I woke up Thursday morning, the day of the big “date”, with a sore throat. I tried not to think much of it, but I quickly hurried to pack a small bag with a change of clothes, and hopped in my car to begin my drive home to Jersey. When I got to my mother’s house, I told her that I was going to be hanging out with with some of my high school friends in the city, and staying over at one of their apartments. I thought this was an interesting lie at the time because I had actually been invited to a “reunion” of sorts with four or five friends, one of whom went to NYU and lived in the same area as Heather. I had told my friends I couldn’t make their party, and wondered to myself how awkward it might be we if I bumped into them along my path from the subway to some chick’s bedroom.

Rather than drive into the city and worry about parking, I elected to take mass transit. I hopped on a train near my hometown and took it to the PATH station, and took the PATH into Manhattan. I was a little early, so I walked around for a few minutes before finding the Starbucks where we were supposed to meet. In an attempt to look like I was fitting in with the clientele — and not just meeting someone at Starbucks to get laid — I ordered a latte and sat down to wait for Heather. She called to say she was running a few minutes late, and that she was sorry but would see me soon. When she walked into the coffee shop, our eyes met and she kind of hurriedly scuttled towards me. She was wearing a wife beater, ripped jeans, and those fuzzy boots. What were they called again, all the girls used to wear them back in ‘02 or ‘03? We hugged and she whispered something like, “It’s so good to see you.” Then we sat down and she told me the story of why she was late. She asked if I wanted to go get something to eat, and for God knows what reason I said “Not really.” I think I was a bit anxious to get to he sex. Also, I was in the midst of my manorexic phase, so the thought of eating always nauseated me.

Heather recommended we go to grab a quick bite on Broadway a few blocks away from where we were, at Cozy Soup ‘n’ Burger. I laughed when she said the name of the place, and told her how I’d been walking past that diner for years and never thought I’d ever step foot inside because it looked like a dump. In hindsight, there was good reason for me to dislike the place. Nevertheless, I followed Heather to the diner. We walked through the cold November night, talking about how the news was warning of “squall-like” winds sweeping through the city. We sat down at a booth and she ordered herself a bowl of soup and a plate of cheese fries with gravy for us to share. I don’t remember what the conversation was about, but I think it was pretty light stuff, probably about the friends of hers I was going to meet at her party. I paid for the meal, because…well, she was gonna fuck me so it was the least I could do.

Before we walked back to her apartment, Heather asked if I wanted to stop and pick up a movie to watch. I didn’t say, “I thought we were going to a party?” because if there was a party going on her apartment, where the hell would we be watching a movie? Oh, right…the bedroom. “Sure,” I said. We walked to the Blockbuster on the corner of Broadway and 9th Street. She stopped to say hi to the foreign guy who was working at the cash register, which led me to believe she spent a lot of time renting movies. We walked down two aisles until she stopped in front of a particular DVD — the stupid comedy she talked at length about in our early communications. She asked if I’d seen it, and I said no because one of the lead actors irked me. She convinced me that I had to see it, and picked up the DVD. When she went to pay for it, the guy at the cash register said, “Again?” I could tell she was embarrassed, but I didn’t feel like milking the awkwardness of the situation for fear of turning her off. She must have made some little joke about it, because when we left the store she didn’t crumble into a heap and complain about how pathetic she was for renting and watching the same movie every week. Instead, we just started our eight or nine block walk to her building.

