I was bent over at the waist, and he was fucking me from behind. It was 4 am or 5 am or 6 am or something like that as we were nestled in some corner at the after hours party where I used to work back when I was young and fun and did things like work at a gay cocaine speakeasy and hook up with random friends in random places. I must have been pretty fucked up, because the next day I woke up covered in bruises. When my mother came by for whatever reason the following morning, she took one look at my bare, bruised up legs and asked, “Pilar, were you drinking last night?”
Indeed. I had been drinking that night. Probably due to the fact that my two month boyfriend that I had practically moved in with had dumped via Facebook chat, which in 2012 was still a pretty normal thing to do. I hadn’t taken it too harshly. I had taken it in a very, “Okay, cool,” kind of way where I knew that I was going to un-Bluebeard myself from this guy and go running out into the fields of post-Valentine, pre-Summer fling men who were waiting for women like me to come blossoming out of winter time cuffing season relationships with glee and gusto. And that’s exactly what I did.
The first thing I did after I got dumped on Facebook chat was summon up a few friends and go to the nearest dive. That night it happened to be Radio, and the friend who tagged along had also dragged her current beau who, through the grace of god, had a car and was willing to drive all of us from Radio to the after hours in San Francisco without a second thought. That was good, because I was already delirious and drunk and despite the above stated nonchalance towards my casual break up, I was still going through the usual motions of throwing a temper tantrum and getting way too drunk. I felt that I was entitled to a temper tantrum, so I went full steam ahead with the histrionics, the drunken fits and the general groping of various available looking men..
As fate would have it, I happened to generally grope a friend of mine who had been lead to the bar by his cousin and who was also a friend of mine. Apparently this friend had just gone through a break up, too, and his cousin had put the pieces together and steered us to the same bar on the same night. This was lucky for me, and probably everyone else, too, because I needed a direction to steer my unbridled sexual rage. And he was happy to take it.
It wasn’t belong before the four of us stacked ourselves in the back of my friend’s date’s car. I had been speaking highly of the impending after hours, the free flowing cocaine, and the price of free that it was going to cost them to get in. I was already peaking at slurry, which is probably why the free flowing cocaine was a good thing because it helped sharpen my mental acumen just a little bit. Or maybe the cocaine was a bad thing, because it didn’t take me long to drag my friend into that dark corner of the dish pit where I was bent over into a pile of tools and he was laughing as he tried to fuck me with a half hard dick.
I guess we did that for a couple hours, because by the time we were pulled apart from each other and pushing leery out of the after hours, the sun was coming up. It was Saturday morning. We wandered through the farmer’s market in the adjacent plaza, spinning around and laughing in only the way that oh-so-charming coke heads who are still up from the night before do, buying passels of fruit that eventually gets thrown at homeless people or chewed up and spit out because who wants to eat a fucking apple at 8 am while still wasted. We piled back into the car, and me with apple still in my teeth tried to go back at it via blow jobs and make out sessions. My friend told me the next day that she and her date (whom I later learned out she was not sexually involved with) asked me to stop, and I refused, and they had no choice but to sit there and keep their eyes on the road and try to make pleasant conversation while in the backseat he and I were fondling and fucking around. They were probably happy to watch me stumble out of the car, him in tow, where we slid into my bed, which was probably the place that we should have been fucking all night, but which, ultimately, was just the place where we finally passed out after passing a joint back forth.
He was much too chatty for me the next morning. I didn’t call him, but we fucked again the next week. It wasn’t good, and he left his phone wedged in my couch, which was unfortunate because the next night when he knocked on my door to retrieve it, I was sitting on that same couch with a new piece of ass. I think it’s a testament to my social grace and skills at playing the field that I managed to give him his phone back without that night’s ass even suspecting that something sexual had happened between me and the boy that I locked outside and made wait for me while I found his phone. What can I say: practice makes perfect.