Guy standing with a small pack of Very Cute Guys back by the rest-room sign and the jukebox. He flashes one of those flirty, raised-eyebrow smiles that guys are always flashing at Kate. Never at me. Never until now, anyway.
I realize this might be my fleeting last chance at heterosexual contact this evening.
“Another cocktail here,” I tell Raphael, hoping Very Cute Guy doesn’t think Raphael and I are together. I glance at him, taking in the snug silk shirt, the pink drink, the eyelash perm.
Nah.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” Raphael asks. “Because this place is getting packed, Tracey.”
VCG seems to be shouldering his way toward us. Or is he just trying to escape the bathroom fumes or the blaring Bon Jovi? Hard to tell. But just in case…
“Let’s stay for one more,” I say decisively.
Cute Guy’s name is Jeff. Jeff Stanton or Stilton—something like that.
How do I know this?
Because a few minutes after our second drink arrived, he popped up and introduced himself to me.
His name is Jeff, he’s a broker—or trader. I don’t know, exactly; something boring and Wall Street.
Oh, and he has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars.
How do I know this, you might ask?
Because he has Star Wars sheets. Sadly, I am so not kidding.
And if you’ve figured out how I know about his sheets, you also know that I’m not only dressing like a trollop these days; I’m conducting myself like one.
Did I get wasted and sleep with Jeff Stanton/Stilton/Something that starts with an S and ends with an N?
Yes.
Do I regret it now that the morning light is filtering through the slats of his blinds and I can’t even recall which freaking borough I’m in?
Hell, yes.
It’s bad enough that I’m in a borough at all. I had him pegged for Manhattan, Upper West Side. Tribeca, maybe. But a borough?
At least it’s not Jersey, I tell myself, sitting up in his twin bed—yes, I said twin bed—and pulling the StarWars flat sheet up to my chin as I assess the situation and try to remember how I got from Point A—the bar—to Point X-rated.
It’s freezing in here, by the way. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. And there’s no quilt on the bed.
Oh, wait…there is a quilt. I can see it when I peer over the edge. It’s been passionately pitched into a heap on the floor beside my clothes—with the exception of my lime-green boa, which is draped over a dresser knob across the room.
How the hell did it get there?
And while we’re on that topic, how the hell did I get here? And where is here?
I remember asking Jeff S-n, at one point in the night, if he lived in Jersey.
I remember him laughing and saying of course not, as though I’d accused him of being a rifle-toting redneck bootlegger from West Virgin-ee.
What I don’t remember is when Raphael abandoned me at the bar with Jeff S-n or how it was decided that I would be borough-bound to have sex with a complete stranger.
I only know that much liquor was involved, followed by a long cab ride over a bridge. It could’ve been the Golden Gate, for all I noticed while I was making out with Jeff S-n in the back seat.
So what happened when we got here, wherever we are?
Searching my mind for reassuring memories of doormen or elevators or quaint parkside brownstones, I vaguely recall a side street crammed with parked cars, apartment buildings and small houses.
An educated guess tells me Jeff lives in one of them. There are major gaps in my recollection of our pre-bed travels.
I do know that it was dark when we came in, and he didn’t turn on lights.
Ostensibly so that I wouldn’t glimpse Yoda on a pillow-case and flee screaming into the night.
Maybe it’s not so bad, I try to tell myself. Maybe it’s even kind of, I don’t know, sweet that a grown man sleeps in a twin bed with Star Wars sheets, you know?
I turn my head and glance at Jeff, wondering if I’ll be swept into a wave of post-coital tenderness.
Nope, nothing sweet about it. It’s freakish, that’s what it is.
His mouth is open, wafting beery morning breath. I can see all his fillings, and a hinge of thick whitish drool connecting his upper lip to his lower.
Oh, ick. I’m outta here.
He doesn’t even stir as I slip out of bed and dive into my clothes. Shivering from the cold, I glance around the room as I dress. I half expect to see cheesy posters on the walls: race cars or topless women. To his credit, there are none. The room is messily nondescript. But there is a shelf lined with trophies and another with a bunch of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis titles.
I take another look at Jeff, half expecting to realize, in the broad light of day, that he’s actually an adolescent boy. After all, he was pretty vague about what he does for a living—or was it just that I tuned him out when I found out he was in finance?
Hmm. I note a reassuring stubble of beard on his chin, right beneath the drool, and what’s visible of his chest is broad and hairy. He certainly looks like a grown man. Snores like one, too.
Lord, I just hope I’m not in his boyhood home. When we walked in, he whispered, “Shh! My roommates are sleeping.” Still, you never know. What if his roommates are of the parental variety?
Not that I wouldn’t consider dating somebody who still lives at home, but…well, I wouldn’t dream of conducting a one-night stand with anybody’s parents on the other side of the bedroom wall.
Nor would I, in my kinkiest fantasies, have dreamed of conducting a one-night stand while reclining on an Ewok’s face.
I look back at the slumbering Jeff S-n. Should I wake him to say goodbye?
He emits a snorting sound, smacks his lips, rolls over.
I wrinkle my nose.
Okay, but should I at least leave a note?
I could write down my phone number, I think, as I put on my suede jacket.
But what if he calls? Then I’ll have to see him again.
And what if he doesn’t call? Then I’ll feel like a real tramp.
Screw it. Like I haven’t already descended into the depths of trampdom?
Carrying my shoes, boa and purse, I step into a carpeted hall, half expecting to find a graying man in corduroy slippers
