DISCLAIMER: The sex was consensual.
On a scale of 1 to I-left-someone-in-the-trunk-of-my-car-after-having-my-way-with-him, how good was your night? How do nights like that even begin? Because the only thing that lets out the sexual predator hidden in the depths of my black soul are pulls of Jameson with a side of sass.
So, the other night I decided I was going to be a classy broad. I put on an $80 romper I bought for retail therapy and took my best friend out to sit at a nice bar, have nice conversation, be nice girls and drink nice, classy-lady drinks. I curled my hair, put on lipstick and heels.
It began sophisticated and ladylike. Little did I know it would not end there…
After a dirty Kettle 1 martini and some wine, we decided we weren’t going to stop after drinks and appetizers. We met up with some friends and took it to another place for whiskey mules. This led me straight back to my old ways and I decided it was a great idea to grab a bottle of Jameson before taking the night elsewhere.
After swigging the whiskey and finishing the bottle between the six of us, we went to the bars and the show began.
It started relatively slowly. I was still keeping it pretty classy—just classily tipsy. Nothing wrong with that, right?
Wrong.
I woke the sleeping monster I thought I’d put to rest with my Jameson days.
Classily tipsy becomes drunk in heels. Drunk in heels becomes smeared lipstick and unstable legs. Smeared lipstick and unstable legs become motorboats and a public hazard.
No self-control here.
After making my rounds and beer goggling my way to the chubby hobo with missing teeth, the bars closed and my friends yanked me away from Prince Charming (how dare they?!).
Side note: I don’t think I wear beer goggles. I think I just wear a sleeping mask.
Well, Jameson and vodka RedBulls call for a continued party, obviously.
My drunken alter ego had taken over hours prior and forced down any remote chance my everyday personality was still apparent in even the slightest bit.
This is when I began to exhume the sexual deviant inside me.
It’s probably best compared to some brutal safari documentary on the discovery channel. I saw my prey and he didn’t stand a chance after that.
It started in the car on our way home. I made my way on his lap and was being the definition of inappropriate considering where my hands were and everything I was saying.
Let’s just say those weren’t classy lady, sweet nothings I was whispering.
And to think I thought I was being stealthy. What a joke.
After making it back to my friend’s house, I extended the flirtatiousness with the frank “I want to f@$& you.” Classic.
He insisted on taking me back to my house, but me being the responsible 25-year-old adult I am knew neither of us were in any shape to drive. Instead, I folded down the back seats of my rental car, threw him in there and ripped my clothes off.
Side note: Of course, I was wearing sticky boobs. I slapped those babies together and tossed them in the front seat with the last dying breath of my class.
Needless to say, I was a horribly sloppy disaster. Afterward, I guess I still thought I was being sneaky and trying to maintain any bit of dignity. I told him to wait in my car so nobody would know and that I’d come back and take him home.
But the problem with being a classy lady and wearing classy lady things is that they don’t exactly go on and off too easily. I had no problem removing, but I couldn’t button everything back on and neither could he. Men.
So, I took my red face and sex tussled hair back inside and while my best friend was fastening my romper back up, I whispered to her that I had our friend in the trunk of my car. She made a huge deal of the mess and what everyone already figured was now completely apparent and concrete.
After leaving that poor soul in the trunk of my car for a few hours, I took my shame back home and woke up with a matted mane of hair, still wearing last night’s makeup.
I took my classy pants off in more ways than one, but I wouldn’t be able to tell these stories with those trousers on, anyway. I enjoy the shame and laughter.
So, on a scale of 1 to creature-of-the-night, who were you? I could probably be described as a category 5 hurricane with torrential downpours of booze and whirling sexual escapades through the streets of this town.
