Drunk Sex Does Not Count

This morning I woke up squeezed on the edge of a couch I was sharing with the man I like and his dog.  I woke up horny, the same way I had arrived to his apartment the evening before.  I also woke up angry and with vodka pounding in my brain. He got up and started his morning routine of checking his iPhone and feeding the dog that whined all night every time he started to spoon me instead.  When he took the dog outside it became increasingly clear that I was not going to be getting any morning action and I became even angrier.  

Feeling as needy as the mutt, I held my arms out to him as he stood by the couch checking his e-mail on his phone. My head strained as I tried to put together the pieces from the night before. 

“What the fuck happened last night?”

He recounted the details with an amused look on his face and I cringed in embarrassment and disbelief. 

He had a friend come into town late that night and, against rationale but in the name of hospitality and extreme manners, he insisted his friend take the bed.  I remembered, vaguely, saying hello to his friend while giggling and wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama pants.  I must have been a vision.  What I didn’t remember was everything else.  Most importantly, I didn’t remember the sex.

I made myself a few too many screwdrivers on a belly without enough food and then I don’t remember going to his room and having sex in his bed.  I don’t remember a roommate coming home as we moved the party into his bathroom.  I don’t remember passing out two minutes after all this.  I don’t remember him telling me to get out of the bed when his friend came, although I am assuming this is the part where I went and said hello in the PJs.  I don’t remember putting on those PJs.  I don’t remember passing out on the couch after saying hello.  I don’t remember them asking me to dinner, me declining, and then disrobing and crawling back into the bed after they left.  I don’t remember them getting home and telling me to come back to the couch.  I don’t remember walking to the couch in my underwear with the comforter I stole from the bed. 

Vodka stole my memory.  But it also stole my sex.  And that is just not fair.  I bet it was great sex too.  It sounds like it.  I mean, sex that moved from one room to another…I needed that sex.  I planned on having that sex, and I guess I did have that sex, but I may as well not have.  Drunk sex is the worst.