Sunday Love Bites #1: Well, That Was Awkward

On Sundays, laziness usually overtakes me. I’m trying to write more frequently so, I thought I would try something new: Sunday Love bites: short, random musings on sex & romance usually written while I’m still in my pajamas. I’m hoping I can keep this up on a weekly basis, it will force me to keep things short & give me the opportunity tell stories that maybe don’t warrant a full length post.

{Today’s post is a little on the long side but, I thought I’d kick things off with a “bang” – pun intended}

Love Bite #1. “Well, that was awkward

I few weeks ago I went to Hemingway’s (a local bar) to meet up with Vanessa for an after work drink. Hemingway’s is the kind of bar that you really only go to for the following reasons:

1) You work in Yorkville (like I used to) & you want to get shit-faced after work but you don’t want to run into all your co-workers at the Pilot.

2) You’re using their conveniently located ATM machine that charges ridiculous service charges before moving on to somewhere cooler in Yorkville (because you’re too tipsy/lazy to use the real bank machines on Bloor St.)

3) You can’t really think of anywhere else to go. It’s close by. People know the place and you can always say “hey, at least we’re not hanging out at Remy‘s” (which, when it comes to cheesy Yorkville watering holes, is pretty much as bad as it gets. Unless of course you’re looking to hook up with over-tanned 40 year old guys who love Ed Hardy & wear pointy-toed shoes then, its a great place)

I was meeting Vanessa there for reason #3 – it was the first time we were hanging out and the bar is halfway between both of our offices. Because Hemingway’s prides itself on being one of the only bars in the area that doesn’t accept debit cards, after Vanessa and I had a nice visit I was forced to use their sketchy highway-robbery-omg-this-service-charge-is-totally-funding-organized-crime bank machine. While I was getting my cash, I thought of another time I used that bank machine.

Flashback tiiiiiiiiime!

It was the spring of 2004.

My friend and I had stopped at Hemingway’s to use the ATM machine before heading over to Babaluu’s to go dancing.

A few months prior, this friend and I had slept together ONCE. Then TWICE. This was the first time we were hanging out as “fully clothed friends” since getting it on.

The sexual tension in the air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I think we were both trying to play it off like nothing had happened and everything was cool. I know I was repeating the following mantra in my head:

fully clothed. just friends. fully clothed. just friends. FULLY CLOTHED.

That night I was wearing a really nice pair of black stiletto pumps. As I used the ATM machine, he waited behind me, a few feet away. Once I received my money and prepared to walk away, I realized that I couldn’t move. The heel of my shoe was stuck in the metal grate of a heating vent on the floor below the ATM machine.

Friend: Um, are you coming?

Me: I’m stuck.

Friend: What do you mean you’re stuck?

Me: I can’t move. My shoe is caught.

I kept on trying to move forward but I couldn’t. I took one more forceful lunge and BAMMO! Instead of freeing of shoe from the metal grate, I managed to free the metal grate from the floor. During the next few seconds that passed it felt like time temporarily stopped. I was standing there, just staring at my friend with a metal grate dangling from the heel of my shoe. I was looking at him, he was looking at me. I totally lost sight of my mantra. All I could think of was:

Oh my god. I know what his penis looks like.

A few months ago we were buck naked on the hood of a car.

I liked how his skin felt.

Penis! Penis! Penis!

He smells good. I wonder what cologne that is?

OH MY GOD I HAVE A FUCKING HEATING VENT STUCK TO MY FOOT.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Me: Um.

Friend: Err, let me help you with that.

We both bent down. I took off my shoe & we managed to dislodge my heel from the vent. We looked up at each other.

Friend: Wanna get out of here?

Me: Yes please.

What transpired after we left the bar- well, I’ll get to that later.

***

Back to a few weeks ago – after I got my cash from the ATM and I remembered this story, I looked down at my feet and smiled. In the spot where the heating vent was, someone had bolted down a sheet of corrugated metal. I guess the management finally took it upon themselves to prevent future awkward moments/law suits.

The moral of this story:

Sleeping with your friends can get awkward.

Stilettos and metal grates don’t mix.

Hemingway’s sucks (but, not as bad as Remy’s).

The end.

Happy Sunday!

(Anyone else have any “friends turned friends with benefits” awkward stories to share?)

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