I woke up Sunday morning, with the words “What the fuck” flying out of my mouth. Actually it came out more like a muffled groan, as I reached for the water bottle smartly tucked next to my pillow. Now, I’m not ashamed to say that this same thing happens almost every Sunday morning. But this day was special – this was the day after Rocky Horror. So let’s make that a double groan.
I rolled over trying to fall back to sleep, not ready to face the day full of damage control ahead of me. Oh, and of course the buttload of work that I left all to Sunday. I rolled over to a mysterious male facing me from my roommate’s bed. Not wanting my imagination to run, I hauled myself out of bed, noticing the second my feet touched the floor the horrendous blisters that seemed to have appeared over night. Damn you, high heels! I walked out of the bedroom to see a common room strewn with clothing. Honestly, this is nothing unusual, except there usually aren’t corsets and fishnets mixed into the piles of laundry and miscellaneous shoes. I struggled to make my way to the bathroom, limping down the hall as fast as my blistered feet would take me in order to relieve myself of the gallon of water I seemed to have chugged before I went to bed last night. That’s right, this girl thinks ahead!
I went to turn the sink on, and made the unfortunate mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. Holy shit. Last night’s makeup seemed to have made it through the half assed face-washing job I had done the previous night, the telltale blue eye shadow not wanting to leave just yet. I went to tie my hair back into a bun to splash some cold water on my sleepy face, when I got a glimpse of my neck. Fuck. I don’t think I have enough scarves in my wardrobe to handle this situation. I inspected further….damn, this kid knew what he was doing.
I padded back down the hallway when it all came rushing back: I hooked up with a guy in a skirt last night.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Now, I went to a super artsy summer camp where cross-dressing was a common occurrence, so I am the last one to be uncomfortable with a guy in a skirt. But let the record show, that I have never swapped spit with a guy in a skirt—until last night, apparently. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I distinctly remember the first thing I asked him when we went back to his room was to put some pants on. I didn’t care if the same pants were going to come off in the next five minutes or never (don’t worry, I kept it classy), but for some reason I needed those pants on him as a sense of reassurance. It upsets me that I felt this way. Why should I be so concerned? The same thing that was under that tight skirt was the same thing that was going to be under the pants he put on. And yet, I made that silly request. Everything was fun and games in the Annex, but the second I walked into the dorm, the game stopped, and to be honest, I got freaked out.
Getting back to my room, I opened by computer and immediately saw the dozen new notifications. FUCK, I AM FRIENDS WITH MY DAD ON FACEBOOK. Cue the frenzy of “Hide from timeline” and the dreaded untag when things got really ugly. Sorry, but one day I would like to have a job here, people! And then, dear reader, do you want to know what I did next? I started shopping online for next year’s corset because, what the hell, all of the drama and hilarity was totally worth a second go around. Rocky Horror 2014. See you there!