Number Thirty-Nine

Friday night again. Another night of drinking for this twenty-something manwhore. God, I don't even feel like getting laid tonight. I've had thirty-eight already, and that's an accomplishment in and of itself. Most people don't get past the twenties in terms of how many hookups they've had in an entire lifetime. I'm not doing bad for a dude with an average dick and a beer gut. My friends are actually in awe of how I do it.

Go to the ATM. Make sure my money wasn't delayed this week. It's not. So I go to the Bittersweet Symphony, my favorite bar in all of Terre Haute. There's no one in there tonight, so I drink my Guinness, leave Alexis- the hottest bartender in town- a nice tip, and walk down the street to the Logger. I say hi to my second-favorite bartender, Erick, and order a Bud Light. I see an attractive, slightly older woman at the pool table. Tonight, I don't give a shit. I drink my beer as a group of men in plaid shirts walk in and play Jason Aldean. I'm thinking, "Not fucking 'Dirt Road Anthem' again." I drink faster.

Now she's sitting next to me. I guess that the rednecks who just started playing that country-rap abomination are making suggestive comments to her, so she's walked over to the bar to get a drink. She orders a Jager Bomb with Red Bull. I order another beer. She makes some small talk; I politely answer her while remaining detached. She notices my tattoo peeking out from under my shirt sleeve. Oh god. Here it goes again. As soon as I feel her touch my sleeve, I know. We're going to fuck tonight.

She asks me my name. "Joe," I say. She tells me her name. I promptly forget it, because I try not to remember random hookups' names. It's a waste of time. She orders another couple of Jager Bombs. She downs one, I down one. She asks what I would like. I tell her I would like a pitcher of Amber Bock. She gets it for me. Three pitchers, seven bombs, and a few hours pass, until I feel her slide my hand up her skirt. She whispers in my ear that she wants me in her. I am happy to oblige.

She drives us back to her house, taking side streets so we don't get busted. My hands are on her rather perky breasts in her driveway as we make out in her car. we run in her house, and clothes come off in about three seconds flat. soon, we're going at it in every room of her house. She gets off repeatedly. We fuck in her bed, she keeps getting off.

There's only one problem: I'm not. I'm so fucking drunk, I just want to pass out. I know at this point, I have to fake it. She sighs, and says she was about to have another orgasm. I finish her off with my fingers, and, having had her tenth orgasm for the night, she says she's a little light-headed from the good sex. We pass out.

I wake up the next day with a hangover, and a realization that I don't know where I am. I see her laying on her side, eyes closed. I ask her where we are. No response. Three more times. Still nothing. Finally, getting angry, I reach my boiling point.

"HEY! YOU! I. WANT. TO. GO. HOME. COMPRENDE?" I shake her slightly.

"Hmm," I say, "You're sort of col... OH FUCK ME!"

She's dead. I've been sleeping with a dead body all night. I panic, I mean, what if the police think I raped and killed her? I'm fucked. I debate running like hell. I calm down and decide that I would do better to call 911, and explain everything. It's a lot easier than looking suspicious by running out of the scene.

They ask me whether I know the address. I tell them no, but I look through the house to find an envelope with it on the front. I open one door, and realize I hadn't even readied myself for the worst part: a twin bed, with My Little Pony sheets, and a pink toy-box filled with Barbies and Strawberry Shortcake dollies. I just accidentally killed a little girl's mommy.