I Might Have Said Something Dumb...

One time I went on a date with this guy, got hammered, and then after we hooked up I told him that I wasn’t interested. Then the next morning I’d forgotten all about it and asked him if he wanted to go get food and he was all like, “I don’t think so.” So I spent the whole day trash-talking him to my friends for being such a douche. And then I talked to him and he told me about what a belligerent drunk I’d been and how I told him that “this wasn’t going to work” right before passing out on the floor. So I turned bright red, told him that my mom was beeping in, and hung up forever.

To this day, I’m not really sure why I told him that I wasn’t interested to his face like that. I mean, it wasn’t the worst date ever. I actually had a lot of fun. Part of me believes that the drunk me was looking out for sober me’s best interests. Maybe I’d already made up my mind somewhere that I’d never be able to date this guy, so I cut the cord with booze-soaked scissors. Another part of me thinks it was a bluff to see what his reaction would be. After being so passive and lame all night, maybe I wanted to see a little fire in him. Most realistically, I was a drunken mess and I said something dumb.

He studied architecture at Loyola and the only thing we had in common was the same first name.

Like many gay relationships, our motions were in reverse. We’d met on Facebook, then began texting, then came the phone calls, and eventually the meet-up and pre-determined physical activity. This is Blueprint #1 for finding a boyfriend in Britneyland. Blueprint #2 begins with the meeting first, then sex, and then actually learning about one another. The architect and I were following the first pattern, which is easily the road less traveled.

Our story ends with him going to the bathroom the next morning after shooting my lunch invitation down. As soon as the door closed behind him, I began digging through a pile of his clothes. I have a really bad habit of keeping the t-shirts and gym shorts that are left at my place. Even if they don’t really fit, I like the keepsake itself. Not for any bizarre reason; I just like trophies. But since this was an away game, I made an executive decision to look for a souvenir. The architect was 1.) a student of Loyola University and 2.) in a fraternity at said University. So I had my heart set on a Loyola t-shirt or gym shorts with his fraternity letters. I threw things around and lifted up garments for inspection. I was almost breaking into a sweat when I heard his footsteps coming back down the hallway. I jump back into bed before the door opened and pretended to be just waking up.

Trophy-less, half naked, and still slightly hammered, I made my way out of the house and into the 8:00AM morning. It wouldn’t be until later that day when the architect and I would speak and he would tell me about the mess I’d created the night before. And this is the part where I turn bright red, tell him that my mom is beeping in, and hang up forever.

After New Year’s Day, I began packing my things in preparation for my return home. I dumped out the contents of my duffle bag and began cramming my new Christmas gifts into it. That’s when I noticed something alien. There, atop my massive heap of clothes sat a small, balled-up piece of maroon mesh. Apparently I’d slept in his Loyola gym shorts the night before and hadn’t noticed wearing them home or taking them off when I got to my room. At the sight of them, I felt immediately sad that the architect and I never really had a chance. I’d effed it up, and there was no going back.

But I had new gym shorts to remember him by. And they fit perfectly.