talking for us. It was I who came up with that brilliant secret language to help me manage all my lies. I wouldn’t have to go into detail, which meant I wouldn’t have to remember too many particulars about the fabrications I’d feed Emily in regards to my nonexistent bullshit lifestyle.
“Please, don’t yell. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jeff whispered to me.
“Jeff, why are you in my room?” I asked as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness and saw him lying halfway on my bed with his arms resting dangerously close to my chest.
“I’m sleeping over, remember? I thought this was my room,” he answered, blatantly lying as he then sat on my bed. He really was drunk. The guest room he was supposed to be occupying wasn’t even on my floor.
“Okay fine, if that’s the story you’re going with, let me get dressed and I’ll show you your room.” I tried to move and put the light on so that I could get dressed and walk that drunken fool back to his room when it happened. I remember him gently grabbing my arm to stop me from turning on the light on my nightstand. When he put his hands on me, it was that same feeling I had at the nightclub—arousal like I’ve never felt before. I think I even stopped breathing.
He then urged me back down and strangely started tucking me back in. “No, Sara, go back to sleep. I feel stupid for waking you. I can find my room myself. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Just as he was about to leave, he lowered his head and kissed my lips. I was shocked—frozen, speechless, definitely not breathing at this point. Thinking back now, I truly believe that since he was drunk and operating at half-speed, he meant it to be an innocent peck, but it wasn’t. He was suspended over me, and it looked as though he battled with himself as to why he did it and how he could explain it.
That was the moment I sobered up and chose to be The Sara that everybody believed I was. That was the moment I chose to help materialize the childish illusion I had over some hot stranger I laid eyes on in a noisy club. I bravely placed my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me, kissing him just like they did in the movies. It was first slow and soft, but as I felt him start to kiss me back, I became braver. He smelled like a man and tasted good. I’m sure he was in shock, but he didn’t stop kissing me back, putting his tongue in my mouth and running his fingers through my hair. I remember the deep, throaty sounds he made, clearly enjoying the taste of me.
“Sara. Jesus. Fuck. Stop!”
He said stop? When his words and tone sunk in, I stopped and let go of his neck. Why would he tell me to stop? I remember thinking that I must have horrible breath. What was I thinking, kissing him like that? I felt instantly hurt and ashamed, willing my tears to stop from joining the spectacle I’d just orchestrated. I summoned my inner slut Sara, Sara the ball buster, the say-what’s-on-your-mind-without-a-filter Sara. I needed her strength to emerge, but she was a coward and I lost it. I started to cry. No! I started to wail. Big, ugly tears. I was embarrassed at what I just did. I forced a drunk guy to kiss me. I’d read his signals all wrong. He evidently wanted nothing to do with me. He was just buzzed and accidently stumbled into my room and I attacked him like a crazy girl who’d never seen a boy in her life. How would I explain to him that I was just kidding? I hoped that maybe he was so drunk he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. Or maybe I just needed to crawl into a hole and die.
With tears running down my face, I whimpered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
He turned to me, saying, “Please stop crying. The last thing I need is for you to cry. Of course that’s what I wanted. I’m piss drunk and things are happening very slow in my head, but I still know I want you.” He lowered his head into his hands and started cursing to himself.
I felt the weight of the