Thankfully, as soon as I started to pull on my clothes, Alabama quickly followed suit. Once she was dressed and had collected her purse, strap-on, etc., I walked her out of my complex and followed her down the block to where Alabama had parked her car the night before.
I forced a pleasant smile as we said our goodbyes and exchanged a quick kiss. Then she slid in behind the wheel and gave me a wave as she started to shut the driver’s side door. I returned the wave, sure that I was finally in the clear, when Alabama suddenly pushed the door back open and said, “What are you up to later tonight?”
“Um…” Now, I’m not the kind of snob who snubs a beautiful girl just because she wants to hang out with me two days in a row, but there was a lot I still needed to process and at that present moment I really wasn’t feeling much of a hurry to hang out with Alabama anytime soon. I hesitated for a beat as I considered the proper response and then finally settled on, “Not sure. Call me?”
Her face lit up as she smiled and it was almost enough to make me feel guilty for how weird I was being. Alabama responded with a wink as she looked up at me and said, “I’ll do that.”
With one last extremely girly wave, she finally shut her door and started the car. I watched Alabama drive off as an immense sense of relief washed over me. I justified the feeling by telling myself that none of it was my fault. The evening had started out great but I wasn’t the one that tricked me into eating strange drugs and then attempted to fuck my ass with a strap-on.
Of course, that thing about having to be at baseball practice was a complete lie (I didn’t even have a nephew). Still, I didn’t want to be at my place; not while last night was still so fresh in my mind. It was too early to start drinking, even by New Orleanian standards, so I called up my friend Elisha and asked her to meet me for coffee.
Elisha and I had attended the same fine-arts high school and have been friends ever since we were both pretentious 15-year-olds peddling our awful free-verse poetry at the weekly Creative Writing workshops. Of course, as with most interactions between hormonal teens of opposing genders, our bond began with a misguided attempt at having sex.
As we got older, she and I would sometimes joke about that one awkward night when we tried to bump uglies and eventually Elisha came to the conclusion that “the problem was you actually respected me and that made it impossible for you to fuck me.”*