You're just a fat chick.
Sure, we had sex that one time,
when we were both drunk.
But I hardly remember that anyway.
I can't recall much of what we did that night, but then again, I was drunk enough that I wouldn't expect to able to either.
A guy at the part, whom I hardly knew, sat down next to me on the couch and told me that you'd really started to look good lately. I agreed with him, and I put on a sly smile and watched you float across the room towards me. I'd already forgotten about everybody else. Then, when you turned from me, I clung to you like a fucking magnet, wondering why on earth I wasn't kissing you anymore. Not that I actually knew how we got here to begin with.
Anyway, somehow we're at your place and I'm waiting for you to finish up at the bathroom. I can hear you peeing and I'm standing about in your dark room. I know we'll soon be fucking, but I feel dark and heavy, like from some weight weighing me down and pulling in my chest. Even though I'm fully aware of what we're doing here, at your place, I feel powerless to control the outcome of anything we're about to do tonight. Not that us two fucking is that big of a deal, really.
It's just that, when we met later, at another party, why did you have to tell me that sometimes you wished your memory “wasn't as flawless as it is”? And why did she have to tell me how much you apparently “like” me. Like what, somehow I'm responsible for all of this? But I digress.
I woke up beside you and my first thought was to simply enjoy the moment. Your bed felt soft and your room was bright, your furniture mostly in tones of grey. I moved closer to you, felt your pale skin and short, blonde hair. I tentatively put my arms around your big, naked body. This is nice, I told myself, so why bother feeling regret? But try as I might, I couldn't shake the thought of feeling like a vulnerable little boy who's been dragged off somewhere unfamiliar and intimidating. Which doesn't even make sense. I'd done this before, sort of.
Anyway, it wasn't you I wanted then, it was, quite to the contrary, to be held by my mother – to in her arms be wordlessly understood and loved. Getting back to my own place would be the next best thing. But how stupid did I feel when, getting dressed, I could only find my pants and one sock. I was even so hungover I needed your help to unlock the door to get out of your apartment.
In any way, I wonder what we did. During sex, I mean. Will you and your friends laugh over my sporadic. . . inability? I know alcohol doesn't exactly enhance my performance. Were you disgusted by the sheer amount of hair on my body? Or did I, God forbid, no. I could never. Anyway, I know I didn't use protection, but, uh, let's forget about that for now. I didn't fully understand then, anyway, that this specific memory, years later, would haunt me the most.
I honestly thought we were cool at first. I mean, I honestly told myself we were. I knew we would inevitably meet again at another social gathering with our mutual friends, and there my plan was to act like nothing had happened between us. And that seemed like a great plan. It was only then, when we finally did meet at that other party, that I was told (not by you) how you feel about me. I bet you'd never heard all the insensitive things I'd been saying about you.
Anyway, there are things I can't help wondering about. Did you know that I was almost completely out of it? Did you take me home with you even though you knew? I've been told I seem like usual until I suddenly, usually, wander off somewhere. So I'm wondering.
And I wonder what I would feel about all this if you had instead been pretty. I don't like to think that would have made a difference, but then again, I don't suppose I would be contemplating this right now.
No, if that was the case I would have spoken proudly of that one girl that one time (and I would probably have tried to contact you later), instead of, for comic relief, explain to people how I only look sideways at girls now.
Most of all though, I can't help wondering: since I didn't use a condom, did you get pregnant? If so, would you have told me? Also, if so, did you decide to keep the child? Did you then both make it through the entire pregnancy? Because that would mean, by now, I have a child out there, somewhere.
Hey, at least I didn't catch anything from you, right?