Morning After

The morning after a raging house party tends to be anticlimax, especially if you wake up at the crime-scene.

Breakfast was the big item on the agenda. I woke up to the smell of it, on a couch in front of the TV. GalPal was resting her head on my lap – still fast asleep. So I faced the Herculean task of sneaking out from under her without waking her up. I touched her head to lift it, but this had the effect of stirring her in her sleep. She turned unconsciously and faced the ceiling, which gave me a full HD close-up of her morning face.

Not bad, Mr. Feelings. Technically, you slept with her! Smile wickedly at the thought, will you?

I contemplated the puzzle of how she ended up with me on the couch. We certainly hadn't gotten very far with talking companionably, which was the last thing I remembered, before a 3D dream complete with special effects intervened rudely, interrupting very real progress I had been making towards subtly advertizing my many good qualities. Chocolate cookies of a suspect recipe must be blamed for my inability to keep my eyes open long enough to see the conversation through. Here I was, waking up.

A nearby plate contained a single half-bitten chocolate cookie. Someone had had the good sense not to finish it. I laughed at the thought, and GalPal's eyes popped open. She peered suspiciously at me towering above and looking down at her, sat up like a triggered trap and took her time locating her shoes on the floor, avoiding my eyes all the while.

“Good morning,” I offered, cheerily.

“Hmph!” she huffed and walked towards the kitchen. I followed her with my gaze, wondering if her reaction pointed to events of the night. Had I had my way with her indecently? Had I, perhaps, how do they say, conquered and ravished her passionately in the heat of consuming lust? But if it had been that awesome, wouldn't she have reacted more amenably to a sunrise greeting?

Mr. Feelings, don't excite yourself! With a dry spell like yours you would remember a peck on your cheek no matter what psychotropic substance you roasted your brain with.

That settled that; nothing had happened. Alter Ego never lies. Sometimes I wish it would. So I watched GalPal storming away in a huff. At the kitchen door, she wheeled, a sharp about turn, came back to where I sat with my gaze lost in epiphany, and...

GalPal slapped me - hotly. I mean SLAP! It caught me square in the cheek.

Then she went to the kitchen, muttering angry things under her breath.

I could have used an explanation, but before I could demand one, those who had heard the slap came to investigate what was up. It turned out there were many swarms of ladies in the kitchen making and having breakfast. They flocked curiously into the living room, where I sat upright with a facial perplexity that told them nothing they wanted to know. They trooped back into the kitchen, chasing GalPal to hear her side of the story. One of the stragglers at the back of this feminine pack remained behind long enough to drive home a few sentiments she felt were suitable to the occasion: “Serves you right!” Her mocking thumbs-up gave the sentiment a certain seal of quality.

Apparently, something had happened the previous night that I was unaware of. It looked like I had done this something that I didn't know. A buzz of laughter coming from the kitchen made my ears very hot. The team of ladies therein continued to converse in hushed tones, and the voices emanating from the kitchen sounded endlessly, like a swarm of bees, and I feared they ALL were discussing me.

Of course, Mr. Feelings, you're the hot topic right now. This is what Fame feels like. Get used to it.

Gradually, I got used to the hot itchy after-slap sensation on the left side of my face, and finally came round to wondering “Where are all the guys?” Shortly, I found them all outside, amidst their (fathers') cars. They were draining off the last of their alcohol out of long, long bottles, and slurring drunkenly about their various happy conquests from the previous night. I didn't fit in there, because the topic stubbornly stuck in episodes from an orgy I had deemed unfit to grace with my presence. My experience was limited to ground floor video games and dancing – I didn't want to sound like a child by comparison. The Boys exchanged jokes, congratulations and exaggerated reminisces of their partners and stunts and positions in a dimly lit room upstairs. Still, despite their big talk, there was a depressing tinge of ill-masked desperation under the surface – something approaching shame. They needed very badly to tell themselves again and again that their exploits were EPIC. Between brags they emptied bottled hostile spirits into their bellies. They say the best way to avoid a hangover is to stay drunk, and it was working so well that not only did they avoid a hangover, they even avoided thinking too hard.

I found space to wonder what I had done with myself and GalPal, so that I was quietly and blankly staring into space – literally, the overhead blue sky. It shocked me when the guys' conversation turned towards me. The long and short of it was that sitting with GalPal on the couch the whole night had boosted my street cred. You see, GalPal is both beautiful AND sexy. Many of the boys admitted that they had been targeting the stunning young lady for the pleasurable delights upstairs, but she wouldn't leave my side – she preferred to converse with me. I couldn't remember any of this, but it made me smile, that they had this very wrong idea of me as a man of words, and they respected me for it. I wasn't about to correct this impression.

It occurred to me therefore that GalPal had used me as a convenient scapegoat all night and slapped me in the morning. Thus enlightened, I bowed in an acknowledgment of the audience's ovation, and left for home.