Aphrodisiac

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New Year’s Eve.

Drinking since 5pm.

Alcohol count: 2 Bailey’s, 1 shot of Tequila, 2 glasses of Chardonnay, 2 Vodka-limes, 1 white russian, 1 champagne, 1 strawberry Daiquiri

—

You stumble into the restroom, tilting on your silver four-inch heels, slamming drunkenly into the wall between the two cubicles. You push the door closed and manage to lock it, yank your skinny jeans down to your knees, and wedge your fingers into your panties, thrusting.

Forget oysters; forget chocolate. Nothing like alcohol to get you pumping.

—

The key to getting over somebody is finding one reason – any reason, as long as it’s big enough – that it wouldn’t work out between you. Never ever work out.

And so, now, your feelings for them have fizzled and transformed into a fond camaraderie without the bite of love.

It’s only with one person that, no matter how hard you stomp on your feelings with your stiletto shoes, they still manage to bounce back up again.

You tried the same technique with him, only to realize that…

…

…

…

…you couldn’t find anything. Not one thing.

Sometimes unrequited love feels like a squalling infant… it keeps you up at night, distracts you, keeps you from your work and studies and other activities, makes you cry now and again, and you need to take care of it all the damn time, but it also gives you inexplicable delight.

And eventually you learn to just live with it – just  accept that it is there – and just go on with your life as normal.

Instead of feeling angry… right now? I want to go out and dance and revel in my fabulousness and think to myself:

Well. Your fucking loss, bro.

—

The other clubgoers are banging on the door. You’re leaning against the wall, curling your fingers against the wall of your warm dripping pussy and throwing your head back and gasping. And then your orgasm rocks through you and you blink, slowly coming back to life and realizing where you are.

The thrill kind of goes away from sex-in-a-public-bathroom when it’s just sex with yourself.

You calmly pull your pants back up, compose yourself and open the door. You wash your hands with the fragrant club-bathroom-soap.

And then you dive back into the crowd, grab your drink from the nearby table and take a giant sip, and continue twisting your body to the pounding rhythm of the music.

No, I didn’t actually masturbate in a public bathroom. I would, but not while I’m out with my mom and sister.

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