Have you ever screwed someone over (and yourself over) so completely and mercilessly that you just knew you were going to hell? We’re talking slept-with-the-best-friend-of-a-man-you-could-have-potentially-loved. I could have fallen in love with Bassist. Wiry, confident, smirking with kisses like little tickles. Even in the short time we knew each other, I felt in my stomach something I had only felt once before – the reveille of love.
We met during the infamous Boston Marathon Monday on a street corner. (Classy, I know. No comments, please). He offered to take a picture of my two girlfriends and I. Even in my wasted oblivion, his little half smile made me stop and stare. After chatting with him for a bit, he invited us to his gig at a bar later that night. We exchanged numbers, and he told me he would text me later with directions. I didn’t actually think he would, so I was absolutely elated when I saw his name pop up in my inbox, especially when he offered to pick us up!
I dragged Best Friend along with me for safety (I’m not dumb enough to get into cars alone with unknown males, thank you). And the rest is a blur. I mean, literally, a blur. I don’t actually remember driving to the bar, or most parts of our time at the bar. Bassist told me later he had to introduce me to his band mates and friends at least three times because I couldn’t remember meeting them. I also managed to flirt my way into procuring free drinks for not only myself but a table of both ladies and men. I do in fact vaguely recollect swing dancing by myself and knocking over a mic, a memory I’d rather not have.
Fast forward to 2 a.m. Bassist offers to drive me home. I, of course, inform him we are not donehanging out and he better not have anything to do for the rest of the night. After driving around for seemingly hours and spending massive amounts of time waiting in the car for him to unload his band gear at a friend’s, we finally make it back to his place which, conveniently, is only five minutes from my apartment. I remember thinking to myself: “This expedient location will make for a simple and only mildly embarrassing walk of shame in the morning!”
What happened the rest of the night I can only imagine. I’m eighty percent positive we had sex. (Bassist later confirmed we did, but that doesn’t mean it actually happened; I suppose I’ll never really know). I woke up in his bed the next morning with no memory of the past night and no idea with whom I was laying next to. I smelled like acrid beer, Marlboro Reds, and cologne. My head was pounding and my mouth burned. I had never experienced such disorientation in my life; I guess that’s what I get for drinking for almost 12 straight hours. “But it was Marathon Monday,” I told myself attempting to justify my foggy stupor.
I couldn’t find the balls to look over and see who was next to me, but I know I had to. The hard, smutty knot in my stomach grew tighter, and I closed my eyes hoping that when I opened them, I’d be in my cozy room under my flowery pink comforter surrounded by stuffed animals and pictures of my friends. I definitely would not be in some colorless apartment lying next to a nameless one-night stand.
Before I eventually found it in me to inspect my conquest, Bassist makes the choice for me. I open my eyes to this beautiful, skinny, crooked-toothed, squinty-eyed man squeezing my nipples and tracing his tongue along my neck. It all starts coming back to me, thank God. My head vibrates with the rush of memories, but I am so grateful. I smile to myself, satisfied with my ability to “get” any attractive, charismatic man I set my eyes on. I oh-so-aloofly toss myself out of bed, mutter something about class, grab my clothes, and exit quickly. I’m sure this will be a one-night-stand. I almost want it to be. On my walk home, my indifference settles promptly. I decide definitively that I will not hope for him to call me, I will not think about him, and I do not care one little bit. Maybe I’ll call him the next time I’m horny, but I dance with myself, and I never let anyone reach my psyche. I do not plan on awarding Bassist special treatment; he will forever be an amusing affair.
Luck never smiles down on me. Lo and behold, the subject of my affair texted me that very same day: “How r u feeling?” I was so surprised I didn’t know whether to respond or not.
I don’t want this! If I sleep with a guy I’ve just met, I’m done. I lose interest immediately. They are obviously as sluttish as I am and aren’t really worth my thought save a fun fuck every now and then.
Against my better judgment, I text back. We text back and forth all afternoon. Suddenly, Bassist is on my mind. I can’t get his smile out of my head. Actually, I can’t even remember what his smile looks like, just how it makes me feel. And I hold on to that feeling, hoping it lasts until I get to see him again (which I do).
We try to make plans all week, but academics, recording sessions, and gigs hinder all attempted arrangements. Just as I’m starting to think our “relationship” is fizzing away to nothing, I get a late-night Thursday phone call from him. He invites me to the mountains of New York for the weekend (insert gushy “aww!” here) with him and his two friends for a little relaxation, gig-playing, and four-twenty celebrations. I feel unnerved and restless with my newfound quixotic notions of wood cabins, roasted marshmallows, and gurgling mountain streams, all to be shared with a wonderful and romantic man.
The precise details of the weekend are unimportant. We spent the weekend hiking through the beautiful mountains, drinking our nights away, and attending music festivals. Bassist and I established our amazing connection, and I loved his friends. I loved his friends so much I made out with Bassist’s friend Guitarist in a brief second of drunken silliness. Tall, muscular, curly-brown haired – the polar opposite of Bassist. The most cliche expression ever used, and it pains me to write the following — The Beginning of the End.
The weekend after New York weekend, Guitarist invited me to a bar. I knew the minute I said I would go with him what would happen. I’d get drunk and fuck him. Old habits die hard. The temptation to prove my desirability overcame any bit of morality and contentment I might have gained from my relationship with Bassist. The fabulous, alive, beautiful way Bassist made me feel still wasn’t enough to satisfy my ego. My intentions and behavior seem especially pathetic considering boys will be boys and they will indeed fuck any available woman. Guitarist (and ninety-five percent of the men I have slept with) did not desire me, he desired a vagina to stick his penis in. He simply demonstrated his functional sex drive, and was not attracted to my allure and sexual prowess as I would have liked to think. Looking back, I still can’t believe I screwed up so royally.
Despite all logic, Saturday night I set off for Guitarist’s house to pre-game before the bar. We never even made it out of his house before doing the deed. Our extreme inebriation and my apathy towards my mate made for some truly terrible sex. For the duration of the brief encounter, I forced my heart into hibernation. I refused to acknowledge the fact that I did indeed possess human emotion. I couldn’t admit my guilt and regret because that would signify my defeat.
The story concludes as you may be able to guess; Bassist ceases contact immediately, and I never speak to or see him or Guitarist ever again. Yet this experience, either as my own personally, or as a story relayed to me by a friend, holds for me no negative connotation. I’ve grown up exponentially since this experience four years ago. It acts as a memory contributing to growth and maturity of a person, and should not be looked upon with regret.
*Originally published April 16th, 2009*
Photo obtained via Google image search
Interesting story. It only helps to look back on past experiences as lessons.
Great article Liv. I can’t say I’ve ever been in as interesting predicament as yours, but I can definitely identify with you and your sexual prowess, and just basically being sexually liberated. You may have fucked up, but I think the lessons learn were worth far more than Bassist and Guitarist.
“The temptation to prove my desirability overcame any bit of morality and contentment I might have gained from my relationship with Bassist.” Do you mean that you wanted to prove that you’re hot by sleeping with guitarist?
in some twisted way, yeah. i know i’m hot now, thank god. grew up a lot over the years haha
I think everyone knows this feeling. If I score on a night out then I am hot. If I don’t I’m ugly!