Bear Fights are not an easy succession of shots: a car bomb (Guinness, Bailey’s, Jameson) immediately followed by a Jag Bomb (Jägermeister, Red Bull). The heaviness of the first and the sweetness of the second react violently with each other, hence the etymology.

I do not typically partake in Bear Fights. I only did so on Friday because I lost. Lost ten times in a row. My opponent, that tricky bastard, did paper every time. Damn you, Rock-Paper-Scissors. After our shots, decently lit, my opponent and I were walking to the next bar to meet the rest of the group when I heard my name.

“Molly! Molly Elizabeth!”

He was outside a bar, sitting on the patio with friends, smiling a cautious smile. The first and only time I’d ever seen him in a place other than my house, his place, or the real estate office. And here I was, fresh from fightin’ me a bear.

We chatted, as per usual The Realtor was charming – obviously, the guy is in sales for God’s sake – and my friend and I eventually carried on our merry way. Reunited with our group at a bar down the block, the eight of us fought more bears, returning to Baby Cakes’ once the clock struck two.

We played cards until 4am, until everyone (paired off) retired to their respective corners. My floor space quickly became claimed by a heavily-breathing couple. Delightful. Which left me with a random boy and the pull-out couch. No big deal; it was sleeping time. Then his hands started to wander. Clumsily.

It’s not that my couch partner wasn’t attractive – because he was, in his way – but he hadn’t spoken to me throughout the course of the evening. At all. I find that awkward. Is one smile too much to ask before you put your hands on me? Maybe just a hello? I barely knew his name. Also, I have a rule where I don’t have casual hook-ups with guys within The Kid’s circle. It’s a respect thing, not that I owe him that, but with our history, I give him that. A guy has to have some potential if I am going to sacrifice my privacy and become a subject for gossip.

I tried to play the pass out card. It didn’t work. I had previously thought that the genius of the pass-out card is that it ALWAYS WORKS. Apparently not. [Side note: reading texts from The Realtor probably didn’t help my passed-out argument, so I stopped reading them after the first twenty minutes. He was inviting me over, even offered to pay for the cab. Very effortful on his part.] Throughout my FORTY-FIVE MINUTES OF FAKE SLEEP, he repeated the following actions:

1. Pulling my hip so that I was laying on my back (even though I had told him MULTIPLE TIMES that I had 48 NEW stitches in my back)
2. Picking up my limp wrist and dropping it
3. Poking my shoulder
4. Repeating, “Are you serious? Hey. HEY. Are you AWAKE?”
5. Wandering hands
6. Trying to hold hands, lace fingers, and massage(?) my palm
7. Spooning at various angles

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

While I meticulously maintained my passing out act, sometimes integrating the subtle, “Shh, I’m sleeping.”, he KEPT GOING. Dude, even if you don’t believe my (very convincing!) act, I am still not sending signals of interest. GIVE IT UP.

Near 5am, bless his trying heart, my patience was approaching its end. All I wanted was sleep but those goddamn Red Bulls weren’t making my mission easy. Nor was my couch partner. When he took my hand, I grew hopeful that he was finally going to calm his hands and let me sleep, but instead, with my fingers twined with his as if that meant I was an active participant, he started to poke at my mouth with his finger. His finger. My mouth.

Poke. Poke.

Yes. When I am diligently acting non-responsive, PLEASE CAN I SUCK YOUR FINGER. Nothing I love more than waking up to a surprise finger-sucking with a random. Goody! Was just craving dirty boy-finger! Delicious!

Poke. Poke poke.

When my lips wouldn’t yield to his poking, he attempted to WEDGE it between my teeth. Sure, just cram it in there. A little force never hurt anyone.

Was the last straw. An excuse was given, and I left the apartment. I thought the lie plausible, but The Guy from the Couch repeated it to Baby Cakes, who found it hilariously improbable. Anyone who thinks The Bestest Friend and I wouldn’t go on an emergency stalking mission to catch her boyfriend cheating in the early-morning hours, doesn’t know us at all. Plus, I like using excuses that illustrate my crazy, because, you know, that saves time in the long-run.

I walked the streets of uptown –took less than ten minutes –and knocked on a door. He didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Hey,” he said. I was embarrassed that I was there, and defensive.

“Hey. I’ve come over to sleep. That’s it.”

And The Realtor let me sleep.

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