I felt mortified about being such a drunken nightmare at the party where I got off with #65. And because I couldn’t actually remember most of the night, I was able to stress about it ad nauseam. The best I could hope for was that I would never see any of those people again. My luck held out for no more than a week.
When #66 showed up to #28’s birthday party at our flat, I was already tipsy. “Hey, you look familiar,” I said, “how do I know you?”
“Yeah, we slept together,” he explained, and people laughed. I’d shared his bed when I crashed at that party. Then he and his friends hovered around me.
“Are you here because you fancy #28?” I tried, for the sake of making conversation, and because usually it was a safe bet.
#66 stared at me with a weird smile. “Nine,” he said. “Nine, I’m bi!”
I tried to figure out why he was telling me this and what sort of response I was supposed to give. Finally I settled on “Oh good, you can help me with my dissertation!” And then he kissed me.
Things had suddenly taken an unexpected turn. He was saying that he wanted to see me again. I felt pretty dubious about the whole thing. I’d spent the past couple of years fooling numerous people into believing I was cool or something, but I suspected he was not in this category. Plus he was flanked by a couple of girls who kept giggling and looking conspiratorial. The only time #66 had met me, I’d been a complete and utter train wreck, so if this had piqued his interest I was, frankly, concerned for his sanity. (Although stranger things have happened: #28 and #98 got completely hammered one night and #98 was promptly given a job by someone neither of them remembered meeting.) “You’re a bit confident,” I told him. He insisted on writing down his name and number for me. I think he actually wrote “Call me!” I said I would, meaning I wouldn’t, and then did my best to avoid him for the remainder of the night.
Eventually #66 and #52 sought me out to say goodbye. “Oh, I didn’t know you two knew each other!” I exclaimed, and they sort of shifted and looked awkward and didn’t say anything, because I was too dim to realise they’d just pulled. They came back a while later, and #66 slammed a door and left again with an air of drama, and #52 sat on the stairs of the tenement looking miserable, and I gave him some sort of drunken pronouncement about how I hoped whatever was wrong would feel better soon.
After that, it seems that #66 encountered my friend #113 in the street. #113 had been at my party earlier on, and then gone off to the Mission to pick a fight with the bouncers and get barred as usual. The following morning, #113 woke up in the same bed I’d woken up in a week before, to find #66 giving him a blow job. The end.