When we finally got up a few hours later, I was feeling pretty good. While I wasn’t about to take a jog or go skydiving, I felt well enough to make it to the Burger King drive-thru and back to my place without having to lay down in-between.
And then I stood up.
All the alcohol and sushi rushed to my head and I knew that I had a Super-Size hangover on tap for my day. If only I could magically transport myself to my couch where I could lay in silence for 12 hours while a Pizza Hut hand-tossed pepperoni with extra cheese and maybe some mashed potatoes found their way into my stomach. (And possibly a Wendy’s Frosty with a medium fries stopped by later with a movie from Redbox.)
Instead, I had to slowly pull on my new Asa Spades Roller Girl t-shirt (a souvenir from our night) and drag myself up the stairs without barfing on every step along the way. The rest of the girls were up and rearing to go to breakfast and rehash our night. I was curious to have someone fill in a few of my evening’s missing pieces but I knew that I would never be able to sit in a restaurant unless I could lay down under the table with a French toast and bacon IV streaming through my veins.
Boy and I bid the girls goodbye and we began to make our way back to my place. I drove hunched over the steering wheel like an 80-year-old man with bad vision and a case of sciatica and wished I had a third hand to hold my pounding head. I began driving straight ahead and hoped that I was going the right way but it was so daylight-y and sober-y out that I was having trouble finding any sort of main road that would lead us to the highway.
We went about two or three aimless blocks before I got within a block of the road we needed to be on. Unfortunately God decided to have a goddamn bike race on that road on that morning at that exact time and ruin the small glimmer of hope I had that we were making headway.
I tried not to show Boy just how sick I felt but my tummy was starting to toss and turn as if it knew we were trapped in my car without a toilet or trash can. I was starting to feel fairly certain that I wouldn't make it another 15 feet, let alone 15 miles, without having to throw up on myself. Or worse, on Boy’s face.
Things reached a critical point where rash and unpopular decisions were going to have to be made. I tried to brainstorm possible locations where I could throw up (Down my shirt? In a glove? On the floor?) that wouldn't be too noticeable or gross or skanky. I knew that if any amount of vomit landed on Boy, I owed it to myself and to our future to follow it up with an immediate hand or blow job.
We were still at least 20 minutes from my house and the chances that I could hold my Vomit Baby in and drive and hold a semi-flirty conversation were a quadrillion to one. That said, I was still clinging to the very slim chance that this was just a little burp or heartburn. I mean, how much sushi can one person really throw up?
Things started to move in slow motion. I frantically searched for a gas station or a Hardees or anything with a bathroom so I could pull up and make a run for their bathroom. Unfortunately, my tummy was not on board with this plan. It was operating under the assumption that it would be way more convenient if I just threw up right away, in front of Boy and the rest of the city.
I finally decided to give poor, innocent Boy a heads-up about what was about to happen.
“Um, whew, I don’t… I mean… whew, I don’t feel that well. It’d be great if we could just find a place for me to go to the, um, bathroom.”
As I said that, my body began to batten down the hatches and prepare for battle. My hands began pulling the car over and then my arms joined them in waving around in the air (because nothing stops vomit like fanning your face frantically). Then my leg kicked the door open while I stumbled out and bolted toward the bumper, out of Boy’s eyesight (hopefully). I bent over and unleashed a fury of water on my back bumper, and barely looked up to see just how many cars were driving by, not to mention how many people were on their lawns watching the show.
I heaved and heaved, and when I felt it was safe, I straightened myself up and sauntered back to the car like I hadn’t barfed but instead I was just checking the tire pressure because it had seemed a little low last night when we were driving over to Megan’s.
I got in and exclaimed that I wasn’t sure what all of that silly vomiting was about, but that I was a-ok now. I grabbed a piece of gum out of my purse, pulled back into traffic and tried to figure out how the hell to get us out of here (and also how to disguise the smell of puke on my clothes and shoes). Classy Moment #2.
Boy was pretty quiet and I was suddenly chatting him up in the (blind) hope that my idle chit-chat would make him forget the previous 10 minutes.
And then it happened again.
We were only a few blocks down the road when the familiar feeling came back and I knew there was no use fighting it. I quickly pulled over to the side of the road and assumed the position behind my car. I can't think of anything prettier on a nice summer day than a girl with a fat lip, greasy hair, Asa Spades t-shirt, strappy sandals and dirty jeans throwing up behind her car while her date waits quietly in the passenger seat. Classy Moment #3.
When I got back into the car this time, I was done pretending that all of this was just a small blip and that everything was fine. I admitted that I had no idea how long it would take us to get back to my place (especially at our current pace of two blocks of driving and five minutes of puking), and I suggested that it might be best if he just left me in the street and took my car.
God bless him – he stuck with me, and I had no idea if he was completely grossed out or turned on or both. I just kept on driving and luckily my stomach seemed to be at peace for the rest of the drive.
Once we got within five minutes of my place, I figured it was time to test the waters and eat something. I took us straight to Wendy’s for a hamburger, Frosty and fries. I knew that these three items would never even dare come back up because they wouldn’t want to resist the chance of sticking to my stomach and ass for the rest of my life. Classy Moment #4.
As for whether Boy would stick around… well that was another story. I wasn’t sure if I owed him a blank check or a year's worth of free burritos for putting up with what had happened. At the least I had given him a good story to share with his friends, and for that I hoped he would give me a second chance.
