I (Heard I) Had A Crazy Sex Romp After I Accidentally Drugged Myself

Does it count as the best sex of your life if you can't remember it?

Accidental Sex Stories: What Happened When I Drugged Myself By Mixing Ambien & Alcohol Getty

While many accidental sex stories you find on the internet are simple works of erotic fiction, the story below is true. Some identifying details and all names are changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

I work long, long hours at a New York digital media property that shall remain nameless.

It's a super-crazy schedule and I am forever getting home at midnight, much to the dismay of my saintly, ever-patient husband Bill.


One night, when we had a crushing deadline and I was there until after midnight and had to come back in the office first thing the following morning.

My boss gave me an Ambien so I could sleep easier that night and come in early the next day.

There are about fifteen things wrong with this picture, now that I think about it, but that is the craziness that is my media life.

Anyway, I took the pill on the way home, trying to time it so I could collapse just inside our door, rather than outside.

I arrived inside our apartment to find my husband asleep in bed, my dinner in the warming drawer, and two wine glasses on the counter. One empty, one full.


I sat down heavily with my dinner, and as I drank the wine, I stared at his empty glass, musing on what I was doing with my life.

It wasn't like I'd blown him off for dinner, and yet ... it sort of was. Was this spousal abuse of some kind? I didn't know and was too sleepy to think too much about it.

I forgot, clearly, that you aren't supposed to mix Ambien and alcohol. The rules are clear on that. But I planned on sleeping, so it didn't matter, right?

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I distinctly remember rolling my commuting jeans and underwear off as one unit, like a dirty rubber band, and slipping into a pair of cotton panties and a camisole top.


Then I crawled in next to my snoring bear of a husband and slept the sleep of the damned.

I woke up the next morning feeling great... birds shining, sun chirping.

My cotton panties were neatly folded by the side of the bed, which was weird; I’m not normally fussy at the best of times, so it was hard to believe I would have done that in my addled stupor.

I staggered groggily out to the main room, where Bill was cooking up some eggs.

"Well," he said, with a grin. "That was one hell of an apology."

I frowned, having no idea what he meant.

"Last night?" he said. A beat. "Don’t tell me you don’t remember!"

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Apparently, sometime after I crawled into bed, we had sex. No, not just sex: The bang-fest of the ages.


I had to confess I had no memory of the whole thing. Not a single salacious detail.

It was a total blackout. If Bill told me I'd snapped and killed a man, or gone on a windshield-smashing spree in our neighborhood, I'd have no choice but to believe him.

And though he was partly amused, I could tell he was also partly hurt that we weren't going to be able to share this memory.

As punishment, he refused to provide any details of my game-changing depravity. 

I went to work that day still stunned, thinking, I'm pretty sure I'm going to quit.


If this wasn't a quality-of-life-questioning moment, I don't know what is.

To this day, I wish to hell I could remember what we did, though.

It was one of the greatest sex nights in my husband’s life ... and me?

I don't even have a warm memory to fall back on.

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Skip Johnson is a freelance writer based in New York City.