I did a LOT of dumb things in my college years and continue to do so well into adulthood. However, my lack of sober judgment the night I made out with Miranda repeatedly trumps most drunken mistakes but mostly because it has haunted me since that fateful evening.
Where does this tale begin? I suppose it was with Nancy and Carlisle. Right, it all started with the sound decision to fuel up on carbohydrates prior to a night of massive alcohol consumption. See, Carlisle and I had a propensity for finding lesbians in the least likely of places—DMVs, funerals, you name it, we’d done it. This restaurant would be no different as our waitress, let’s call her Miranda, was “an O.L.–obvious lesbian,” as Carlisle remarked with her barely out of earshot. The verbal confirmation was unnecessary as I’m fairly certain she was wearing some sort of rainbow charm bracelet but yes, it was obvious, she was gay—but not in a negative stereotypical way. I’d had class with her the year before but we’d never spoken. The class you ask? An elective aptly titled, Lesbians and Gay Men and Society, how appropriate. I can’t say Miranda was on my radar then as I was busy making my way through half the soccer team at the time. And honestly, back then, I couldn’t be bothered if you weren’t a Division I athlete but that was all about to change and I was powerless against it.
Carlisle and I had a sort of love-hate friendship and I could see the gears turning in her head, she’d already planned to invite this girl to the party and there was nothing I could do about it. I was recently single, not necessarily in the mood to mingle but always open to the occasional hook-up. This was college for Christ sakes, if one can’t have meaningless flings at time of crisis while in college, then where? Before leaving, Carlisle left her address along with my phone number and what I can only imagine was a sizeable tip. We hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot before my Motorola StarTac rang. Miranda wanted in as soon as she got done closing later that night.
Carlisle parties were truly an affair, half the tri-state area college-aged gay community—most of whom have now defected and are happily married with kids, I might add, were present. Carlisle kept handing me shots and I kept taking them. Beer pong, flip cup, boat races, you name it, if it involved excessive drinking. The evening progressed with relative ease and as if by magic, my beer goggles fell on and perhaps reached an all-time low right around the time Miranda showed up. I don’t know why she stepped into a house full of overly intoxicated individuals but she did. Unfortunately for me, I blacked out and was reminded of my dalliances over breakfast the next morning.
There were reports of us making out in the kitchen, on a couch, various walls and in a basement to name a few. Luckily, despite her insisting on taking me home, my friends felt it best I remain on the premises. I was relieved to learn that the night had strictly entailed making out since I could easily move past this without further damage. I had unwillingly entered a playful game of ‘rebound makeout session’ and it had ended. Little did I know, Miranda had other plans and to my misfortune, they included her best single white female impersonation.
As I sat at work the following day nursing my hangover and doing everything I could to get out of potentially life guarding, I received MULTIPLE text messages and repeated phone calls from Miranda. When could we hang out next? What was I doing? Was I alive? It got ridiculous real fast. Her tone went from happy and inquisitive to psycho in point five seconds. You always hear about the lesbian urge-to-merge or the U-Haul phenomenon but this was certifiably insane, I’d barely known her for seven hours! Apparently, the fact that I hadn’t answered the first 15 times she rang didn’t send a clear enough message. Making out with her was a mistake and one I had zero intentions of repeating. After the non-stop texts and phone calls, my concerns were immediately justified. I cursed Carlisle for giving her MY phone number. Still, I assumed, she’d get the message.
At some point I’d ordered food and was enveloped in the process of tucking said purchase away when someone walked into my office. Feeling compelled to acknowledge them, I pulled my face out of my cheese fries momentarily and nearly choked, FUCKING Miranda was standing directly in front of me.
“So that’s it? You don’t answer my calls???” She was definitely mad and in more ways than one. “Well, I mean I’m at work soooo…” I tried to justify it but my coworker texting away was poking holes straight through my no phones at work reasoning. “I mean seriously? You don’t answer? Last night? What was last night?” How could I possibly explain that last night was a simple mishap or an unfortunate experience for the both of us? I couldn’t so I did the next best thing, I took the conversation outside to attempt a softer let down and avoid any further embarrassment.
“Hey, look, it was last night, I don’t really remember much of it but I guess it was a good time, let’s leave it at that,” was possibly the worst thing I could have said, apparently because it only sent her into a further state of rage. “You remember nothing? Really?” she was screaming at this point, “I had, WE had a great time last night! You don’t want that, again?” she asked. My brain already knew the answer, no, and after this whole debacle, absolutely not. “Look, last night was last night, and if it was fun, great but that’s pretty much as far as it goes. I’m not trying to date you,” I finally said in closing. If at first a soft letdown does not succeed, just get down to business.
She lingered for a minute or two more, maintaining awkward silence and hateful eye contact before eventually storming off. I hoped that was the last I would hear of her but I honestly had no idea at the time. She’d pop up at parties or bars from time to times just as a friendly reminder. To this day, I have never regretted a make-out session I didn’t remember more, in my entire life.
SFAR
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