About a month and a half ago, I did an amazing pub crawl in Dallas with a bunch of great friends.
Later I calculated and I drank 11 beers (not light ones, mind you...), three dirty martinis, and at least two shots of something. And that's just what I recall drinking.
As you can imagine, I was a little bit schmammered. (Read: A LOT.)
My brilliant plan was to take the train to the event and then not have to drive home. So I proceeded to drink with little caution. What I hadn't really considered is that the train is about 1.5 miles from my house. And it's through a really unfortunate part of town. A part of town that little white girls should probably not be wandering around in alone and drunk at 2am.
I also hadn't considered that I might miss the last train.
As it turned out, our numbers had dwindled by the last (of 6) bars, and by that time it was just me, two other people who had been there at the beginning, and some guy that someone knew.
Some guy someone knew had been pretty much hitting on every woman at the pub crawl for the majority of the night. And I had been laughing at his ass the whole time.
I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, some guy someone knew was standing right there. He leaned in and kissed me. Hard.
Um...what the fuck, dude?
Boy was I drunk, though, so all the "what the fuck?" pretty much happened in my head. I must have looked at him like, "Please take me home," because he grabbed my hand and said, "Let's get out of here."
With the compliance of a true drunk-ass, I allowed myself to be led out the door, where I promptly said (without really meaning to say), "I don't have my car. I took the train. I need to take the train back home, but it's dangerous. I'm not having sex with you."
He just looked at me and rolled his eyes. STILL holding my hand, though I had been squirming to have it released.
(I seriously hate holding hands. Even more so with strangers. Somehow, and I realize this is completely bizarre, holding hands is far more intimate to me than sex.)
He called us a cab and we managed to come up with enough cash to make it to his place. I don't like people in my space and we didn't have enough cash to stop at both places. His car was at a different train station, so this didn't really solve the problem anyway.
We walked in the door and he sort of...I don't know what the word is. Attacked is wrong, but he kissed me again. And then we were both on the couch and he was on top of me. He wasn't a big guy, so I could easily have pushed him off, but at this point, being underneath someone felt kind of okay, so I just went with it. Meanwhile saying again, "Seriously, I'm not having sex with you."
Five minutes later, we were making the sex. I'm not sure how it happened.
Well, we were making what he would call "sex" and what I would call "nap-time."
There was absolutely no consistent rhythm. None. And if there's one thing I'm good at, it's getting myself off. But. I. Just. Couldn't. It was like he was trying to stop me.
But the best part?
About five minutes in, and believe me, I've been putting on a show for all I was worth for the last five minutes to get this shit over with, he stopped. He pulled back and said, "How are you feeling? Are you okay?"
I said, "Uh...yeah."
He started again. Then five minutes later, same thing. This time I said, "I'm fine. I'll let you know if I'm not okay."
So finally I said, "This will go a lot better if you will just SHUT THE FUCK UP."
He looked at me, startled. "What?"
"I think you heard me. You don't need to ask me about my feelings. We're doing this, let's just do it."
By this time, I'd made my grocery list, rearranged all my shoes, redecorated my apartment, and written angry letters to everyone who had ever pissed me off (I'm looking at you, poorly edited books) and I. Was. BORED.
I'd stopped even trying to pretend like I was having any fun, as there seemed to be no point.
An hour later, I looked at him and said, "Any chance you're going to wrap this up?"
It was like someone had told him that marathon sex was necessary. And, you know, it's okay, I guess, but not when one member is bored to tears.
He just looked at me, sort of in shock, I guess. And I said, "Let me put it this way. I'm done. If you'd like to be done, too, that would be great. But I? Am done."
He said, "Oh! You finished?"
And I said, "I hate to tell you this, but I couldn't 'finish' if you paid my vagina up front in cash. I am, however, done. Please do your job."
A few minutes later, he finished up. I'm not sure if he actually finished, or if he was just so scared of me that he stopped.
The next morning I got up early and he called me a cab. I managed to find enough money in my purse to cover the ride home (in last night's pub crawl T-shirt, it was quite the walk of shame), and as he leaned over to kiss me and possibly ask me for my phone number, I jumped away and said, "Oh look! Cab! Gotta go!"
A note to men everywhere: Do NOT ask women about their feelings mid awkward sex. It's just wrong. There's a time and a place to talk about feelings and in bed with a stranger is not it. If she's there doing it, take it for what it's worth. At least try to blow her mind. And sometimes a sprint can be just as satisfying as a marathon. Particularly when everyone is drunk and possibly no one is sure what the other person's name is. Sprint, baby, sprint.