Generally speaking the Christmas/New Year’s season proves quite fruitful for bedroom festivities. I speak from personal experience, as my prime recyclable consistently finagles himself into my happy holidays. I speak from legit comprehensive research as scientific type graphs have shown significant birth rate trending 9 months after company holiday parties. All good stuff.
Given that I had prime recyclable on the following week’s agenda I wasn’t thinking much of it when my friend Jake decided to pop into NYC with his sisters. Jake voted yes on my being in town, I voted maybe on cutting my Boston trip short. In the end, Jake got his way as Jake is 6′2-ish and Australian. The accent = my favorite card outside of military.
I met up with Jake & co. at a legit watering hole in midtown (or as legit as a venue can be, when located in midtown). Once pale ale grew old and I finished downing an ample sized meal I felt more than competent to switch the party over to vodka. Unforch for me, pacing = not a skill and a buzz = imminent.
We next revved (re: teetered) over to a bar that rocks out 80’s style…love. Pat Benatar and Journey truly do rock my world. Also noteworthy: at this point in the evening it always seems a good idea to take shots with more vodka, and so it went.
On the heel of “I don’t want to lose your love tonight” the bar shut down for the night. As Jake’s sisters tried to get him to leave he just shook his head no, that he was coming with me. I was well wasted but I do believe I said he should accompany his sisters home. Another shake of the head. Drunkie + drunkie = bed a good 90% of the time. We agreed to meet up with them at noon for brunch.
And home we went on a cab ride we share a mutual lack of recollection of. Back at home I kind of remember disrobing but only because my major dig at winter is the necessity for uncomfortable boots & tights and they simply had to go. I vaguely remember us both being in bed and making out. I sorta, kinda remember him asking if I had condoms and I definitely remember getting pissed off about it and walking out. He followed suit to apologize for something he didn’t know what he was apologizing for and back to the bedroom we went where I promptly passed out as he uttered affirmations on my excellence.
The next morning we accidentally slept until 12:30 proving brunch a no go. At this point sex seemed like a pretty great idea, and we went to it until I remembered my father was stopping by at 2.
After, Jake and I went to brunch at the Sunburnt Cow (an Aussie brunch shit show – could it be any more approp?) We proceeded to get wasted face until about 5 PM. A record time for brunch. Post mimosa nation Jake started kissing me on the street. This seemed acceptable as it does get darker earlier this time of year. In a just-can’t-wait fashion we popped into my old apartment to “grab my mail.” More makeage out. Back outside Jake asked what I wanted to do until we had to meet his sisters for dinner. He suggested a bar I like. “Sure.” Or we could go back to your place. “Sure.” So went round two, once again oversleeping and getting ready in a frenzy to meet up with the sisters that could only have deemed me tartlet by this point.
We met up with the fam at which point Jake pulls me aside and asks “are your pants on inside out?” Alas, my Lululemons were sporting a visible tag. Luckily they are reversible. Quick pull of the evidence and the sibs remained in the dark about my inability to put on clothing (pretty sure they were on to me, re: keeping on my clothing). Several bottles of wine and a spaghetti and meatball number later I was well wasted once again.
We proceeded on to an Irish pub where I proceeded to take my level of wasted to an unprecedented level of wasted. At this point in the evening it seemed like a good idea to provide Jake an over the pants hand job under the table. It’s not that I’m completely classless, but wine + carbs = all about providing a helping hand.
Upon return from one of my numerous bathroom jaunts Jake informed me his sisters gave him the go ahead to spend his last NYC night at my place. “You asked permission?” “Ya.” “Hot.” Hence our third consecutive post meal, back to my place, hook up sesh.
I think my favorite part of all of this was four months ago circa the “effing-hell-I-cracked-my-head-open-era” Jake was all “I guess no more kinky sex for you.” And I was all “Dude, I can’t afford a headboard injury.” Headboard phobia be gone!
