We decide to call it a night and head over to my friend's apt in Dupont with a guy she was dancing with. Turns out my guy is straight up Brazilian and doesn’t speak a lick of proper English. Of course. As we all know Brazilians speak Portuguese but we were able to converse in Spanish, lucky for him I had just spent a week in Barcelona 3 weeks prior brushing up on my elementary level Espanol skills.
After the final glasses of red wine at my friend's apartment with her guy and my guy, her guy offered to give us a ride home but once again in my brilliance I just opted to exit stage left with my guy instead of waiting. We cabbed it back (read: made out more) and finally come up to my apt. We do our thing and in the middle of it this girl, this classy classy girl, falls off her own bed. Guy jumped off the bed and in his broken English, bless his heart, asked if I was ok. I think out of utter embarrassment and sheer drunkenness I said I was fine and we continued on with our night of the horizontal mambo. I will never be the first to admit I make great decisions whilst drunk.
The following morning I felt like death and came to the realization that guy was still there and I had completely lost all my dignity. Operation Get Guy Out had gone into effect. Of course having a pounding hangover headache was not conducive to my planning efforts. Instead of lying and saying that I had plans for the morning, I casually SOS texted a close friend of mine asking if she could call me in a bit to say she had to meet me since guy refused to leave. She called, I ran to answer the phone and loudly exclaimed how much I would love to go to brunch with her. Guy was ready and dressed by this point and I let out a huge sigh of relief. I awkwardly in basic Spanish asked him if he needed a cab, and he could only respond saying yes. Lovely. I pointed him in the direction and ran back to my apt and lay on my couch in the fetal position re-evaluating my life decisions.
I wish I could say that was the worst part....but I'd be lying. A few hours later whilst I was trying to rally to go to my friend’s pool and I noticed that courtesy of my fall I have a one foot long scratch all the way down my back from hitting my computer desk on the way down. I imagine it will scar and it will constantly be a reminder of the legendary night that I mixed all the drinks and fell off my very own bed doing the nasty with a Brazilian who doesn’t speak English.
But wait...it gets worse. So not to be TMI, even though I already explained probably one of the most traumatic experiences of my sexual life, as a form of BC I use the Nuva-Ring. Some might say gross, but I'm far too lazy and irresponsible to have to remember to take a pill everyday, never the less at the same time every day. Speaks highly of my character, I'm sure. Well anyhow, two days after this "amazing" night while I was getting ready for bed I had gone to the bathroom and just to check if all was ok "down there" I felt around to make sure the Ring was still there. Uhh...well it wasn't.
I flipped my shit and didn't know where it could have possibly gone. I promptly ran into my bedroom and scoured the floor by the bed and wouldn't you know....the fairly translucent ring was laying there almost under the bed. THE.RING.CAME.OUT.WHEN.I.FELL.OFF.THE.BED.....!!!! I was utterly convinced that I was knocked up with some Brazilian's love child and/or got some horrifically mortifying VD.
I'll be pleased to say that close to a year later I did not breed said love child and I've got a clean bill of health....however, what I am missing is the complete lack of dignity that it still somewhere up and down Dupont Circle.
As I said I really kinda wish this was a story one could make up...but I'm just not that lucky of a person. I took a picture of the scratch on my back as proof of the activity to my closest friends after the fact... FML...no seriously...FML.
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