I Slept With My Friend…
Last night, to escape the tranquillized waters of the suburbs (see my previous post on Suburban Summer Survival), my friend Alec invited me to make the 45 minute drive to the nearest city to hang out at his apartment and bar – hop. I jumped in my mom’s Honda before he could promise me free drinks.
Well, to make a long story short, the free drinks soon found themselves in my throat and come 3 a.m., I was still rather sloshed with no relief in sight (although I was collected enough to realize that this is precisely why I prefer to walk everywhere). For the time being, though, I could hardly put one foot in front of the other, let alone navigate mom’s Honda back to the ‘burbs.
Alec, ever the gentleman and a treasured friend since we starred together in The Sound of Music our sophomore year of high school, kindly offered to put me up for the night. However, the minimalist decorator he is, there were very few options for a sleeping arrangement: I could sleep on the floor, or I could sleep in his bed. With him. Or he could sleep on the floor, but I hate to inconvenience a gracious host.
So we slept together in his (twin) bed. We went to bed back – to – back (I think) but woke up semi – spooning. We have no romantic history, but it’s always been there: he’s a guy, I’m a girl, we get along really well, maybe we should date? But the timing was never really right. Until now?
I’m left feeling weird about the entire experience. The whole thing felt like an illicit affair — I woke up in the morning totally disoriented, eyeliner caked on my face, kind of in my friend’s arms… and promptly had to throw up. Talk about a hangover. I know nothing physical happened, but I feel like the innocent intimacy of this situation transcends a drunken hookup.
I wonder: can literally sleeping together be more than really sleeping together?