Last night--
Maya was a maybe little bit tipsy.
She had gone out with her friends the night before Fat Tuesday to see the local color. She was just going to have one drink, so she'd be okay to watch the parades tomorrow. But then someone bought her a second drink and it would be rude to refuse, and they were doing shots and she didn't want to be the only one who wasn't participating, and then someone said he'd buy her a drink if she flashed him her breasts, and then she'd been dancing on the table for a while and she was really thirsty, and she'd kind of lost count of how many drinks she'd had.
It was a lot.
Men in New Orleans, she'd found, were very generous. Maybe it was the Louisianan hospitality.
But now she was not drinking. She was looking for her friends. She'd been dancing with a very nice man whose hands were maybe a bit more adventurous than they should have been-- not that she wanted to stop him, and it was a party, after all, it was Mardi Gras, what happens in Mardi Gras stays in Mardi Gras-- anyway, she'd been dancing with him and then when she went back to the table one of the guys she was with said they'd gone to a different bar. And now she was going to find them, which was slightly complicated because she'd left her phone back at the hotel room.
But it couldn't be that hard. There were only, uh. Some number of bars in New Orleans. It was finite, anyway. If she wandered around enough she would definitely find them.
Maya looked down and realized she didn't have a shirt on. Why didn't she have a shirt? She vaguely remembered something where a guy had said that if she was going to keep flashing her breasts, maybe it would work better if she just didn't have a shirt on at all. It seemed like good logic.
People were looking at her. It was nice that they were looking at her. It made something throb in between her legs.
She was looking for something. She tried to remember what. A bar? Why was she looking for a bar? Maybe she was thirsty and wanted another drink. That seemed reasonable. She didn't have a wallet but the men in this bar would probably also show her Louisianan hospitality.
"Looking for something?" said a voice.The man was tall and dark-skinned and muscular and very very good-looking. Maya wanted to dance with him. Maya wouldn't mind at all if his hands were much much more adventurous than they should be.
"A drink," Maya said. "You want to buy me one?" The words came out all slurred together.
"I think," the man said, "you have had enough drinks."
Maya shook her head and started to say something like No, I'm still thirsty, when she remembered what she was looking for. "My friends! I'm looking for my friends."
"Do you know where they are?"
"A bar," Maya said.
The man laughed. "There are a lot of bars in New Orleans, you'll have to narrow it down. --Mind if I propose a better use of your time?"
"Sure," Maya said. He seemed like a very nice man. A good friend. New Orleans is just full of good, friendly people--
And then suddenly his lips were on hers and his hands were on her breasts and she completely lost her train of thought.
She should probably get him to stop. He was a stranger. But it wasn't like she was saving her first kiss for her true love. She'd kissed a few boyfriends before, and she'd let the guy back at the bar take a few liberties, and the man was tall and strong and his hands felt so good on her breasts. The way they touched her made her shiver and made the thing between her legs start throbbing and it was hard to think about any of her objections at all when they meant he wouldn't be kissing her anymore.
She was going to tell him to stop when he did that thing with her nipples one more time. Two more times. A couple more times. Mm. Maybe she should just let him keep going. It's Mardi Gras, it's okay to have a little fun--
And then his hand was touching that place in between her legs, just a little bit of pressure, and she moaned and ground against his hand and it felt better than anything had ever felt in her entire life, and he chuckled into her mouth and took his hand away.
"No," she said. "More. I want more of that."
"You," the man said, "are very drunk, and I am concerned that someone is going to take advantage. There's a hotel nearby, and I want you to check in for the night to sleep it off, and then I will touch you as much as you want."
"You're sweet," she said. "You're so nice to me. Why is everyone here so nice?"
"I think," he said, "you'd probably be a bit better off if they were less nice. --Come this way."
