Acts of God and stuff.

No one seemed to have noticed me holding the napkin on my wrist to stop the blood. We all think that we get away with more than we do when we are drinking, but I have to assume with  that if either of them had noticed they wouldn't have just let it pass without comment.



But before I tell you that story, I have to tell you this story.
What you have to understand about me for the full effect is that, even now that I don't get black out drunk anymore, and even before I ever drank at all, I wake up in the morning knowing pretty much nothing. Prior to opening my eyes and looking around I never know where I am, and it's not unusual to not have a firm grasp on Who I am. It's been that way since I was 11.

I wake with no sense of reality.

It's common now for me to remember who I am based on opening my eyes and seeing my child sleeping next to me and identify myself by knowing I am his mother. In the years of waking up alone, or worse yet, next to someone less familiar, it's been a different story.
Whether at home, a friend's, my parents (where I stay often), anywhere I wake up I have to give myself seconds to place the world around me. I often use the landmarks throughout the room to identify not only my location, but also myself. Those are my clothes, I'm Me.
There was an incident in my early 20's where I went to bed in borrowed PJs, in a room I had not been in before, after dark. I really didn't see much as I got into the guest bed.
Upon waking it took several minutes to remember anything at all, as I wasn't wearing my own clothes as identifiers. I had in fact gotten up to look around and touch some of the items around the room to try to place myself or anything at all.

Not until I stumbled upon my clothes from the night before did my name return to me.
Did I mention I've never been a drug user?

What that has to do with the story above, I've decided not to share after all. The consistent disorientation on waking is fantastic enough to stand on it's own, without the details of that particular episode of confusion I intended to share.

But back to the story of the blood, right?
It might not have been so awkward if we hadn't already 'broken up'. We called the brief story of us a failure on Tuesday, but decided that we would still spend the weekend together because we had all these fantastic plans. By fantastic plans, I mean I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to sleep with him a little longer.
The crux of the breakup had been a text message that read "Please be careful."
Just a week before we had the drunken talk that led to me asking if we were exclusive and him immediately and enthusiastically saying we were.
So here I was, merrily cruising along in a new relationship with a hot, flamboyant, sweetie when who would have suspected an Act Of God?
Now Acts Of God are so rare, that people tend to kind of cruise over without worry when they sign their insurance agreements that disclaim responsibility for Acts Of God.
But, here I was on this gloomy Tuesday looking out my window at a potential one. Not one that meant sprint or get eaten by a dinosaur, but a hazardous situation.
Having ascertained that I was in physical danger I had texted a few friends to plan my way out of the situation. One of those people was of course my new boyfriend, just three blocks away.
Each of the 5 friends I texted offered in one way or another to help me out.

He sent me a text that said "Please be careful."

I read this text several times over the next 6 hours before I finally texted him again. Having held out to see if he would check on me, I finally relented because we had plans that evening and I wanted to know if he intended to keep them, not knowing how my day turned out.
I'd spent those hours thinking about how rarely, in today's day and age, you might get the opportunity to save your (mostly responsible) girl from actual physical danger. Like, isn't the answer almost never?
I'd reached the conclusion easily enough that if you didn't jump on that rare opportunity, she isn't really your girl.
I was hurt and angry and disappointed by this realization and subsequent ending. Those things were not going to get in my way of great sex.

We met up and I ate all of this amazing pizza from the best pizza place in town.
I'm allergic to dairy and corn. I always get this bizarre sort of high when I eat food I'm allergic to and then mix it with alcohol. So, cheese...
Throw in some unavoidable sleep deprivation that week.
I took full advantage of the open bar.

So, I was not even a teeny tiny bit shy about the extravagant PDAs all over town that night. I flaunted this hot man at my side. We held hands, made out, acted like we were young and in love, instead of having a final weekend fling.
I'm sure that I stumbled into the kitchen of his house when we ducked in at midnight, giggling and playing up all the sexy.
Until that moment I got a glimpse of The Babysitter.
It's amazing how seeing one of your kid's school employees can make you wish you hadn't..
Hadn't told the bartender to just give you a couple of whatever shot he had closest. Hadn't come in with your makeup smeared to hell. Hadn't walked in with the obvious intent of staying. Hadn't considered that you would look like this guy's hook up now, since you wouldn't be seen together in the future.

The obvious move was to try to chat in a perfectly sober way.

I decided that I could pull that off more easily if I removed the Budweiser wristband from my arm. I tugged on it a few times casually (in my mind it was casual ok?)
It wouldn't budge.

In my head, removing this wristband was going to be the savior of my reputation.

So I grabbed a paring knife (again casually) out of the dish drainer and slid it between my wrist and this tight band that so glaringly labeled me as a playground hook up artist. (IDK. It was late and stuff.)
But.
I turned the knife the wrong way, and though the bracelet did snap, the sharp part of the knife put a (casual) slit in my wrist.

I wore a nice reminder of it in the form of a band-aid for only a week.
Neither of them noticed. Or so I assume.

So much for being careful.

I never write in this style. But, kisses.

He kissed like a high school boy.

No, he kissed like you wanted a high school boy to kiss
Like you imagined it would be.

These kisses felt like you thought they would in high school when you kissed a boy;
at that age when the clumsy efforts never really worked out like you imagined it in your naive fantasies

His kisses, right from the start plunged his entire tongue into my mouth,
reminiscent of make out sessions in your teens that often choked the receiver of the kiss.
And in these kisses there was always a receiver. Receiver of the mouth over full with two tongues

Rather than the darting, playing, back and forth and mutual exploration of each that often comes with grown up kisses

He did not give in to or adapt to the style of kissing adopted by men his age,
he had instead perfected the high school boy kiss
Time and experience had refined and enhanced the movements of his mouth
turning this invasive style into one that not only worked, but took you back to the feelings of expectation of youth