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New Year’s resolutions are meant to be abandoned, right? It’s not just me?
I take a deep breath and smooth out my hair, trying to get my shit together. I resolved to stop partying so much, and going after the wrong guys so much. But tonight, I’m pretty much tossing it all out the window and doing both.
Hey, I made it into March. That’s something. Most people quit going to their new gym by the end of January.
Music from the party blares through the bathroom door. I’ve had at least two too many drinks at this point, and I’m debating whether I should call it a night and stumble up to Selene’s place, or pound another shot and see if I can rally. That guy … what’s his name, Dylan? He’s been fun, and he was totally checking me out when I got up to use the bathroom. Plus he’s mega hot. Maybe I should stick around and see if I can get lucky.
I really, really want to get lucky.
Why the fuck I’m so horny, I have no idea. I’m probably mid-cycle or something. Slow down, ovaries. You’re on vacation right now, you sneaky little minxes. But chemically suppressed fertility or no, I haven’t been well and truly fucked in months, and I’m looking to get laid tonight.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the copious amount of gin I’ve had.
Squaring my shoulders, I adjust my blue beaded necklace and pull my shirt down a little more so my boobs look better. You have to use the assets you have, and I do have fantastic boobs. I’ll let Dylan put his face in them all night long, if he has a nice big cock and knows how to use it.
Wedge heels were probably not the best choice for tonight, but I manage to get back to the table without falling over. Selene is at another table, laughing with some of our other friends. Braxton was here, but I haven’t seen him in a while. He probably took some dumb girl home with him already.
Wait, no, I see him near the bar, talking to a group of guys. Probably talking sports. All Braxton has to do is name-drop a few of his clients, and dudes go nuts. I almost angle myself toward him and keep walking to the bar. He’s like a magnet. But Dylan catches my eye and smiles, beckoning me closer.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Dylan says when I get back to the table. I don’t think I know the rest of the people sitting here. They must be Dylan’s friends. I don’t know Dylan either, but he’s here, and he’s hot, and he’s looking at me with just the right expression. The I’m going to fuck you later look.
I give him that look right back. Yes. Yes, you are.
He pulls me into his lap, and I put my arm around his shoulders.
Selene catches my eye from her spot at the other table. She raises her eyebrows, but Dylan says something and I burst into laughter. I’m not even sure what he said, but everyone else laughs, so I join in. Then the laughing itself seems funny, so I keep going.
I’m starting to fade and I haven’t gotten another drink. I open my mouth to ask Dylan to get me one when he puts his mouth near my ear.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“Oh god, yes,” I say—at least, I think that’s what I say. My head is spinning so much, it’s taking a lot of effort not to fall right out of the guy’s lap.
He helps me to my feet and pretty soon I’m fumbling with my key to Selene’s house. We were right around the corner, and I planned on staying here anyway. I lead him inside, pulling my clothes off as we make our way to my room.
***
My eyes are so gritty I can barely open them. Holy shit, what did I do to myself last night? My head is already pounding with the hangover from hell. I shift a little, and something feels weird. I peek beneath the sheets. Yep, I’m naked. Why did I go to bed naked?
Oh no. I’m not alone, am I?
I look over my shoulder; sure enough, there he is. He’s asleep next to me, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling. The night comes back to me, hazily. Lots of gin. Me sitting in his lap. He was either very funny, or I was very drunk.
At this point, I strongly suspect the latter.
I put my hand to my forehead and close my eyes. I remember now. Stumbling up the hill to Selene’s house. Fumbling with the keys. My clothes are probably still strewn across the living room. We got in here, and—
Fuck, he was awful.
He slapped against me like a penguin waddling across a fucking glacier. How that’s an apt metaphor for crappy sex, I have no idea, but it definitely fits. In five minutes—if I’m being generous—he was done, rolling off me with a self-satisfied groan, like he’d just done something amazing.
I can assure you, there was no amazing.
I get out of bed as quietly as I can and put on a zip-up sweatshirt that’s sitting nearby. I’m achy, and it’s not the I had hard sex last night kind. It’s the I didn’t have an orgasm when I expected to kind. Maybe I should have taken care of business myself afterward, but I think I more or less passed out at that point.
Now? I’m mildly throbbing. I figure I’ll duck into the bathroom and see if I can DIY the tension away before Mr. Penguin Sex wakes up.
“Morning,” he says, his voice sleepy.
