Here’s what I’ve been working on….
God this is bad, real bad, worse than bad. I mean did we? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. What I do know is I have to get out of here and quick! But when I try to move I can’t because my legs are tangled in the sheets. No way do I want to disturb the guy before I have a chance to get my thoughts together. Not ready to face reality, take responisibilty, I slowly lean back into the pillows, careful to keep the bed still. Holding my breath, I try 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 by offering buy-one-get-one-free drinks to anyone with crew ID. A way to entice those without crew ID into the place. There to celebrate a coworker’s birthday, I flashed my badge at the bartender and half 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.) It was when I slid to the left, I made The Announcement. Oh God, The Announcement, why 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. They were all different men, totally different men, I swear. That’s when, at least I think it’s when, First Officer Meyers did what he always does after 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 to point out, 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. I’m not a believer in free squeezes. In fact the only action my boobs have seen in the last few months came from a distinguished gentleman seated in 3B who awoke with a start just as I was leaning over him to fix his neighbor’s reading light. Well that’s if I don’t count my gynecologist, two year-old nephew, and some drunken perv on the subway last week. Unfortunately the only drunk perv last night seemed to be me. And for the record, so I don’t come off like some ho, some drunk and slutty disco dancing ho, the only reason I allowed First Officer Meyers to squeeze my boobs for what some might consider an awfully long 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 Sean.
“Girl, you need to loosen up and have some fun,” I vaguely remember Sean saying, snap snap snapping his sassy fingers in front of my flushed face. We all slid to the right. “For Christ Sakes,” he said, lifting a knee and clapping. “Try taking a walk on the wild side sometime!” 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.
Oh sure there’ve been times, plenty of times, I’ve wished I were that girl, the walk-on-the-wild-side-kind-of-girl, the kind who’s not afraid to do what she wants when she wants with whomever she wants just because she wants to. But for reasons even I don’t understand I care too much about what people think of me. Of what I think me! I’m a good girl, a nice girl, a girl who doesn’t get drunk and sleep around. (Though it does sound kind of exciting, doesn’t it?) Okay, okay, so I may have had that almost one-week-stand last year with the Dutch medical sales rep from Curacao in Amsterdam. That was different. It was totally romantic. It took place in a foreign country. It just didn’t count, okay!
Too bad this one might.
Yeah, that's me, the one standing in the aisle wearing flammable polyester...