I was newly on the rebound (read: heartbroken), and had been invited by a friend who knew the deal to a downtown hipster party full of sexy, artsy guys. I proceeded to immediately knock back a few free drinks, then flirt my way through the throngs of smart artistes. One struck my fancy, with his Southern drawl, earnest voice, and red hair. He was sweet, and super talented, and cute in a non-overpowering way. I knew he liked me, but he wasn’t putting the hard sell on getting in my pants. So of course I went home with him.
We got to his apartment and tipsily made out, and soon our clothes were off. I got on top of him and we started having sex. Now, I’m a talkative girl whether I’ve been drinking or not, and one of the places I love to run my mouth is in the bedroom. I don’t remember exactly what I said—the sex wasn’t that earth-shattering—but I know there were a few “That feels good”s and whisperings of his name. I’d thought he was having just as good a time as I was, until we talked the next day. Keep reading »