Some months ago, I was textually invited to “come over and watch a movie” by someone I can only describe as an acquaintance. (Acquaintance might even be pushing it. We made out once in the back of his car in a mall parking lot and, excluding the night that ended with him having sex with my best friend, that was our only interaction.) I know what “watch a movie” means, especially after 10pm, but I self-deprecatingly convinced myself that he legitimately just wanted to hang out. I didn’t shave my legs and to the best of my recollection, I wore some version of a sweat ensemble.
We both fell asleep during the movie, but as the credits began to roll, he made his move. We made out a little on the couch then moved to his bedroom. Standing in the doorway to his room, we had just started to make out again when I erupted in laughter. Rightfully a little offended, he turned around to walk away. I pulled him back, apologized, and we tried again. But the more we kissed, the harder I laughed, and the harder I laughed, the more impossible it was to stop.
The fact that he was not a good kisser was not even the basis for my unfortunate and ill-timed sense of humor. For some reason, I could not stop thinking about that time he had sex with my friend. Well, I could not stop thinking about her review.
“Do you remember my friend (her name here)?” I hoped that by addressing it, I would get it out of my system and clarify to him that I was not laughing at his current performance. I neglected to consider, however, how socially unacceptable it would be to discuss his past sexual exploits during a current one.
“She’s my best friend. You had sex with her.”
He had no idea what I was talking about and denied the fact that he would ever forget someone he had hooked up with. I, of course, can never lose an argument, so we took it to Facebook.
“I was there the night you met. She said you were ‘really aggressive and talked really dirty.’”
He still had no idea.
“Did she like it?” He jokingly smiled, but with a blatant air of arrogance.
“No. It freaked her out.” Though this was true, my abrasive retort stems from an innately adverse reaction to cockiness and resultantly, a refusal to let people think that highly of themselves. I’m inactively working on that.
“I should go,” I quickly inserted. As I turned to walk out of his room, he asked me what I was doing. I didn’t know.
I sat down next to him on the bed and he leaned in to kiss me. The giggles returned. Covering my face with my hands, I threw myself onto my back.
“I have to go,” I said through laughter and attempted to leave again. Once more, he asked me what I was doing. I still didn’t know. This was the second of four attempts to leave.
We now stood in the middle of his room; for some reason, he attempted once more to kiss me. (I respect/judge his resolution.) As I let out one final burst of laughter, he stepped back.
“You’re like the female Larry David.”
It was like winning the Nobel Prize for awkwardness.