EPTSo this is what I did last night. Alright, so where to start. I guess one element that should not be overlooked is how I know this girl. We grew up on the same cul-du-sac in my hometown. So I have known her since we were both in diapers up until we were about 13 or so when she moved. Don’t worry-more about the diapers later.
Fast forward about 12 years and you see us meeting randomly at a bar we are each there with other people so we do not really talk much. From there it leads to a facebook friend of the virtually non-existent type. We exchange one or two comments and I mostly just looked at her pics and reveled in how amazingly cute as a button cute she is. I was pretty drunk when I ran into her at the bar and somehow did not even register what she looked like. By the way, to protect the not so innocent her name has been changed to Kailey.
Nothing much happens via facebook, but I run into two girls that I know from gradeschool, Bea and Mara. We talk, all go home, facebook and that’s about it. Last night Kailey calls me a solid two months after our initial facebooking. She tells that she is with the other two girls and they all were just talking about running into me. I am invited to the coffee shop to support my local bike church and have a beer.
I arrive and Kailey is looking just as her pictures advertised. How did I get to the point of drunkenness last time to not notice an attractive girl even when she was talking to me? Here is a sample.
No one is quite drunk enough yet to do anything stupid, so we switch to a different bar where they serve liquor, not just beer. Kailey is being extremely flirty, which is still ultra left-field since I really did not do anything to merit it. This entire evening just happened.
We get to the next place and consume a few mixed drinks each and this is where the fun starts. Kailey and I start having our arms around each other off and on and we talk about the past, evolution, feathered dinosaurs and genetics. Heady stuff. This is just the type of conversation that makes me feel the need to reproduce. She tells me that my mom looks like a man. I agree. Then she tells me that I sooo want to make out with her. She can tell.
Drunkenness +1:
We are sitting in a booth with Bea and Mara and some guy who is tagging along from the last joint. Kailey seems to be at that point of drunkenness where she doesn’t realize that people across the table can hear everything that she says. In a laudable display of overcoming social inhibitions she manages to spit out “I want to eat your face”. Odd, I thought to myself, completely un-prepared for her jaws to descend upon my cheek as she sampled my flesh. She did warn me I guess. I felt for blood, but there was none so I figured no harm no foul. At least Mara, Bea, and whoever that guy was were entertained.
After more ridiculous conversation and frequent faux pas the group broke up and Kailey and I eventually arrived at her place, which was a convenient four blocks away. The initial categorization of her abode is that it is a hovel. I see stacks of newspapers, and an impressive collection of computers and monitors encompassing more years of computer history than I have been alive. All are logically and deliberately placed throughout what would have otherwise been the living room and dining room floor. It seems a path fraught with beige plastic danger, but a closer inspection revealed that a corridor had been delineated with stacks of yellowed newspapers on either side of it. I trusted to the yellow newspaper road and made it safely to the upstairs, which was her region of the house. Despite these ridiculous remarks she has been consistently witty and spunky so I do not realize quite how drunk she is. She informs me that she is not so drunk as to be unable to provide knowledgeable consent. I found this carefully crafted remark especially enticing.
The Meat of it:
Safe! I thought, for she had spoken snidely of the insane 40 something-year-old man that dwelt downstairs. I rightfully wrote off the downstairs disaster as the work of the next Ted Kaczynski. Incidentally his name is Ted. My feelings were confirmed the next morning as I was shown his cellar which was mysteriously padlocked. However her room was not the orderly haven that I had expected per her position as a PhD pursuing professional. She had two rooms upstairs. One in which she worked, which I gathered by the coke bottles and empty handles of rum that elegantly and tastefully decorated the desk, laptop, and bookshelves. I imagined sleepless nights of rum & coke fueled grading sessions. I can’t wait until I get my PhD. I started crafting an assortment of blistering and brutal comments that I would append to my students’ papers.
