It was a rock-bottom moment.
In my younger days, I drank. A lot. I drank every night of the week, and once Thursday rolled around I was drunk until Monday morning. Actually, on Monday mornings I was still pretty drunk from the weekend and by the afternoon I'd be shaking and sweating as my body tried to process all the damage I'd done.
I wasn't alone in this obnoxiously drunken behavior. In fact, if it weren't for my partner in crime, whom we'll call Jake, I probably wouldn't have drank as much as I did. It was the two of us together, feeding off of our love for the sauce, that fueled it all.
Jake and I were together off and on for about four years. We weren't in a relationship, but we were always ... well, together. We were very much inseparable, spent holidays at my family's home, slept together, texted obsessively, but we weren't together-together.
That would've meant commitment on Jake's end and despite my love for him — a deeply rooted, devastatingly painful love for him — he didn't love me back. It was one of those unrequited things; one in which I spent too much time, but couldn't muster the strength to move on from, for far too long. I hoped he'd change his mind; of course, he never did.
But because we drank so much, the majority of our sex was under a very dark haze of alcohol. Thinking back to when we did have sex together is very much a blur, because we were always THAT drunk. However, there's one incident I'll never be able to shake; one that made me think that maybe I was making poor life choices for myself.
It was a Saturday and we had gone to brunch to get our drink on — or rather, stay drunk from the night before. We went to a favorite spot in the Lower East Side where the martinis are worth every cent of their $20 and proceeded to drink and drink and drink.
When we were done there we wandered around downtown, stopped in a couple bars, had a few beers, then ended up at Webster Hall to see a band ― where we drank some more. At this point in my life, I had an amazingly high tolerance for alcohol. I could drink two bottles of wine on my own and pass a sobriety test with flying colors. So, while the consumption of alcohol may sound like a huge amount, it was nothing for us ― just a regular ol' Saturday.
After the concert, we wandered back downtown for sushi and sake, before heading to my apartment. We stumbled into my place, onto my bed, and the clothes started to come off. We rolled around on the bed, and actually rolled off it at one point, causing me to bang my head so hard, that I'm surprised I didn't knock myself out.
When we got back up on the bed, I was lying on my stomach and Jake was on top of me, inside me, as we enjoyed our drunken sex. Then something happened that had never happened before: He began to snore in my ear.
Jake wasn't a snorer, and although we were both guilty of having fallen asleep while messing around, it was never done while the act of actual intercourse was taking place. But there I was, on my stomach, with Jake's penis inside me, and his totally drunken dead weight that I couldn't shake holding me in place.
At first I thought he was joking; it was very much like Jake to make a joke at my expense and falling asleep while having sex with me would be a joke totally up his alley. But when I said his name over and over and yelled at him to get off me with zero response on his end, I knew he was passed out cold.
I tried to remain calm. I knew because he was asleep, his erection would go limp and probably just fall out, but even when that did happen I still would have to contend with this man, who was almost a foot taller than me and made of pure muscle, lying on top of me.
But first thing I did? I cried.
Despite having drunk most of the day away, I knew in that moment, this was no way to live.
I had friends who were getting married, having babies, fulfilling their dreams of being accountants or whatever the hell they went to school for, and there I was in bed trapped under the weight of a man I loved who didn't love me back, with his dick inside me. It was both harrowing and eye-opening.
While I continued to cry and he continued to snore, I felt him go flaccid and sort of plop out of me. It was then that I had to get him off me, which may not sound all that hard in theory, but if you've ever tried to carry or lift a drunk person, you know it's not easy.
I tried to scream my way out of it, hoping I could wake him, but it just wasn't happening. All I could do was wiggle my way out from underneath him as he continued to snore.
When I finally got free and was lying next to him, he rolled over off the bed and onto the floor where he stayed the rest of the night. The next morning, he didn't remember a damn thing and thought I pushed him out of bed.
Although I wouldn't break the cycle of having drunk sex with Jake for a long while after that, I did learn a valuable lesson that night: Never get stuck on your stomach with a drunk guy passed out on your back.
Had I been on my back, it would have been an entirely different scenario, but, foolishly, laying down doggy-style seemed like a good idea in that drunken moment. We always thought we had the best ideas when we were drunk, but looking back it was almost always a mess.