The Last Best Sex Ever in NYC
by Kat George
Between the stunted conversation, awkward silences and him eating my sticky date cake, the evening is going horribly. I text as subtly as I can under the table "SOS!" to my friend Erin, the one whose boyfriend set me up with this guy in the first place. She writes back that we should come to a party at a mutual friend's place in Williamsburg. I look up and catch my date's eye.
"So..." he looks down which frustrates me even more for some reason, "Want to keep hanging out?"
"Sure. Erin just texted me and said there's a party at your mate's place in Williamsburg," I offer.
His eyes widen slightly, just enough for me to realize he's as relieved as I am for the extra company. We leave the restaurant with a weight off our shoulders, but the conversation remains strained. He brings up his ex-girlfriend and I somehow find myself giving him friendly advice. I wonder if this is normal for a second date.
We arrive at the party... and everyone there is a couple—this does not help the awkwardness. My date disappears to buy alcohol and comes back with a lot of of booze. I can see where the night is going now.
We drink. We dance. We go to a bar. We're drunk. Again.
And we're having a great time. He buys me a shot and I lean into him, my hand on his knee. "What's going on?" I ask, my face close to his. I can smell his alcohol breath and I like it.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I slur, "why do we only have fun when we're drunk?"
He puts his arm around me and I move into his side. "I'm just nervous I guess," and that's it. He kisses me, completely nerve free.
We go home together. We have the best sex I've ever had in New York again. As we lie side-by-side, naked, panting, I wonder if I can have a relationship with this guy based entirely on being drunk. The sex is so good I decide yes, YES I CAN. But then: he lurches up and makes for the door. I hear him almost fall down the stairs and slam the bathroom door.
Moments later he's back in the room, reeking of vomit and booze. "Are you ok?" I ask.
"I vomited," he replies, face planting into the bed next to me.
"Oh... well," I want to ask him to leave, but before I can get it out, he's snoring. I poke him in the side. I try shaking him. He doesn't wake up. I sigh and flop back down onto my pillow. Sleep comes slowly.
I never see my first ever blind date again, but I do attempt several early morning booty calls for that good sex (all in vain). And all this despite discovering my vomit flecked bathroom the morning after.
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