The second room was what pigmies (Homo florensis) would have built if they were transplanted into middle America during the late 19th century and told they could only inhabit the upstairs of old Victorian houses. The ceiling was about 6 feet (1.8m) high in the middle of the room and slanted sharply down from the mid-point until it reached the final height of about 3 1/2 feet (1.25m). The walls were officially yellow, if somehow varied in shade and texture. I concluded that the pigmies had dipped cloth in the paint and thrown it at the walls and ceiling until the desired effect was achieved. Several armoires, apparently finger painted with lackluster pastels, were stuck out at odd distances from the wall as they were too tall to fit correctly against the wall due to the short ceiling. Clothing had been thoughtfully distributed fairly evenly throughout the room so as to make it possible to gather a complete outfit without having to actually get up if one passed out and fell onto the floor. I angled my feet toward the mattress, which was conveniently located at the lowest point of the room. I was confidant I could collapse upon the mattress without incident so long as I did not hit my head on the ceiling. That was when I noticed the two bubba sized diapers next to the bed. They seemed unsoiled and since she had no children they provided a worthy topic of internal speculation. What kind of crazy sex acts does one do with diapers on?
Some things are not meant to be understood by the drunken mind at 2:37AM on a Sunday morning, so I instead undressed and got into bed. She was already there looking pretty with her low-rider red panties and matching bra. The room was a healthy 39F (4C) so I knew we would need to generate some body heat soon or shrinkage might ensue. As we fooled around I actually asked her some questions before anything got too out of control. I still did not trust this situation as, in my experience; it was too good to be true. I was waiting for the angry boyfriend, the realization that she was in fact a tranny, or some other hideous twist of hate. I am not a bad looking guy, but I am a skeptic to the bone. However I was unable to find any blatant flaws.
Instead all I got was puzzling sex-talk. The main problem being I could not understand what the fuck she was saying. Eventually I realized it was about someone name Sergei and that apparently she thought I was Sergei. She starts snoring during what I had thought was us having sex; which left my puzzled again. I decided to follow suite and attempted to stretch the meager comforter, which in theme with the room, was about 4 ½ feet long. This left my feet rather cold and exposed, but alcohol had numbed most of my sensations anyway. I figured I could brave frostbite rather than find my socks. Plus I could be wrong about those diapers and step in something squishy.
I awoke at some ungodly time in the AM with a full bladder and the realization I needed to take a shit. Badly. For those of you that don’t regularly binge drink, alcohol is an amazing regulator of bodily functions. So long as I get my daily allowance of beer and vodka I enjoy the twice a day regularity that normally only come from exercise, a fiber-rich diet, and daily prune intake or metamucil. But, to return to the present issue, the other great thing about her living downtown is that the houses are over a hundred years old. This means that the knob on her door is in fact a crude, tortured piece of metal planned, created, and left behind by insidious Puritans to fool drunk people over the course of the next two centuries. As I attempted to turn the handle I realized that the door had two settings: open and locked. I had shut it earlier, which means that it was now locked. As I stood at the door, in the dark, naked and freezing my 5 chest hairs off I consider my options. Somehow, perhaps because of too much Fallout, I decided to pick the lock with flat-blade screwdriver that’s on my keychain. Apparently I have less than 5% in that skill because it remained locked. I realized that I could not outsmart the door handle so I proceeded to jiggle it randomly for the next ten minutes until just as I was about to investigate the window, the door screeched open.
I returned to the bed after braving the bathroom trip in the nude and managed to get into bed by crawling onto it and then turning around, laying down, and then scooting forward. This 3 ½ foot headroom was a tricky thing. It was during this final maneuver that I felt something wet on my hands. That does happen, so I just moved my hands up more and lay down. To my soaked chagrin the wetness was an entire puddle that occupied about 85% of the bed’s area. She had peed the bed while I was doing my own business in the bathroom. Keep in mind this was a full mattress, so it was meant for two people. She must have an epic bladder. I felt my manliness threatened by the size of her bladder and made a mental note to challenge her to a no peeing allowed drinking contest sometime in the near future. I had seen a thin blanket in the “office” and prepared myself for a vigilant night avoiding the puddle of urine that was probably still 10% alcohol by volume.
It was at this time that I started hearing strange skittering sounds seemingly coming from the attic and walls. I evaluated the chance of a rat encounter by the light of the conveniently rising sun and decided that it was unlikely any small mammals would fall through the ceiling. As I continued to ponder the urine situation I realized that this provided a convincing argument for the presence of the adult sized diapers. It must be a chronic problem and she actually wears diapers to bed. My initial skepticism of the situation rewarded I verified my pillow barrier one last time that divided me from the urine pond and drifted into blissful skittering-filled sleep.
