“Where am I,” he thought. “Where are my clothes,” he thought. “Why not go ahead and vomit just to get it over with,” he thought. He rolled off of his left arm, trapped under him when he instinctively cupped his genitals to protect against the fall. They were sticky and his testicle felt drained.
A guttural, bubbling queef sounded from the bed as its occupant rolled over. Xeones scrambled to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet. With every shuttering heave, more came back to him. The limo ride. The party. The key tucked into his tuxedo’s cummerbund. Shot after shot of bourbon, sickly sweet and fiery. The key in his hand. Oh, God. Oh, God.
He fell back from the toilet, cracking his head on the lip of the sink. He had to get out. Maybe she was still asleep. He felt the warm tickle of blood worming down his scalp. He crawled past the acid reek of the toilet, afraid to flush it. The light sneaking around the closed curtains was just enough to make out his clothes. On all fours, his anus puckering in the hotel’s freezing air conditioning, he found pants and shirt. Enough to make his escape.
As he reached for the door, she mumbled something. He froze, still naked and holding his clothes. She stirred on the bed. “I didn’t know,” she said. Her small, yet sagging breasts lolled as she rolled over. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she said, scratching absently at a dark patch of pubic hair populating up to her belly button.
She belched as she reached for her think-rimmed glasses. “Come back to bed. Teach me more.”
“Sure, uh, Rachel. I’ll be right back.”