(no subject)
Wednesday night I got really drunk at a hanami party (cherry-blossom-viewing party) and went home with some guy I barely knew from the bar.
Sadly, that's the truth. I really did go home with some guy I met at the bar, only because I forgot my house keys and I needed a place to crash. After I sobered up the next morning, I realized that maybe going home with some guy and sleeping on the same bed with him was a stupidstupid idea. Oh God, was it a stupid decision because I was practically opening up the invitation for him to violate me. But he didn't. He actually made it clear in the taxi up to his place that we weren't going to have any sex. Puh-leeze, I think I'd need about 10 more shots to find his pale, lanky British ass worthy of a peck on the cheek.
Although my evening was completely harmless, it doesn't make a nice story to tell people. The one person I don't want to find out is his friend/co-worker, Ronnie. Yes, Ronnie the Italian race-car driver. Ronnie actually lives directly underneath the British bloke. And I want Ronnie BAD. And I know that if Ronnie finds out, he can interpret it many different ways. But either way, I got severely fucked up that evening (it was the Potcheen, the 90% crap, piled on top of a few cans of chu-hi's and vodka). None of it was worth suffering from the Hangover from Hell the next day. And now Ronnie must think I'm some sort of drunkard who goes home with any random bloke from the pub. What a ho.
I need to stop drinking. This isn't me.
Sadly, that's the truth. I really did go home with some guy I met at the bar, only because I forgot my house keys and I needed a place to crash. After I sobered up the next morning, I realized that maybe going home with some guy and sleeping on the same bed with him was a stupidstupid idea. Oh God, was it a stupid decision because I was practically opening up the invitation for him to violate me. But he didn't. He actually made it clear in the taxi up to his place that we weren't going to have any sex. Puh-leeze, I think I'd need about 10 more shots to find his pale, lanky British ass worthy of a peck on the cheek.
Although my evening was completely harmless, it doesn't make a nice story to tell people. The one person I don't want to find out is his friend/co-worker, Ronnie. Yes, Ronnie the Italian race-car driver. Ronnie actually lives directly underneath the British bloke. And I want Ronnie BAD. And I know that if Ronnie finds out, he can interpret it many different ways. But either way, I got severely fucked up that evening (it was the Potcheen, the 90% crap, piled on top of a few cans of chu-hi's and vodka). None of it was worth suffering from the Hangover from Hell the next day. And now Ronnie must think I'm some sort of drunkard who goes home with any random bloke from the pub. What a ho.
I need to stop drinking. This isn't me.