It was intended to be a casual fuck. I went to the bar with that purpose in mind. My roommate was ecstatic that I wanted to play drinking buddy for the night. I took a cab, put condoms in my pocket right next to the mint gum. And I was ready to arm myself with liquid courage. False bravado, more like.

We stayed for a while. I chased straight vodka down with shots of tequila. Yeah, you're not supposed to get mixed drinks for a reason. I stopped short of disgustingly plastered, not quite sober enough to walk in a straight line. Bar was so crowded that night, it didn't matter if I could or couldn't. I'm pretty sure I'm a lightweight.

I discovered some things I can do drunk but not sober. I spoke fluently to a French exchange student, didn't know I had it in me to roll the "r"s so smoothly off my tongue. Anyone's guess if it was tequila or vodka that did it, but it happened around the third shot. I made a bet I could do a striptease as good as a professional. I won, but somehow, I was at some party in a nice apartment by that time, definitely trashed. I put everything back on and sat on the couch, feeling awkward for not knowing who actually lived in the apartment. But definitely it was better than the bar, quieter. I think maybe, it was my roomie's brother's friend's older brother or older cousin. Or possibly something equally random.

Everyone ended up clearing out, like rats from a sinking ship. Guess the host didn't have permission. Not my problem anyway, except that he stood in front of the couch glaring at me for daring not to scatter with the rest. There wasn't much of a mess, no beer or empty cups, just a few bottles. I just stared at him, glassy eyes tilted up to him, chewing mint gum. And then I swallowed it before I choked. For someone who hated my guts, even with at least a decade's worth of an age gap, he was cute. Well, not cute, a more masculine synonym would be fitting.

He demanded to know what I was still doing here. So I carefully informed him, still speaking drunkenly in French, that the buses weren't running anymore, and that I was too drunk to call for a cab, or even get off the couch for that matter. He helped me up, and instead of throwing me out as I expected, helped me get cleaned up. Nothing dirty or sexual happened; though he did help me get out of my clothes and into the shower. He stayed in the bathroom the entire time. Again, it wasn't anything dirty, just an assurance that I didn't kill myself by falling on wet tile.

Cleaned up and still drunkenly uncoordinated, he put me to bed like I was a kid, and I fell asleep. To him I was a kid, or so I thought. I'd gotten over my embarrassing behavior, giving up all attempts at a one night stand, and we became friends. Until the day he asked me why I'd gotten so drunk. And he told me, he was quite happy I'd failed. That was the day of our first kiss.

Ironically enough, my one try at no-strings sex ended with me in a serious relationship five months later. And that's the end really; except to say I excel at the art of the failed casual fuck.