As I tried to pry one eye open to see the clock on the bedside table, I once again wondered why in hell I had allowed myself to drink so much. The pounding in my skull, the aftertaste in my mouth, the ugly feeling in my stomach - gee, I guess I overdid it, huh? After a determined effort to focus, I found I could make out the red numbers (how appropriate!) - 11:16.
Since it was light out, it had to be in the morning. That was a bit of a surprise...
There was movement and a moan behind me.
Uh, oh. I don't remember having a roommate. The moan sounded vaguely feminine - okay, it wasn't one of my football buddies I invited over to get an early start watching games today.
Now, the big question. Do I look first?
Or do I slide out, escape to the bathroom, do some things to wake me up and make me look (and smell) a little more presentable?
Curiosity won out. I gradually turned over to see who, or what, was in bed next to me.
Now, before I go on with this, I want you to understand that I'm not in the habit of picking up girls at bars. In fact, while I'm not celibate, I'm not really in the habit of picking up girls at all. I tend to try to get to know someone I see on a regular basis, become friends and then move on to the 'finer' things for a while before something changes and we end up parting, usually friends again, always amicably. And I'm not above revisiting some of these 'friendships' from time to time to our mutual satisfaction. But I NEVER do things like that on a haphazard basis.
Drinking to oblivion is a very rare thing for me, and when it happens, it's either with my football buddies or alone. So waking up with a hangover and a girl is something that just doesn't happen.
So now I'm looking at a mass of blonde, tussled hair and an indeterminate shape under my comforter.
"Uh, hello there."
Okay, a response, albeit not much of one, and still not enough to find out what I'm looking at. So I reach out for what should be a shoulder and try a more direct approach.
"Listen, wake up. Who are you and how did you get here?"
"Ohmygod," came the slurred response. Definitely female and, apparently, as hung over as I was.
"Yeah, ohmygod indeed," was my witty response. "Uh, do you need to..."
"Whereisit?" came the moaning reply, "I feel like..."
"Through the door in front of you," I barely got out before the shapeless mass disappeared and a nude, definitely female shape scrambled into the bathroom, apparently in time to spew into my toilet bowl - I hoped.
While the blonde was taking care of business in my lone facility, I started taking stock of my condition.
As usual, while definitely hung over, my stomach was behaving. Dad always said I had a cast iron stomach, just like him. Nice to see I got that set of genes. So, while I wouldn't mind getting in the shower and shaving, etc., there was no pressing need. It appeared to be just as well, as from the sounds I was hearing, blondie would be worshipping the porcelain god for a while.
Okay, now what? Since there was a pause in the retching, I ventured to obtain a little more information.
"Miss, is there something I can get you? And could you tell me your name?"
After a couple spits, the shaky voice replied, "I'm Rita, and, I think a cold washcloth would help."
"It's right..." I was about to say it was right above her, but realized she was asking because she didn't think she could move far enough to get it herself. Oh, well, I needed to see the damage sooner or later, and despite my sensitivity to her condition (i.e. nude and helpless), I really didn't mind being somewhat forced to get a better look at my guest.
Even hunched over the bowl, I could tell Rita was a good-looking gal. Legs shapely and tight, ass firm and smooth, stomach fairly flat (from what I could see) and a nice, moderate and solid looking pair of tits hanging just before the bowl, or, at least, the right one was, which is the one I could see as I came in. So she obviously kept herself in shape. Blonde hair on top, although with darker roots - a bleached or bottle blonde.
I noticed that she had made it in time as I grabbed the washcloth and wetted it down with cold water. I reached down and touched her hand with it. Without looking up, she took it and wiped her face with it, then asked "Is it clean?"
I told her it was there for guests and hadn't been used, so she put it in her mouth and sucked on it. "Thanks," she mumbled, "that helps a lot."
"Do you have any special hangover remedies I could put together for you?"
"No, not really." Then a little wryly, "believe it or not, this is my first one."
I held back a laugh, trying to be polite. "So, was it worth it?"
"Ask me that in a couple days..."
