Made you look.
How do I put this delicately? When I was a drinker, I occasionally ended up in what might be called a compromising position. The best way to describe it is a fugue state: I didn’t black out exactly, but I’d find myself half dressed, or in an unfamiliar location, or with an unlikely man wondering how in the world I had materialized.
I was the worse possible date. Oftentimes I would startle the poor fellow with a shove and an exclamation of horror that sent him running like the swain in a period piece when the cuckold comes home and there is much gathering of doublets and poet’s shirts and tumbling out of shuttered windows….
I remember one eventful Halloween, dressed as Cruella Deville. I ended up in a very dark room, dying of thirst. I had no idea where I was until I heard the voice of a pretty, young thing say quietly, “Are you okay?” Oh boy.
I really didn’t want him to turn on a light – God only knows what I looked like – but his house was like one of those caves, where there is an absence of light so profound your eyes never get used to it. And I really needed to pee.
“Do you have a flashlight?” I asked.
The bed looked like a flock of crows had been murdered on it with my costume feathers and Deville red lipstick smeared across the pillow cases and the edges of the sheets.
I ended up dating him for three years…