The walk to her apartment was cute, I guess. We saw a couple big rats running across the sidewalk, and I gave her my coat because the winds were starting to really whip around. It was a stupid idea because I was fighting off what had become a hard-to-conceal illness (runny nose, watery eyes), but I figured it was a nice gesture, and maybe even nice enough for her to play with my balls a little bit longer while she was going down on me later. She lived, like many NYU freshman do, a stone’s throw from Washington Square Park. I had to sign into some guest book at the front desk, and I remember scribbling my name illegibly for fear that she might have lived in the same building as my high school friend who was having a handful of our friends over that night. To worry was completely irrational, because he lived several blocks away — not in a freshman dorm. After showing my ID, I was granted access to the building, and Heather led me to the elevator. She lived on the 16th floor of the building. I don’t remember speaking much, but there was definitely a comment about her friends and Electroclash music made somewhere between Blockbuster and the door to her apartment. She seemed more than a little nervous that I was going to think she was a loser for hanging out with certain types of people, like she was warning me that maybe her friends weren’t cool, and she wasn’t just like them.

The “party” at her apartment was not audible from the hallway. In fact, it wasn’t really that audible inside the apartment. Four or five kids were sitting on a bed in the living room (I guess someone lived in there? There wasn’t enough time to ask), listening to Fischerspooner, drinking vodka. It was really mellow for a party. Heather was kind enough to introduce me to everyone and make up some bullshit lie about how we went to high school together. Someone handed me a shot of vodka and I took it. Then things started to feel a little awkward, as two people had just walked into the room and whatever conversation had been going on was instantly killed. Heather suggested we go to her room.

Her roommate was in there, she’d just gotten out of the shower, and she apologized for being there. I don’t know why, it was her bedroom. The roommate actually left her own room to get dressed in the bathroom, which I thought was odd. I don’t know why Heather didn’t suggest we go hang out with her friends, if only to let her roommate get dressed in the comfort of her own bedroom. Instead, she asked if I wanted to watch the movie. They had a tiny flat-panel TV in the bedroom, and both beds were lofted four or five feet off the ground to allow a dresser or two to fit underneath. We kicked off our shoes and climbed up into her bed. Time to bone down!

Actually, she kept her clothes on, and I kept my clothes on. Her bed was positioned facing the television and the bedroom door, and the “headboard” was a huge plate glass window that ran the entire length of the far wall. From 16 floors up, we were granted an excellent view of 6th Avenue and the corner of West 4th Street. She navigated through the DVD menu while telling me how much I would like the film. We started watching, I put my arm around her, but didn’t make a move. Her roommate kept walking in and out, reciting lines along with Heather. At one point she came into the room with some pot, so we paused the film to smoke. I distinctly recall not wanting to get too high to screw, so I managed my intake. It turned out to be shitty weed anyway and I didn’t get high. As the movie progressed, her friends entered the bedroom to say they were leaving. Some party, I thought. Also, her roommate came back from wherever she had gone, undressed, put on a sleeping mask and went to bed. Things were starting to feel a bit surreal. The roommate with that mask over her eyes was downright frightening. I spent more time wondering if she had donned the mask in order to avert her eyes from all the sex, or because she actually needed it to sleep.

The movie ended. I asked what we were going to do next, but Heather said she was tired and had to wake up early for a class at 8am the next morning. I was more than a bit confused, if only because she invited me to stay with her specifically on Thursday night — knowing very well that she had a class the next morning — and I guess I expected we’d just be fucking all night, then maybe get a bagel the next day before I took the train home. Before I could verbalize this confusion, she removed her wife beater and her jeans and crawled under the covers. I sat there for a minute slightly stunned, but quickly realized that I should take advantage of the situation by undressing and crawling under the covers as well.

