It’s important for me to start this story by being very clear about one thing: Ryan was extraordinarily hot. I shall henceforth refer to him as Hot Ryan.
I met Hot Ryan in college. My best friend had just started working at this adorable mom-and-pop Italian restaurant where Hot Ryan was her coworker. After she introduced me to him, I pulled her aside and said, “So, Ryan is hot.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied.
“Okay, glad we’re on the same page vis-à-vis Ryan’s hotness.”
I saw Hot Ryan from time to time, but was intimidated by his beauty, and thought he was terribly out of my league. So every time I ran into him while visiting my friend at work, I’d just be cordial, and didn’t bother flirting with him.
But one Friday night, everything changed.
Six months after meeting Hot Ryan, I was hanging out at the restaurant to kill time (because, college). Everyone was discussing their plans for the evening; Hot Ryan said he was going to go out, and I said I was going to go out. Hot Ryan then proceeded to suggest that we exchange numbers, so we could meet up. I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t being pranked because it kind of seemed like Hot Ryan actually wanted to hang out with me outside of cordial greetings. I was caught off guard by this advancement in our relationship.
We exchanged numbers. Still, I doubted that Hot Ryan would text, and told myself he was just being polite. Or extremely bored. Or that every single one of his friends had left the country, and I was the only person around to chill with. Whatever the circumstance, I assumed he wouldn’t text, and went about my night getting drunk (because, college).
But at around 11 p.m., I got a text from Hot Ryan. I stared at it for a good 30 seconds before my mind processed that actual in-the-flesh Hot Ryan was trying to holler at ya girl. What! Was life finally coming up Jamie? Was I actually going to have an opportunity to hook up with Hot Ryan? I was very confused.
Was I actually going to have an opportunity to hook up with Hot Ryan?
Naturally, I texted him back much later to give off the impression that I was a very busy woman-about-town, and that it was entirely normal—nay, so common as to be almost boring—for hot men I lusted after to want to chill out of the blue.
After a series of texts that required all of my drunken concentration, Hot Ryan said he wanted me to come over. To. His. Place.
He was so ready for the V that he was texting me all thirsty like, “Just come over, and I’ll run out to pay for your taxi.” What a gentleman. (It was around midnight at this point, so “gentleman” may be a tad hyperbolic for an obvious booty-call situation, but I was down and he knew it.)
Then I arrived.
After Hot Ryan paid for my yellow-checkered chariot, I stared longingly him, and anticipated putting my drunk face on his beautiful face. I was positively giddy.
We sat beside each other on the couch, and he pulled out a bong the size of my torso. Now, I partook in the green on occasion, but was by no means a professional. I was more of a tiny-pipe-I-bought-in-some-random-glass-blowing-shop-in-Berkeley kind of girl, or a “can anyone turn this apple into a makeshift bong?” kind of smoker. Hot Ryan, however, was a professional. I was intimidated.
But drunk Jamie never backed down from a challenge, so I straddled the bong as Hot Ryan knelt down and lit the leaves. Then I took a huge rip, and glamorously coughed for three minutes as he went to fetch me some water.
The night was off to a sexy start.
I took another hit, because why not? Hot Ryan was next to me, his forearm grazing my forearm, and I thought that if I seemed down for whatever, maybe he would kiss me.
I started to think fondly of the potential things Hot Ryan and I would do, when suddenly, my body stopped responding to my brain. I sat staring at the television, as Hot Ryan tried to get my attention. I tried to speak, to tell Hot Ryan that I was too high, but my mouth stopped working.
Eventually, Hot Ryan got up and went somewhere else in his house, while I sat on the couch immobile. I stared at the television, as all the colors swirled together. Sometimes I felt like I was inside the TV, or like I was falling into a deep hole. Other times, I blacked out and fell asleep (but was somehow conscious of being asleep). And other times still, I felt like I was literally inside my mind, walking around, wondering how I got inside.
I tried to get unhigh, but I was so high that all I could do was lie on the couch and focus on the TV. I thought that if I stopped focusing on the TV, I would die—I was acutely aware of how close to dying I was. I kept willing my brain to wake me up, but I wasn’t even asleep. Then, I was in the TV again, surrounded by colors.
I was acutely aware of how close to dying I was.
Ultimately, I passed out, and woke up the next morning wishing I had actually died. I sat bolt upright on Hot Ryan’s couch and forgot where I was—only to remember that I was invited over for sexy time, but instead of hooking up with him all night, got so high that I went inside of the TV and/or died like a fucking noob.
No Hot Ryan sex! No Hot Ryan anything! Hot Ryan had paid for my taxi to come over, and all he got was a chick who smoked his weed and passed out on his couch.
Kids, if you’re reading this: Don’t do drugs…if a hot guy has invited you over to his house. Learn from my mistakes. Have sex with the hot guy first, then do the drugs.