The next ten minutes were the longest ten minutes of her life, but eventually they were in the hotel room and on the bed and he was kissing her and she was rubbing that place against his thigh and it felt so very very good and he didn't have his shirt on, which was also extremely nice. He had muscles in places that Maya did not know people could have muscles. She made sure to touch him extensively for scientific purposes, and also because whenever she did he made these really lovely hissing noises.
He kissed her neck and down her chest and then his mouth was on her breast, which was an even more exciting discovery. She had never done this before but it was so nice, it was even better than his hands, and she never wanted it to stop and she wanted something more and then his hand was between her legs again and she knew exactly what she wanted all along.
It eventually occurred to Maya that if a man's mouth is on your breast and his hand is between your legs and you feel really really good and it feels even better because of how well-built the man is, possibly this is some sort of sex. This was maybe a pretty obvious conclusion, but in her defense-- ooh-- current events were really really distracting.
She should not be having sex with him. She did not even know his name. She was going to tell him to stop. She was going to tell him to stop right after he did one more circle around that spot that made her feel so good. Two more circles. Uh. Five more circles and one of those little tongue flicks. Wait, she lost count, probably she should start over. And then it felt so so good that her mind went blank.
"Something is happening," she slurred.
"It's okay," he said, and kisses her forehead protectively, "just let it happen," and she relaxed and it built up in waves and crested and every cell of her body was crying out in pleasure and she cried out and panted and he kept his hand on the spot through the shivery aftershocks and held her until she recovered and then the whole thing happened again, and again, and she couldn't think at all.
Somewhere in this process she had stopped wearing pants. It was hard to care much about this.
Somewhere in the process he had also stopped wearing pants, and she probably ought to have some sort of objection to it, but his-- organ-- was obviously aroused and very beautiful and she couldn't stop herself from reaching out to touch it, feeling the way the skin slid in her hand.
And then he was kissing her, and that was good-- kissing, Maya was sure, was definitely not sex, and she could hardly be tempted to touch things she shouldn't touch when those parts were between her legs and well out of reach-- and he was rubbing against that spot with his, uh, thing, and it was so sensitive and it felt so good and it felt like the wave might crest again and then he was inside her.
Having a man's organ inside you is definitely sex.
And she was definitely going to stop him. Right after that wave crested one more time because she was so close, it was almost there, he was so big it felt like she was being split apart, she was so full, he was stretching her and she wanted more, and then he reached down between her legs and touched the place again and the wave crested and after the wave crested she was too floaty and relaxed and happy to do much of anything.
It felt so nice. How could anything be wrong if it felt so nice? She was warm and he was kissing her and making the most lovely noises and she could touch his back as much as she liked and pull him close and she didn't want to be empty. Empty sounded terrible. And now he was making such good little whimpery noises, he was speaking some language she didn't recognize at all, and then he gasped and stilled inside her and there was this odd throbbing sensation and then he did stop, without her even having to say anything. So that was all right.
The man cradled Maya in his arms. They had had sex. There was something you were supposed to say if you'd had sex with someone.
"I love you," she said.
The man laughed. "I'm sure you do."
She nuzzled his beautiful broad chest and curled up in his arms and went to sleep.
--
Maya's head throbs and the light is much too bright and her eyes feel like they are stuck together with glue and she wants to throw up and she doesn't know where she is and she doesn't know precisely what happened last night but from what she recalls it was probably bad.
There was a bottle with a note attached. She tried her best to make her eyes focus and then read:
These are painkillers for the hangover and antacids for the nausea. I left crackers here; try to eat something. There's water on the nightstand and juice in the fridge if you'd prefer that.
I don't know who or where your friends are, but the concierge at the hotel is a friend and might be able to help you.
I have a contraceptive spell so don't worry, you're not going to get pregnant.
I had a nice time. Hope you did too.
You're not going to get pregnant, Maya concludes, is literally the least reassuring thing that could follow the phrase "don't worry."
She was a virgin. She was saving herself. And now--
Her existential crisis is interrupted by vomiting, which she mostly manages to aim at the bucket the stranger had so helpfully put there.
Maya vows never to drink again.
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