The Mixtape

When we entered my apartment, I was finally able to let him go. He stumbled back and forth, running into side tables and lamps—which I caught before they shattered to the ground.

“Okay,” he muttered, as if someone had said something to him.

“What’s that?” I asked, confused.

“Bathroom,” he said, swaying back and forth.

“Right, of course. It’s right over—” I started to gesture toward my bathroom, but my words were cut off by the sound of a small waterfall happening behind my back. I whipped around at the speed of light to find Oliver, my idol, my celebrity crush, peeing straight into my houseplant. “What are you doing?”

“It needed water,” he mumbled.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared in shock. Even in his drunken state, Oliver Smith wasn’t lacking down below. My cheeks felt as if they’d been set on fire.

I turned my stare away from his body, trying to shake off the awkwardness of the whole situation. “Well, uh, perhaps we should get you to sleep. You can crash on the couch if you want and—” I glanced back toward him, and my eyes widened when I saw that now not only was Oliver showing me his lower half, but he seemed to have taken off his T-shirt, too, revealing his shredded abs. It turned out even whiskey couldn’t take those away.

And somehow, Oliver managed to slip completely out of his pants and boxers, so now there he was. Standing butt-ass naked in my living room with his hands on his hips like Superman, still swaying back and forth.

Just how I envisioned my first-ever night alone with Oliver—having him stand as a drunken, naked superhero.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, trying not to look at his penis, but still, kind of looking at his penis.

“Let’s do this,” he hiccupped, wiping his penis hand against his mouth again.

“Do what?”

“The sex.”

The sex?

He actually said “the sex.”

“What? No. We aren’t having sex, Oliver. Put on your clothes.”

“Why are you naked in my house if we aren’t having sex, then?” he asked, hiccupping as he gestured toward me.

“Um, what?”

I legit had to look down at my body to make sure I was still fully dressed and hadn’t accidentally tossed my clothes to the side of the room due to my idol standing before me.

It was clear that he was so far gone that he hadn’t even a clue what he was saying. I wondered how embarrassed sober Oliver would be when morning came and he realized his actions—if he’d even remember them.

I cringed at the uncomfortable sight taking place in front of me. “Please just put on your clothes, Oliver.”

“You put on your clothes first,” he argued.

I glanced back and forth around my apartment, somewhat thinking I was oddly being Punk’d. Or perhaps I’d slipped into a coma somewhere along the line, and all of this was a very weird manifestation of my mind.

Either way, I needed Oliver to put on his clothes, because the longer he stayed naked, the more uncomfortable it all became. Yet he seemed determined to not get dressed until I put on my clothes first.

So, like a complete weirdo, I began putting on invisible clothing in front of him.

“Okay, all dressed,” I stated, placing my hands on my hips.

“All right, I’m going to bed.” He lifted up all of his clothes and headed to Reese’s bedroom. Before I could stop him, he was already crashed headfirst into her twin-size bed.

And there he was, folks. My Prince Charming, butt naked, passed out on my daughter’s Disney princess bedsheets.

Oh, was it a sight to see. I had to say, his butt was quite plump in all the right ways.

I closed the bedroom door and headed straight for my kitchen for the bottle of two-buck wine I kept in the top cabinet for emergencies.

After that night, I needed a drink.

Or maybe the whole bottle.

5

OLIVER

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I awakened with the strongest pounding to my head, completely unaware of what had taken place the night before to get me to that level of pain. I groaned as I felt a repeated poking feeling in my left side.

I groaned again as I sat up on my elbows. My head felt as if it was splitting into two from the simple sitting-up motion, so I lay back down. Why did my face hurt so much?

“Hey, mister, are you dead?” a voice asked.

A small, tiny voice.

Why would I be in a place with a small voice? I opened my eyes and looked over to the tiny figure standing beside me. A young girl stood there repeatedly stabbing me in the gut with a Barbie doll.

“What are you doing?” I muttered. “Where the hell am I?” I asked, swatting my hand toward the doll for her to stop.

Her mouth dropped open. “You owe a quarter to the swear jar!”