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White Trash Day
Portland - 2009
White trash day started in pajamas. I scraped myself out of bed, went across the hall to knock on Alex’s door, and went to the kitchen. There I grabbed the nearest thing to wine glasses, which in this kitchen’s case, was pewter goblets. I poured two goblets of sangria, stumbled back to Alex’s room, pulled him out of his bed, and handed him the sangria. Season 1 of Sex and the City was ceremoniously placed into the dvd player.
Alex had bought all of the seasons of Sex and the City, and he wanted to make a marathon of it. And I, despite all prior knowledge of both the show and good common sense, really wanted to watch all of it with him. In order. Perhaps even in the same day. We knew our plan was trashy. Hell, we didn’t care. We played it up, and made it a theme: an entire day of drinking shitty wine in bathrobes. We bought a large box of sangria at Target.
I think we made it through about a season, drinking steadily, before we finally looked at each other, and had a Moment of Realization: Matt was not here, he hadn’t slept over. In fact, no one was in the entire house. We could do whatever the fuck we bloody well pleased, and no one would be the wiser.
This is the part where I take pity on you and fill you in on some back story.
Alex and I were friends and roommates. We were in the same band, and we were also kinda-sorta trying kinda-sorta hard not to fuck each other. It was reasonably clear by this time that Alex had a thing for me. And, well. I’ve been known to indiscriminately fuck anything that is both human and pretty. From time to time.
Now, as we’ve established, I’m not the monogamous sort, but I was kinda-sorta dating a guy by the name of Matt, and while I’d told him I was planning on doing whatever I damn well pleased, sexually speaking, he appended a caveat: no fucking of the Alex.
His reasoning was sound. All three of us were in the same band. If word got out, it would have made all the bandmates a bit awkward and uneasy about things. Also, he knew how much Alex liked me. So I understood why he asked. And I understood, too, that ego bit of it: “No way in hell is my buddy going to get to fuck this girl, too.” Or something like that. I don’t know, I actually like to share my friends/lovers. (To be fair, Matt was Very New to the non-monogamous scene.)
Honestly, he couldn’t have made fucking Alex more appealing if he’d smeared him in caramel. The worst way to get me to NOT do something, is to tell me you don’t want me doing it. I will admit to being possibly THE most contrary creature on planet earth.
I never said I was a good person.
So, about five seconds after our mutual Moment of Realization, we were up in Alex’s lofted bed, trying and failing not to whack our heads on the ceiling (which was about a foot from the bed), having some arguably fine sex. Naturally. I mean, tell me not to do something… We fucked, talked, fucked more, showered, and got back into our bathrobes – sans pajamas this time, since we were A. drunk, and B. comfortable, damp, and post-coitally glowing.
More Sex and the City commenced, of course. Also, more sangria. So much fucking sangria. It was spilled all across the floor at one point, by one of us – I can’t even remember who to blame. Good thing the cup was metal; it merely bounced. I think we threw a towel down. We didn’t bother to pause the show.
I remember being very comfortable on Alex’s couch, almost seeing double, in nothing but a bathrobe. My legs were slung over Alex, who was also wearing nothing but a bathrobe. Yes, the fact that we were naked underneath these bathrobes was terribly apparent. And if it matters, the robe I was wearing was actually Alex’s. We’re cutting up and laughing, and all of a sudden, Matt walks through Alex’s closed door.
More back story: Alex’s room had a strange habit of eating cell phone signals. Two feet outside of his door you could get a call, but in his room, it was almost impossible. Matt had apparently been trying to call both of us for a while, but neither phone ever rang. He had given up calling, and just came on over.
I can only assume Matt heard us cracking up, and so headed to Alex’s room first, instead of mine. Also, White Trash Day had been in the planning stages for a few days, so he probably figured that’s what we were up to. But I’m also sure that did not prepare him for seeing us both mostly naked, cuddling on the couch, and shit-housed drunk. At all of 4 pm.
I’m sure Alex had the same moment of panic I did. We both thought we were caught, for sure. I mean, we both had wet hair, were wearing only bathrobes, and I was sprawled out pretty much on top of him. I could see my fledgling little relationship circling the drain. So I did the only thing that was logical at the time: scream out “HEYYYYY!!!” at the top of my drunken lungs, very enthusiastically, as if he were not definitely interrupting Something, and go for the Attack Hug.
And my gambit worked. For YEARS, Matt had no idea that Alex and I rebelled and went against his request. (So Matt, I’m sorry, sort of. Kinda.) I mean, I don’t pride myself on fooling people, but this encounter did do one Very Important Thing: it killed the sexual tension in my household, and made Alex and I both realize that we were far better off being friends than lovers.
Matt, who was sweating profusely from his bike ride over, looked our drunken asses over, and merely deadpanned, “You know, I’m pretty sure a normal person would be jealous right now.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s a good thing we’re not normal. You want some sangria?”