Piecing Together the Fragments

I woke up on Friday morning and looked at the clock: 7:10. Since I was expected at work at 7:30, this did not bode well for my morning. Not only had I forgotten to set the alarm, I had no memory of getting home or climbing into bed. Fortunately, I enjoy a reputation at the office for punctuality---I could call in late and no one would hold it against me. The larger problem would be piecing together the missing moments of the previous evening. The condom on the floor jolted my memory.

The evening began as I was returning from film class. Oh, yes. I received a text message from Submissive Liz. A booty call. I texted back that I would be at Nick's. I was definitely in the mood for some booty.

What happened after that? Ah---we were sharing a drink and talking about our day when Drinking Buddy showed up. That's when the shot glasses came out. Drinking Buddy and Submissive Liz enjoyed a one-nighter about a year ago, and she doesn't want him to know that we get together from time to time. Fair enough, Nick's is a small bar, but since he lives across the door from me we have had to employ stealth in getting her in and out of my apartment.

Drinking Buddy announced that he would be quitting his job---I gave him my congratulations. It takes a certain amount of guts to walk away from a six-figure gig that lets you telecommute most of the time. He responded with:

"Don't congratulate me until I actually quit."

I understood. DB is an accomplished jazz guitarist who had a band a few years ago. Every time I see him he opens the conversation with news about his new band---they're ready to play. All they need to do is line up a gig.

Which never materializes. DB has his dark moments with the bottle because he'd rather be doing something else---he wants to be a full-time musician but it's not happening. Meanwhile, he feels stuck in his corporate gig and makes plans about moving to New York and playing professionally again. Plans that never seem to materialize, or at least haven't in the almost two years I've known him. Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines. Yada yada.

Anyway, after several shots and a few more drinks, Submissive Liz signaled to me that she'd leave first. I stumbled out about five minutes later and we went upstairs.

It took me awhile to remember the rest---we were having sex and then she finished me off with a blowjob in front of the mirror. I must have barely been able to stand at that point. I suspect that I was way too inebriated to give any kind of stellar performance. I don't remember the rest, and I'm not sure there was anymore to remember. I invite anyone I have sex with to spend the night, but Submissive Liz had apparently let herself out after I bid consciousness goodbye.

Last night I had the best intentions. Knowing that today was going to be a 95-degree day and that my marathon training schedule called for a 12-mile run, I fully intended to be in bed by 11:00 and awake early before the steam bath descended upon my Chicago neighborhood.

Alas, it was not to be. As I was sitting at the bar in Nick's, a blond 20-something asked me how much a Miller Lite cost. (I was conserving---money and calories. There was a special.) I told her that it wasn't as cheap as a PBR. She responded by quoting Dennis Hopper from Blue Velvet (Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!)

Anyone who is familiar with David Lynch gets a gold star in my book, and we fell into conversation. Blondie is 24 and recently moved to Chicago from Akron. She is studying Urban planning. She also has a sarcastic sense of humor, which is good for a second gold star. As we were talking our eyes locked. Then our hands touched. Then she kissed me on the cheek. We were both pretty hammered by this point and she said that she should probably get home before she passed out.

"Will I see you again?" I asked.

"Chicago's a big city..." she smiled.

"That's supposed to be a cue. At that point you're supposed to give me your number."

She smiled again. "If you want my number, you have to ask for it."

Smartass.

Out came the pen and she wrote down her number. I made it around the block to my bed and woke up after ten.

Damn.

It's no fun running twelve miles in 90+ heat. With a hangover. I feel as if someone threw me into a martini shaker, tossed me up and down and poured me out. I will spend the rest of the day inside with the air conditioner running full blast.