Just in case you forgot why I’m here, why I blog….
Diet Coke no ice, Club soda with lime, coffee with cream, the never ending beverage service, that’s what I’m doing when I hear the muffled sound of a cell phone ringing. I shove a plastic scoop into a drawer of ice and trudge to the front of the aircraft in a pair of combat boots. I make an announcement that it is time to put away and stow all electronic devices, we’ll be landing soon. As I’m walking down the aisle and checking each row for compliance, I notice my bra, hot pink satin, is on the outer side of my dress, and before I have a chance to run to the galley and hide, I hear it again, the Ice Castles theme song and that’s when it hits me, that’s my special ring!
“Flight Attendant Connors,” mumbles a manly voice in my ear. I quiver when I feel the warm breath on my skin and a hand reaches up my skirt and a finger…oh!
Gasping for air, I bolt straight up. I’m awake. And I’m not on an airplane. Nor am I in a cheap dumpy airport hotel room. I’m in an apartment. A very nice apartment.
I think what I really mean to say is FUCK FUCK FUCK! Because I’m sitting up in a bed that is not mine. My bed, you see, is white and fluffy with dainty rosebuds embroidered around the edges. This bed is big and blue and cold. Yet very nice. And the room, it’s nothing like mine, which is small and light and cheery, cluttered with clothes and paperback books. Oh no, this room is huge and dark and meticulously clean. And ummm…there’s a man, a naked man I do not know lying in this strange bed beside me. I gulp and take in the back side of his broad muscular shoulders and dark wavy hair. He looks like he might actually be hot. Not that it matters. Really.
Did we? I wonder, pulling the softest bluest sheet up to my chin. This is when I have to remind myself that life is all about the choices we make. And more importantly, it’s about taking responsibility for those choices. Even the bad ones. Like this one. Because what we do, what we say, what we even think, impacts us in ways we can not to imagine in the future. Oh yeah, this is the sort of crap I’ve been feeding my friends whenever they come to me for advice on love, life, men, whatever. It’s the same crap I’ve chosen to live my own life by. Which is why, and I can say this with the utmost certainty, I’ve made all the right choices in my short twenty-nine years.
God this is bad, real bad, worse than bad. I mean…did we? Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. What I do know is I have to get out of here and fast! Only when I try to move I can’t. My legs are tangled in the sheets. There’s no way I’m about to disturb this guy before I can get my thoughts together. Not ready to face reality, I slowly lean back into the pillow, careful to keep the bed still, holding my breath, trying not to hyperventilate, not to panic, not to freak out. What the hell happened last night?
Think, Nicole, think!I remember the bar, a hole in the wall kind of place on the Upper East Side that caters to airline personnel with dollar drinks. I was there to celebrate a coworker’s birthday. Flashing my crew badge at the bartender, I jokingly ordered a gigantic apple martini with an investment banker on the side. After one (or two) very strong drinks, I found myself on the dance floor doing the electric slide (Yes, I have a sick obsession with disco. Even when I’m not drunk.)
As I slid to the left, I remember making the announcement (oh god, the announcement, why in the world did I make that announcement!) that while I may have been the dry humping queen of Queens, I’d only had sex with six different men in my entire life. But they were all different men, totally different men, I swear! That’s when, at least I think it’s when, First Officer Richard Meyers did what he always does whenever he’s had one too many. He placed both hands on my breasts and squeezed.
Okay it’s important to point out, at least it’s important to me, that the only men I typically allow to squeeze my breasts are either in love with me or have the potential to fall in love with me. Actually, I take that back. The pathetic truth is the only action my boobs have seen in the last few weeks came from my gynecologist, my two year old nephew, and some drunken perv on the subway. Unfortunately, I’m sad to report, the only drunk perv last night seemed to be me. And another thing, so I don’t come off like some ho, some drunk and slutty disco dancing ho, the only reason I allowed Richard to continue squeezing my boobs for what some might consider an unusual amount of time was not because he had a lot of fantastic things to say about my B cups, though it did warm my heart, but because he was drunk and gay and dating my best friend John.
“Girl, you need to loosen up and have some fun,” I vaguely remember John saying, snap snap snapping his sassy fingers in front of my flushed face. We all slid to the right. “For Christ Sakes, Nicole,” he said, lifting a knee and clapping. “Try taking a walk on the wild side!” And that’s the last thing I remember before it all went black.
Looks like I finally took that walk. Too bad I can’t remember it.
The crazy thing is I’m so not a walk on the wild side kind of girl. I’m not! Okay, I’ll admit, there are times, plenty of times, I wish I were that girl, the mysterious I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of girl. But for reasons even I don’t understand, I care too much about what people think of me. Of what I think of me. I’m a good girl, a nice girl, a girl who doesn’t get drunk and sleep around! (Though it does kind of sound exciting, doesn’t it?) Okay, okay, so I may have had that one week stand last year with a Dutch medical sales rep from Curacao, the one I’d met on a flight from London whom I spent a week with in Amsterdam. But that was different. It was romantic. It took place in a foreign country. It just doesn’t count okay
But this one might…