He’s one of those tall dark and handsomes, you know the type: the kind that makes your head turn when he pushes past you in a crowded bar. Well, now we were at the bar, we’d been drinking all night, throwing back whiskey shots like they’re nothing. I can’t take my eyes off him as he orders the next round, except for when he looks at me and then I coyly glance away. We’re doing the mating dance and we both know it.
I suppose we’re friends—acquaintances—whatever. We’ve been doing the dance for a while now and tonight looks like, well, we’ll be mating. I’m drunk enough that my eyes are half closed, which I hope makes me look sexy, but then it could just be that it just makes me look drunk. He’s the same, though, as we sway back and forth, bumping into each other as we both peacock around a game of shuffleboard.
Before I know it I’m leaning across the bar, I don’t know what I’m saying to him, but the lights are up and they’re kicking us out. He lives right upstairs, so in the 3 steps it takes to get to his front door there isn’t enough time for me to sober up and assess whether this is a good or bad idea—I’m in it now. He’s fumbling with the keys with one hand while his other hand is around my shoulder. Once the door is open and we’re in the hallway, he pushes me against the wall and kisses me, then pulls back with this adorably cheeky smile on his face.
He pulls me up the stairs by the hand and we’re in his apartment; I have to take my shoes off so his downstairs neighbor doesn’t get shitty. He’s still got me by the hand as I awkwardly stumble about trying to kick my shoes off. Again, I’ve forgotten how drunk I am.
Within seconds I’m on my back in his bed, arching my torso because, damn, I know that looks good, drunk or not drunk. I may or may not be naked already, except that I definitely am, and I’m pulling at his pants while he’s kissing my neck. We’ve been looking at each other suspiciously for the whole two weeks since we met, and there’s a certainty in our movements that may also be attributed to drunkenness.
He crawls off me and lies face up on the bed, searching in the bedside table with one hand and pulling me onto him by the hips with the other. It’s on—I’m on, and we’re having the romp I’m sure has been on both our minds for some time. As I ease into the rhythm, finding ways to enjoy myself, his hands creep down my lower back. At first, I think little of it, but then—hello!—a stray finger is pressing against my buttocks. Specifically, in the little hole right at the middle where cheek meets cheek and it all descends into a dark, hairy chasm.
I lurch upwards and slap his hand away, “don’t,” I say sternly. He laughs and pulls me back down to him. Drunk as I am, it is easy to simply forget he’s so cavalier about sticking his finger in my butt hole and go right back to enjoying myself. But what I really wanted to say, guy, is that I’m precious about my anus. Nothing has ever gone up there aside from a pill I had to have when I was 8 because I caught worms on a camping trip. Strictly outgoing. And even though my answer would always have been a resounding “no,” it still would have been polite of you to ask first.