Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola

out come-ons you would never utter if you were staring into another person’s eyes. The frightening
reality of another human being, the frightening reality of our imperfect and stuttering selves. How
much technology has been designed to avoid this? We’re all looking for ways to be close at a
distance. Alcohol bridged the gap for me, the way the Internet bridges the gap for others. But maybe
everyone needs to stop trying to leap over these fucking gaps and accept how scary it is to be real and
vulnerable in the world.
One night in April, I went out with a guy who was studying psychology. We ate at a fried chicken
restaurant, one of those trendy places where they served comfort food that used to be trashy. The guy
talked fast, and I enjoyed the thrill of trying to keep up. “You’re a contrarian,” I told him, licking
grease off my fingers.
“Is that good?” he asked. “I want to be the thing that you like.” And it was the first time someone
had said this to me, but I recognized it as my driving motto for the past 25 years. It was nice to be on
the other side for a change.
“It’s good,” I said. “I like hearing your mind tick.”
He intrigued me. We talked about bike lanes and Elvis Costello. For months, I’d been going on
dates, wondering if something was wrong with me. Why was it so rare to be attracted to a person who
was also attracted to you? But maybe it works this way so when it happens, it feels special. What I
felt for the guy that night was unmistakable.
We sat in front of my house in his car, both of us staring forward.
“I don’t know what to do next,” he said. “I don’t know if you want me to kiss you, or…” His
words trailed off, and I leaned over and pecked him on his cheek before anything more could happen.
I was so unnerved by this newfound chemistry, I dashed out of his car, but I regretted my timidity.
Later, in the safety of my own pink bedsheets, I could not stop thinking about him. My body alighted
imagining what might have happened if I’d been bolder, if I’d opened up again. What good was
caution if you couldn’t chunk it into the breeze?
I texted him. “I should have let you kiss me.”
The double beep of his response was fast.
A WEEK LATER, I drove out to his place, and we had dinner, and as we sat on the mattress of his messy
bedroom, he turned to me and said, “Do you want to fuck?”
This was my first clue I was not exactly in a Lifetime movie. There would be no soft stroking of
my hair. No spray of rose petals across the bed. But in fact, I did want to fuck. I’d gone nearly two
years without sex. Two years without drinking, or smoking, or fucking, which was a long spell
without the company of your favorite vices. And so I said, “Yes.”
If you were hoping my first time in sobriety would be meaningful and tender, or at least hot and
exciting, then we were wishing for the same thing. But it was fast, and efficient, and that was OK.
Sometimes it’s best not to wait for the perfect movie moment; those can leave you checking your
watch for a long time.
Afterward, we stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom as though it contained a moon. “I always
think of the worst things to say after sex,” he said.
I know there is a woman who would have left that invitation alone, but I was not her. “What are
you thinking?” I asked.