About Last Night

 by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.

<figure class="tmblr-full"></figure>Well,
she thought almost bitterly as she got dressed in sweatpants and a
plain black sweater that was soft and a little loose after her latest,
and to date most successful, weight-loss plan. She considered shoes, but
settled for her fluffy pink slippers instead. So much for her brilliant
theory. She had sat there for hours and hours on the most uncomfortable
stool ever, drinking glass after glass of whiskey because she didn’t
know what else to order and was too shy to ask. And nobody; not even one
man; had shown any interest in her. The only one who talked at her at
all was the hot bartender, who…

The bartender! Of course! That’s
why the man had looked familiar to her in her bathroom. His features had
been blurry without her glasses, of course, but she was reasonably sure
it was him. She was almost a hundred percent certain of it. The only
question was; what was he doing in her apartment?

“It’s a long
story,” he said when she asked him later, in her kitchen, her hair
wrapped up in a towel and perched on her head. His eyes followed her
movements around the kitchen as she got milk from the fridge for the
coffee and put bread in the toaster. The irony of the
morning-after-nothing-happened breakfast didn’t escape his notice.
“I have time,” she said carefully, closing the blinds to avoid all possible sources of light. “Give me the quick version.”

“Fine,”
he said with a sigh. “You were drunk, I helped you home. My keys are
locked in my car and I couldn’t get a cab to come get me. That’s it, in a
nutshell. And because I know you’re still wondering, I spent the night
on your couch, shivering a little. Ok, shivering a lot. It was damn
cold. Plus I have a crick in my neck now.”
She winced. “I’m sorry. I wish you’d waken me up, I would at least have helped you with a blanket.”
“I
could have used your hairdryer to build a nuclear bomb right next to
your bed and you wouldn’t have woken up. You were out cold.”
Another wince.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been that drunk before. I’m really not the type.”

“I know,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin. “You told me last night.”
She
chewed her bottom lip nervously. Brandon wanted to take that hot little
task over for her. He imagined nibbling on those petal soft lips and
cleared his throat a little.
“What else did I tell you?” she wanted to know apprehensively.
“Well, you work in a library, and you can’t lie even to telephone salespeople.”
“Is that all?”
“Not by a long shot. By the way, what does technically mean?”
She frowned and cocked her head in a ‘what do you mean?’ way. “Technically?”
“Yes. When is something technically and when is it; I don’t know, untechnically? Physically? Literally?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said and smeared a thin strip of margarine over her dry toast.

He cupped his hands around the plain white cup filled to the brim with coffee and leaned forward.
“Tell
me,” he said conversationally, sadistically waiting for her to take a
bite of toast. “How does one remain a virgin, but only technically?”
She started choking as he’d expected, coughing and wheezing and grabbing her coffee to help the dry bread down the right pipe.
“What?”

“Apparently,
if you were speaking the truth last night which drunk people seem prone
to do for some reason, you are technically still a virgin, but not in a
physical sense. I was just wondering how that happens.”
“I told you that? Oh my; I’m so sorry!”
He laughed at the red flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Relax,” he said. “Its fine. I would just love to hear that story. Because there has to be a story.”
“Not really,” she muttered, and then, as an afterthought, “I’m never drinking again.”
“Wise words that has been spoken by many, many people over the years.”
“I mean it,” she insisted. “I honestly can’t believe I told you that.”
“Virginity is nothing to be ashamed of,” Brandon said, stroking one finger down her arm.
“It kind of is, when you’re twenty nine.”
He gaped. “You’re twenty nine and you’ve never had sex? How the hell had that happen?”
“I don’t know, it just; happened,” she muttered. “Or more to the point, it just never happened.”
“There must be a reason,” he prompted.

“There
isn’t one specific reason, it’s more like a series of non-sexual
incidents, strung together by everything from dating sites to
five-minute dating games and more blind dates than I can count.”
“I take it none of that worked for you?”
“I
met the most interesting people. Like Mike, who was seventy two at the
time, and told me he had a granddaughter fantasy he wanted to play out
with me.”
“He wanted you to pretend to be his granddaughter?”
She
shook her head. “If only. I’m not sure how this would have played out
since I didn’t stick around to find out, but I had to play the
grandfather. And he was one of the better options.”
Brandon sat back, stunned. “No way,” he said disbelievingly.

She
nodded. “I’m serious. After him was a series of serial losers; men who
couldn’t hold on to jobs and girls and had to borrow money from one loan
shark to pay off the next. The type of guys whose idea of cleaning out
the trailer means letting a stray dog in to lick the stains from the
floor and to put all the porn in one box.”
Oh, he was in deep shit,
Brandon thought as he roared with laughter. She had a sense of humor.
There was, to his mind, nothing sexier in a girl than a sense of humor.
“And after them?”

She
frowned. “I met this guy, his name is Stanley, online. We went on a few
dates and it didn’t go too bad, till his parole officer contacted me to
let me know he was back in jail for harassing little kids at a park.”
She winced. “It was messy. The police went through my house, looking for
signs of kiddie-porn. Apparently he was part of a child-prostitution
and trafficking ring. I had no idea. I got off with a warning, since
there was no evidence that I was involved, and he told them that I knew
nothing. I suspect they still monitor my internet history every once in a
while.”

Helpless laughter rocked through him. No wonder she was
still a virgin, if these were the kind of men she stumbled across during
her search.
“What about high school?” he asked. “And college?”
She
looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t exactly Miss Popular in school,”
she said simply. “I wasn’t even that shy girl that nobody talks to
except when they need help with math, because I sucked at math. Still
do, as a matter of fact. I didn’t fit in with any of the clicks. I
wasn't pretty and I wasn't clever, and I didn’t have any secret talents.
The only thing I was good at was reading, and I did a lot of that. But
nobody makes friends in the school library, right? Especially not if the
girl is chubby and have the fashion sense of a blind nun.”
“Now that
part I can help you with,” he said. “Why don’t I go shopping with you
and help you pick out a few outfits that will make the, uh, best of your
figure?”

She looked down at herself. True, she was wearing
sweatpants, but they were new and still neat. And her sweater might be a
bit too big after her diet, but it was of a good material and had been
expensive and it didn’t lose shape in the wash. But his words made her
feel downright dowdy.

“Do you remember what I told you last night?” he asked.
“I barely remember you, never mind anything you told me,” she said, stung.
He
frowned a little and gazed at her with an intent look on his face that
made her wonder if he could see more than what she revealed.
“You
expressed the wish to... how to put this delicately? find somebody to
enjoy yourself with, but you were concerned that you don’t have the
right look and personality to attract men. I merely offered my advice to
help you if you wanted an objective opinion.”

“Oh,” she said, pushing her plate away from her with one finger.
Actually,
what he’d promised was to help her learn to fake it, but Brandon was
strangely reluctant to hurt her feelings by telling her that. She was
female, after all, and would immediately conclude that he thought she
wasn’t good enough or pretty enough, or didn’t have what it takes to
attract men like ants to a syrup bottle.
And that was just bull.
Even if he had had almost those exact same thoughts not twelve hours ago.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked after a few semi-awkward moments of silence.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a nice guy.”
“Men are never nice unless they have an agenda.”
He winced. “Ouch. True, but ouch.”
She gave him a small smile. “So what’s your agenda?”
Getting in your pants.
“Maybe I want library privileges.”
She snorted. “Like what?”
Showing you what the reference section should really be used for.
“Maybe I have a fine for a book that’s late. Thi