Let me begin this story with a disclaimer: I am a completely normal person.
Like all normal people, I have a few strange habits. One of these shameful habits is that I always keep an abundance of sugar packets in my bedside table drawer. You’re probably thinking to yourself, “What the fuck is wrong with this chick? Is her life goal to be an obese diabetic?” Allow me to clarify. It just so happens that I drink an obscene amount of coffee. We’re talking dawn ’til dark, I’m chugging the good stuff. Can you blame me? College is hard, and cocaine is
expensive illegal. Since I drink so much coffee, I always have a pack of sweetener nearby, and since I do most of my studying in my bedroom, my bedside table drawer is stocked with sugar packets. See? Not that weird. A little out of the ordinary, maybe, but nothing to put me in an institution. It’s a totally harmless habit.
Or so I thought.
It was pretty much a normal Thursday. I had class all day, so by the time nine o’clock rolled around, I was ready to start drinking. My roommates and I got as cute as we possibly could after destroying a bottle of pinot and stumbled to our favorite bar, located just a few blocks from our decrepit, college townhouse. It was just like any other night at the bar; I saw all the same people, indulged in all the same specials, and sang loudly to all the same shitty, mainstream songs that blasted from the speakers.
Then, all of the sudden, like I was in some degenerate version of a Nicholas Sparks novel, the crowd stood still and silent as I watched this beautiful man coming toward me. When I say beautiful, I mean fucking beautiful: six feet tall with a scruffy face, wearing flannel and an army jacket. This guy walks straight up to me and asks me, “Do you remember me?” I probably stared at him for ten seconds before it clicked. Oh yeah, I remembered him alright. He was a hipster kid I used to screw in high school when I was in between boyfriends or going through an angsty phase. As soon as we started talking, he ordered me a Jack and Coke, and I knew it was going to be an interesting night.
Long story short, I took that fucker home. I actually made a couple loops through the bar before we left, though, to make sure everyone saw that I was leaving with such a grade-A slab of man meat.
So we got back to my house and he asked if we should try to find a movie on Netflix. At that point, I was so drunk and impatient that I just looked at him and straight up told him, “Nah, we’re gonna bone. Like, now.”
I’ll skip all the gory details. We basically wound up rolling around on my bed like a couple of rabid hyenas, quickly learning which skills the other had picked up since our adolescent days of banging in the back seat of his shitty Corolla. Things were getting pretty hot and heavy, so he pulled away for a quick second and said, “I’m not sure if I have a condom.”
I had just broken up with a guy and had luckily won a box of Trojans in the split, presumably because he was too angry to retrieve them from my house. So I told my hipster sex boy, “There should be a few in the drawer,” motioning to my bedside table. Big fucking mistake right there.
We got back to making out, his left hand fumbling around in the drawer for a love glove. He finally found one and freed his right hand to rip it open.
Except it wasn’t a condom. Nope, not even a little bit. It was a sugar packet, and that shit went fucking everywhere–in my mouth, up my nose, in my eyes. I had always wondered what was actually in sweetener, and now I know: tiny little demons that will literally blind you and ruin your life. So here I was, rolling around ass-naked, clutching my eyes like I’m fucking possessed, and this kid is just sitting there, sugar-free and fully erect. It was, to put it delicately, the worst moment in my entire life.
You’re probably expecting a happy ending, where he and I laughed it off and are now madly in love. Nope, that didn’t happen. I kicked him out soon after and spent the night hanging my head under a running faucet. There’s no real moral to this story. I mean, I guess you could say it’s a bad idea to keep sugar in your bedside table, but most normal, sane people already know that. Other than that tiny tidbit of obvious information, I gained no major life experience from the incident. Well, I guess one thing did change.
I now drink my coffee black..