sure what to do next so we stayed like that until we didn’t.
Michael’s apartment was spare but clean—an old love seat, a large television, and an array of stereo components. In the spare bedroom, there was a drafting table, a futon, and lots of athletic gear—a basketball, dumbbells, a weight belt, some sort of cryptic-looking exercise machine that seemed neglected. We stripped as we stumbled to his bedroom and by the time we fell onto the bed we were naked. I could feel every inch of my skin. It was so strange but I didn’t want that feeling to go away. We were not shy. I kissed him wetly, running my hands over the muscles in his shoulders. I said, “You have such nice shoulders. You have very pretty shoulders. Did you know that?”
Michael held himself above my body, his muscles flexing attractively. “How drunk are you?” he asked.
I traced his breastbone with my fingernails. “Do you care?” Before he could answer, I rolled over onto my stomach and looked back at him. My head felt heavy and I buried my face in the pillow. I giggled and said, “Your shoulders really are so pretty. You are a pretty, pretty princess.”
He pressed his thumbs along my sides and worked his hands up my back like he was trying to push me out of my own skin. I reared, tried to pull him into my body with my leg.
“You have beautiful skin, beautiful brown skin,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
When I woke, the room was painfully bright. I covered my eyes with my arm, rolling away from the window. The bed was unfamiliar. I rolled to the other side, slowly moving my arm, taking in my surroundings. I tried to remember where I was. I tried to make sense of the thick, sour taste coating my mouth, my lips, my teeth.
“Good morning,” a voice said.
My own voice didn’t seem to work. I mumbled incoherently.
I was naked and quickly pulled the sheet tightly around me, sat up and pulled my knees into my chest. One layer of fog evaporated. I slowly began to recognize Michael, those pretty shoulders, his ridiculously appealing hair, his face, open and eager to please. He brushed stray strands of hair out of my face and tucked them behind my ear. He kissed the tip of my nose. He said, “You are lovely to look at first thing in the morning.”
My stomach rolled uncomfortably. I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes. “You didn’t take me home last night?”
“You asked me to bring you to my place.”
I buried my face in my hands, began rubbing my temples. “I drank too much. This is unusual for me but I don’t remember anything after you holding my ankles in the bar. And something about trophies.”
Michael tugged on the sheet that had fallen around my waist. The throbbing in my head trumped modesty. “You were a wildcat. And you called me a pretty, pretty princess.”
I shook my head violently, then instantly regretted that decision. I rolled out of the bed and began grabbing for my clothes. I dressed quickly and made an awkward goodbye with a half-assed apology. As I walked home I tried to reassemble my dignity. By the time I reached my house I had sweated most of the gin. My hangover stink was terrible. I needed to wallow so I fell onto the couch and passed out after cursing myself for my inability to interact normally with men.
Hours later, a loud knocking at my front door brought me out of my still-drunken stupor. “I’m coming,” I said hoarsely, carefully finding my way to the front door while trying to maintain my balance. The sour stink lingered. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. Michael stood on my porch holding coffee, which he passed me through the narrow opening.
He smiled. “I came to make you something to eat.”
I accepted the coffee and inhaled the rising steam and waved my hand. “No food.”
He pushed the door open and slipped inside. As I closed the door, I muttered, “What is it with you and personal space? Come on in, why don’t you.”
Michael stood in the
Michael’s apartment was spare but clean—an old love seat, a large television, and an array of stereo components. In the spare bedroom, there was a drafting table, a futon, and lots of athletic gear—a basketball, dumbbells, a weight belt, some sort of cryptic-looking exercise machine that seemed neglected. We stripped as we stumbled to his bedroom and by the time we fell onto the bed we were naked. I could feel every inch of my skin. It was so strange but I didn’t want that feeling to go away. We were not shy. I kissed him wetly, running my hands over the muscles in his shoulders. I said, “You have such nice shoulders. You have very pretty shoulders. Did you know that?”
Michael held himself above my body, his muscles flexing attractively. “How drunk are you?” he asked.
I traced his breastbone with my fingernails. “Do you care?” Before he could answer, I rolled over onto my stomach and looked back at him. My head felt heavy and I buried my face in the pillow. I giggled and said, “Your shoulders really are so pretty. You are a pretty, pretty princess.”
He pressed his thumbs along my sides and worked his hands up my back like he was trying to push me out of my own skin. I reared, tried to pull him into my body with my leg.
“You have beautiful skin, beautiful brown skin,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
When I woke, the room was painfully bright. I covered my eyes with my arm, rolling away from the window. The bed was unfamiliar. I rolled to the other side, slowly moving my arm, taking in my surroundings. I tried to remember where I was. I tried to make sense of the thick, sour taste coating my mouth, my lips, my teeth.
“Good morning,” a voice said.
My own voice didn’t seem to work. I mumbled incoherently.
I was naked and quickly pulled the sheet tightly around me, sat up and pulled my knees into my chest. One layer of fog evaporated. I slowly began to recognize Michael, those pretty shoulders, his ridiculously appealing hair, his face, open and eager to please. He brushed stray strands of hair out of my face and tucked them behind my ear. He kissed the tip of my nose. He said, “You are lovely to look at first thing in the morning.”
My stomach rolled uncomfortably. I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes. “You didn’t take me home last night?”
“You asked me to bring you to my place.”
I buried my face in my hands, began rubbing my temples. “I drank too much. This is unusual for me but I don’t remember anything after you holding my ankles in the bar. And something about trophies.”
Michael tugged on the sheet that had fallen around my waist. The throbbing in my head trumped modesty. “You were a wildcat. And you called me a pretty, pretty princess.”
I shook my head violently, then instantly regretted that decision. I rolled out of the bed and began grabbing for my clothes. I dressed quickly and made an awkward goodbye with a half-assed apology. As I walked home I tried to reassemble my dignity. By the time I reached my house I had sweated most of the gin. My hangover stink was terrible. I needed to wallow so I fell onto the couch and passed out after cursing myself for my inability to interact normally with men.
Hours later, a loud knocking at my front door brought me out of my still-drunken stupor. “I’m coming,” I said hoarsely, carefully finding my way to the front door while trying to maintain my balance. The sour stink lingered. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. Michael stood on my porch holding coffee, which he passed me through the narrow opening.
He smiled. “I came to make you something to eat.”
I accepted the coffee and inhaled the rising steam and waved my hand. “No food.”
He pushed the door open and slipped inside. As I closed the door, I muttered, “What is it with you and personal space? Come on in, why don’t you.”
Michael stood in the
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