I was trying to jack off a hangover away last Sunday afternoon when I heard a knock on the door. I shoved related accoutrements under the bed, convinced as I often am because I have no money that eviction was underway.
As I went for the door, the possibility occurred to me that it might be my girlfriend, and I thought of how hot it would be if she’d been outside listening. To my surprise, it was my neighbor. I very much like her and her boyfriend or husband, who miraculously coexist in a space the size of my own (Google “efficiency studio.”) They’re actually my favorite neighbors. But because the last time a (different) neighbor knocked on my door they were covered in blood, I was a little wary when she asked to come in.
Also because she was very, very drunk, leaning on things to stay upright.
The last time she was over she also had been drunk, and seemed not to notice the woman I met on a fetish site who was watching YouTube videos in my bed. When she did, she apologized profusely for being there. When she saw my framed Bruce LaBruce still that says “I HATE STRAIGHTS, bash back fags,” she asked if I really hate straights.
“Of course not,” I said, “but I love Bruce LaBruce.”
The way she was acting I wondered if she’d ever met queers in her life. This was why it surprised me on Sunday when she tried to kiss me.
She said a variety of sweet but semi-comprehensible things about how she likes a certain kind of girl and I’m it. I told her I was flattered but that my girlfriend wouldn’t be thrilled about anything that was going on at that moment.
“Wait, so are you and your boyfriend, uh, swingers?” I asked. (You now know how much duress it takes for that word to slip from my mouth, which I rank somewhere near “funky” and “bisexual” on the cringe scale.)
“Oh yeah, we swing all over the place,” she said. “He sees boys and I see girls,” she added before leaning in to kiss me.
Clearly I had misinterpreted her nervousness the first time she was over. I explained that I think open relationships are great–I’ve been in them–but that my girlfriend and I were exclusive, and that I was actually about to bring her Advil for her cramps. My neighbor gave me some Advil from her purse and we walked out together.
Conveniently, what I told her was true–my girlfriend had just texted saying she was having terrible cramps at the café across the street. I was surprised when she referred to what happened as sexual assault.
“I mean if a 200 pound man did it,” she explained, “that would have been your first thought too, right?”
She had a point. I guess the only thing that made it not assault was that I felt unharmed. It was awkward, but I was mostly amused and entertained.
I am very fortunate in that I’ve had only one really bad sexual experience, and it involved no sex. As a teenager I shared a tent on a camping trip with an incredibly horny woman I had no interest in. I’ve been on both sides of that sad equation, but this was different—there was something dark about it. When I finally fell asleep, she got up and left, and the next morning, the bed was covered in hair. She never touched me, but I know whatever radiated from her was real, because it made her fucking hair fall out.