I undressed and crawled beneath the covers. She was turned away from me, so I curled up right against her. Her head was on the pillow and her eyes were closed. Unsure as to whether or not she was challenging me to make a move, my first instinct was to kiss her exposed shoulder. No response. I brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her cheek.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS!?” I screamed to myself. It was absolutely un-fucking-believable. Emphasis on “un-fucking,” because there wasn’t going to be any fucking. Who the hell was this girl? What the hell was she doing? Who the fuck comes onto a guy by telling him about her fantasies of him, invites him over to spend a night at her apartment, meets him, asks him to stay, lets him undress next to her and go to bed with her, but doesn’t so much as make out with him or play with his balls! It literally blew my mind right out the window onto 6th Avenue sixteen stories below her room. Clearly, this girl was insane. She had absolutely no reason not to have sex with me. Within five minutes of whispering goodnight, she started to snore. Holy hell, man. I was still laying on my back trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. The strong winds outside where rattling the glass windows. She was fucking snoring. Her roommate was passed out wearing that creepy mask. I was completely befuddled. I replayed the last few weeks of our budding relationship, went step by step through the entire night leading up to “Goodnight,” and couldn’t find a single reason for her to not take my penis. I guess she could have thought I was hideous, but even so, she probably wouldn’t have wanted me sleeping next to her all night if she was in any way turned off by me. I know if I was an 18 or 19 year old chick I wouldn’t invite some stranger I wasn’t in some way attracted to into my bed. I mean, WHAT. THE. FUCK.

I couldn’t sleep. Not only was I now becoming slightly feverish along with my runny nose and sore throat, I had this thing on my mind that I really couldn’t push far enough away to get some sleep. I rolled over and watched the foot traffic below near the corner tattoo and sex shops. I thought about all the times I’d come into the city, alone or with friends, and walked that block. Now I was seeing it from an entirely new perspective, with this cute chick half-naked next to me snoring her fucking head off, leaving me completely unfulfilled.

A few hours later, as I laid on my back, she rolled over. I looked to her, and her eyes blinked open slightly. She wiped her mouth and then whispered, “I’m sorry,” and fell back asleep. The snoring picked up again a minute or two later.

Now, if I was then the man I am today, I would have simply left the bed, gathered my belongings and left. I wasn’t going to get to sleep between the wind threatening to shatter the glass windows, the loud snoring, and my increasing sickness. Hell, since that night I’ve gone so far as to walk out on a girl mid-intercourse, so it’s not like I’m above leaving a girl in her bed. I should have left her sleeping there without saying goodbye, especially after she invited me over to fuck (or so I thought) and then went to sleep early because she had a stupid class the next morning.

I didn’t leave. I sat there all fucking night listening to her snoring and replaying both “Goodnight,” and “I’m sorry” over and over in my head. I swear to God, those two lines haunted me for months after the incident. I still think about it sometimes. How the fuck does that happen!?

Her alarm went off at 6:30am. She got out of bed, barely acknowledging my presence, put on the same wife beater, jeans and boots she had on the night before, and asked how I slept. My eyes were bloodshot and watering, my nose was stuffed, I was sweating from my fever. I said I slept like a baby. I gathered my things and we walked silently out of her dorm. We took the elevator downstairs, neither of us saying a word. When we reached the lobby of her building, she told me she had a really good time. In front of the building, we hugged each other and she slipped in a cliche “Let’s do this again sometime,” or “See you soon.” I said I hoped so, and then turned around and began walking to the train station. I stopped for an egg sandwich and a soda. I lamented eating a bagel by myself on a train at 7:00am without a night of hot sex to think about during the trip home. I tried to sleep on the train but it didn’t work. I got home and went straight to my bedroom. I thought about writing her a message that said I had a really good time. I don’t know why. Then I thought about writing her a message expressing my “what the fuck” feelings. I didn’t. Instead, I decided to wait for her to contact me.

Seven years have since gone by, and she never contacted me. As you all know, I’m very happily in a relationship right now. I have no reason to look back on the events surrounding that night with remorse or sadness. I’m too deeply in love now to even care about it. In fact, I can’t believe it took this long to remember I even had another story to share. Still, I have to laugh every time something reminds me of that night. I haven’t been able to walk that stretch of 6th Avenue without looking up to her old building and thinking, “What. The. Fuck.” It might not be as adventurous or hilarious or quirky as any of the other “Adventures In Dating” that I’ve written, but it was definitely an inexplicable, utterly retarded night.

** The End **

Shannon Wright – Honeybee Girls
The Beatles – I Need You
Loop – Be Here Now

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