Let me preface this by saying my girlfriend is smoking hot. She’s blonde with sparkling blue eyes and an ass that Does. Not. Quit. Whenever we go anywhere, we are always asked how we got together. It’s a ritual now, heightened by the fact that people tend to get flustered when they realize the two hot blondes at the bar are dating each other.
Sometimes we paraphrase. “Oh, mutual friends, you know.” Or lie: “Tinder. Yeah, definitely Tinder.” Sometimes we just mumble under our breath and start chugging beer until they leave. Because the story isn’t exactly PG-13. It’s not appropriate for any guy trying not to pop a casual boner at the bar, or anyone with morals, or moms or grandmas.
It all started, as these things do, at the top of an enormous bouncy water slide. It was Cinco de Mayo, a day notorious for culturally appropriative rituals, nachos, and alcohol- AKA, the best day of the year. My then-not-girlfriend and I spent the morning at a mutual friend’s house eating delicious food and taking ski shots. I was getting drunker, and she was getting hotter, if that were possible. Sometime in that interim period before the day really got going, we established that our birthdays were a day apart.
“Wow, you’re, like, 364 days older than me.” That math, right? I had her. It was a hot moment.
Someone suggested that we bounce and head to another party, which my then-not-girlfriend and I thought was a great idea. Before we left the house, she stole a bunch of taquitos and stuffed them in her fanny pack for later. It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen in my life.
We get to this party, which happened to be at the satellite house of a bunch of my then-not-girlfriend’s best frat guy friends. We walk in the door and are immediately swarmed by girls in bikinis and sombreros; I went to the bathroom to change into mine (bikini, not sombrero) immediately, because I was a cheerleader at this point and could do the splits as a party trick and had never looked so good in so little clothing. After that, the day becomes a little blurry.
There are shots- vodka, tequila, probably rum. A lot of shots. There are several trips down the huge bouncy waterslide into the cesspool of water, saliva, and beer at the bottom. And, you guessed it, there is a growing tension between me and my very-drunk-not-then-girlfriend. We do what girls do; we go to the bathroom together. She finishes peeing. I finish peeing. There is a long, quiet, drunken moment, and then she starts kissing my neck.
We end up on the roof, obviously, and she stares into my eyes.
“I think you’re my soulmate,” I say, hiccupping.
“Definitely,” she responds, as she pees off the roof, a commendable feat considering she has a vagina.
We both black out. We end up back inside the house with a guy friend who proceeds to be in the right place at the right time and gets some of the action as I take my bikini top off because I’m drunk and, in case you haven’t grasped this yet, a slut. I push him away eventually and my hammered-hot-piece-of-ass-but-still-not-girlfriend and I pass out on the bean bag chair.
Cut to the wake-up scene; it’s mayhem, with both of us trying not to barf and to get our shit together before my not-then-girlfriend’s actual at the time girlfriend realizes what she’s done. Yup, that’s right. I was the other woman. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in this situation (see above: slut). But she was different. She’d already seen me dry-heave after waking up from a black out and still seemed into me. We were inextricably linked.
“I don’t want to be the other girl,” I said to her as we ran from the house. “Not with you.”
“You’re not going to be,” she said. “You’re going to be the girl.”
If that’s not true love, ladies, then I don’t know what the fuck is..