#81 was smart enough to leave #89‘s party eventually, but I stayed until the bitter end. I had a habit of doing that sort of thing. I might still be prone to it, except these days I hang out with #184, who tends to stay until the really bitter end, until the next thing he knows is he’s staggering along the motorway at Muirhouse or whatever, wondering what happened to his wallet. And thus I get to feel like I’m the responsible one.
Anyway, the next thing I remember from #89’s party is finding myself lying on the sofa making out with #92. We were alone. I hadn’t just woken up: I’d been awake already, and it was like my brain had suddenly returned from whatever holiday it had been on, and now here I was. All of a sudden I felt very sober and coherent, except I was trying to piece together how I’d got here and how long this had been going on.
#92 asked me if I wanted to have sex with him and I said no. He didn’t push it and we continued making out for a minute or two. “Does this feel good?” he asked. Interesting question. Maybe I had been turned on a few minutes ago, before the alcohol cloud had lifted, but I was no longer in any such mood. Outside, the sun was shining. I made my excuses and went home.