"If you don't mind, I'm going into the kitchen to clean up and..." I was going to mention fixing myself some food, but decided against it... "get some things ready for later today."
"Of course. Uh, Mr. Barclay?" Interesting, at least she knew my name...
"Tom, please, given the circumstances."
"Tom, could you find my clothes, please?"
"Oops, sorry. Be right back."
I went into the bedroom and started poking around. Nothing. Ditto in the kitchen. In the living room I found a coat that wasn't mine on the back of a chair, and then, in the entranceway, a pile of clothing. A small pile of clothing. A very small pile of clothing. As in, a lacy bra, thong panties and a couple of black thigh high stockings. Oh yeah, and a pair of high heels, also black, and very shiny. Where the hell was I last night and who the hell was Rita?
Back to the bedroom I went, carrying the panties and bra, and headed for the closet, where I pulled out one of my long sleeve patterned work shirts and then rummaged in a drawer for a pair of my baggier shorts.
"How's it going in there?" I asked, just to kind of keep things moving along.
"Better," came the reply in a slightly stronger voice. "I'm going to try to stand up at the sink."
"Do you want me there, just in case... ?"
"No, no, that's alright. If I feel faint I'll just go right back on the floor."
I heard movement, then the tap turned on and I could hear signs of her using the washcloth, then apparently gargling some water and spitting it out.
"There's mouthwash in the cabinet."
"Thanks. Could you hand me my clothes, please?"
I walked over to the door, for some unknown reason averting my eyes, and handed her the bundle I'd put together.
After a moment, I heard her gasp, and then, a sigh. "Oh. Thank you very much."
"You're most welcome. When you feel up to it, I'll be in the living room. We appear to have a lot to talk about."
"Yes," came the quiet reply, "Yes, we do."
After about ten minutes she came out, looking fairly chipper and filling out my shirt and shorts rather nicely.
Nice, pretty face with brown eyes, the hair combed out and down over her shoulders. She looked about my age, 30ish, and, as I mentioned before, obviously kept herself in good shape.
We sat in separate chairs facing the sofa, although it seemed Rita glanced at it (longingly?) as she passed by. I had had some time to try to reconstruct my memory of the night before, but only had some bits and pieces. What I seemed to remember was... different. I mean, I had images of a private football party at Bill's house for the Ohio State/Michigan game.
That in itself wasn't so different. What was different was that Bill apparently had arranged for some 'extra' entertainment - in the form of Rita. Which was shocking in itself, as I had known Bill and Lisa for a long time (Lisa was a 'friend' before marrying Bill), and I'd never had any indication that he had that kind of interest, or connections.
I mean, there we were, the two of us, in his den watching the game on his big screen TV (which is why we always watched it there), and halftime comes, and instead of Lisa bringing out drinks and food, here comes Rita.
I seem to remember her doing a bump and grind, starting out in more clothes than what ended up in my apartment, and Bill toasting the action with bourbon (I of course, being a good guest, tried to keep up), and that's about as far as my memory went.
There was also the impression that my Buckeyes won, which would explain my drinking enough to be in the condition I was upon awakening. Nothing else seemed to stick.
So, here we were, a pretty blonde 'entertainer' and a usually cautious bachelor about to take part in a 'morning after' discussion.
"So, Rita, why are you here?" Okay, okay, blunt and almost rude, but hey, I never said I was a charmer.
"I'm here because you invited me here. Don't you remember?"
"No, I don't. It's not that I don't believe you, it's just that this isn't like me..."
"I know," came the soft answer, and I saw an interesting look in her eyes.
"Just how much do you know? And since you know my last name, could I know yours?"
"Bill and Lisa filled me in on a lot of things, especially Lisa. And my last name is Matthews."
Something tickled a deep memory. I waited a moment for it to take hold, but it didn't. Something didn't quite match up. Meanwhile, I had a delayed reaction to the earlier part of her statement. "Lisa filled you in? On what?"
She actually blushed. "Your tendencies and preferences, of course."
"You mean," I stammered, "my sexual preferences?"
What the hell is going on here? "Why would she do that?"
"So that I would be sure to do a good job..."
.... There is more of this story ...