been too drunk to notice, the guy I had spoken to the night before had slipped a key to his apartment into the waistband of my pants. Since I was too drunk to remove my clothes (or have sex, thank God), the key had migrated down south and settles itself into my unsuspecting labia.
After checking to make sure I hadn’t permanently mutilated my favorite part of myself, I realized that it was the only evidence of my misdeed, so naturally, I opened the bathroom window and tossed the key out into the street. Nothing says “mature young woman” quite like confronting your issues head-on!
And as for my “friend”? He never found out and will now be forced to confront the fact that we slept together without having sex, meaning he should clearly commit with a two carat ring. Or something like that..
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