"Amy.... why? Come on, I'd do it for you!"
"K, there is no way I'm actually going to call that kid up, tell him I'm pregnant and need $300 for an abortion. It's just... no."
But we're both cackling a little. It's around 4 in the morning a couple of weeks ago and my best friend K and I are sprawled out on the dining room table of her gorgeous waterfront Miami apartment. Things are funny at 4 in the morning that never seems quite as clever at 4 in the afternoon. My hair has gotten all greasy and my eyeliner is halfway down my face. It's been a long night.
"He deserves it though," trying to pound on the table emphatically and knocking over a shopping bag filled with double-D Victoria's Secret bras. Eyeing them and deciding not to bother picking them back up. "He's such a freak, he owes you."
"I'm not saying that, karmically, it wouldn't be good for Mr. OneNightStand to give me $300. I'm just saying that it has very little to do with my car getting towed and our needing $300 to get it back."
Giving me a last withering glare, and then laughing, K stands up and walks into her bedroom. I follow, and within 10 minutes we're both almost passed out in her bed. I close my eyes, sigh, and think what the hell happened tonight? Car Karma: 3. Me: 0.
Whereas getting dressed for a night out in Gainesville involves putting on a pair of low rise jeans and a cotton tank top, getting dressed for a night out in Miami takes a bit more effort. Checking ourselves in the mirror by the elevator in K's building, we look strangely like sisters. Matching baby doll halter dresses, smoky eyes, tall, dark features, expansive cleavage and long brown hair. (Mine, at just past my shoulders, is business length, but K's qualifies for porn star length -- she could do a topless photo shoot, and with some strategically placed strands, have everything covered.)
When we get to the club, the outside is crawling with people. There are no spots left in the parking lot, and as I turn my car and $12 over to a total stranger in exchange for a ticket stub, tentatively take it as a good sign. Back in high school, K and I had a theory that if we could easily find a parking spot, we might as well go back home because the night was going to be a total bust. If, on the other hand, we seriously contemplated taking a taxi from our parking spot to wherever it was we were going, we knew it was going to be a great time.
K impressively talks and smiles us past the huge line and (huger) bouncer, and we're in. The crowd is oppressive; we shove our way over to the bar, and ordering diet cokes and self-spiking them, start to get a little buzzed. K scans the room for her friends, and seeing a cluster of them nearby, momentarily smiles and then turns to me with the widened, panicked eyes and bit lip that comprise the International Girl Language for: uh oh.
It's Mr. OneNightStand.
Honestly, I don't really care. An acquaintance of K's, we had hooked up a while ago, had a good time and pretty much left it at that. I have no hard feelings about our lack of communication and am indifferent about running into him again. It's clear, though, from the way he greets me with a stiff wave conveniently shielding his eyes from mine that he feels a bit awkward.
Oh my god, that girl is stalking me, I can hear him thinking. I know I'm a stone cold fox, but can't she just move on? I have to get out of here. She drove for hours just to see me.
This is so far removed from the truth it's laughable. Hello? I came to Miami to hang out with my best friend, and I had no way of knowing you were going to be here! And if I did know, I definitely wouldn't have followed. A little bit of awkwardness is understandable, but his complete lack of social skills is leading me to believe that in order to have sex one should be licensed -- having to undergo stringent personality tests, an etiquette class, an ego check and perhaps a gym membership.
At first I'm kind of amused by his blind terror, and have no intention of making his night by situating myself in the corner farthest from him. But as the night wears on, his tangible discomfort starts grating on me.
When I come back from a trip to the bar, I find K by herself. Apparently Mr. OneNightStand and friends wanted an early night.
"Which is understandable, you know," K says to me as we make our way to the roof of the club, hoping to find a less crowded spot. "I mean, I'd probably freak out too if a hot girl I hooked up with was nice to me. It would obviously mean she was in love with me and was trying to trick me into marrying her."
I gag a little on my drink and shake my head, smiling. Why do guys think they have a monopoly on casual hookups? So many of them think that if they have sex with a girl, it means she wants to date them. Then the paranoia kicks in and the guy will avoid the girl at all costs, completely shutting themselves off to the option of having a new friend or hookup buddy.
"Better off with your vibrator," I drawl as I finally spy an available space on the arm of a sofa on the no-less-crowded roof deck and sprint towards it.
"Excuse me," a refined Hispanic voice nudges as I sit down. "I have reserved this sofa, and one of my friends needs a seat." I look up at the sparkly girl wearing the is it a skirt? is it a headband? who is tapping her silver stiletto-ed foot at me and feel myself flush with acute embarrassment. But really, why would someone reserve a tiny sofa, and more to the point, how much would they pay?
K is smirking at me, and missing the point, I start to brood about how much I hate Miami. Opening my mouth to start complaining, I'm thankfully cut off.
"So about that vibrator..." It takes me a second but then I'm with her. "I'm kind of curious. Want to go help me pick one out?"
Briefly surveying the club, I grin and we make our way back to my car.
* * *
Part 2 to follow!
3 comments:
i am very excited for part two.
(for anyone reading this, i am NOT the "k" in the story.)
i appreciate your disclaimer. i wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about you. ;-)
As Gwendolyn would say, "It produces **vibrations**."
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