Two Don'ts Don't Make a Do

I open my eyes and immediately regret it. The sun burns in my eyes, and the tension in my eyeballs sends shockwaves of pain through my scull. Even my jaw hurts.
I rub my burning eyes with the heel of my hand, while my fingers lightly brush across my forehead. I sigh as it soothes me.
I try to move my other arm, but it’s dead.
Actually, let me rephrase that: It’s unmovable but definitely alive. I groan in pain.
Pins and needles seems to be stabbed into the skin on my arm, and the thought makes me a little dizzy. Or maybe it’s the hangover. I’m not sure.
A sudden realization rushes over me. I’m not wearing any clothes. The hand that’s not soothing my aching head is lying on my naked inner thigh.
I never sleep naked. I barely ever sleep in less than boxers and a t-shirt. Even on burning hot nights I keep my t-shirt on.
So why am I naked?
I move the hand on my thigh and scratch my lower stomach, before I move my hand upwards. It scratches against something. There’s something on my stomach.
I try to pick it off, but it hurts – pulling at the small, delicate hairs on my stomach.
I move my hand further up my stomach, but when my elbow hits something I stop. I hit something soft – movable.
I slowly and very carefully open my eyes as I turn my head.
My head pound with pain when my eyes bulge out of their sockets.
I close my eyes to make to room stop spinning, before I open them again – only to see the same thing.
I hold my breath as I quietly and slowly sit up.
The bed creaks and I freeze. When no other movement or sound is being made, I dare to get out of the bed. I carefully lift my butt up off the madras – my butt-naked butt, might I add – and tip-toe away from the bed-frame.
I look around the room for anything of mine. I spot my jeans, but everything else is gone.
I’m still wearing my socks, though. That’s a good thing. Two items of clothing less to find in this mess.
I walk over to a heap of discarded clothing and rummage through it to find anything familiar.
The bad thing is, it’s all familiar.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he moans as I open his pants. His boxers meet my hand – or the other way around.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I repeat, before he helps me push down his pants and boxers.

I find my boxers and pull them on. I rub my sore hip as the elastics presses against a beginning bruise.
I hear a groan behind me and I whip around. My head throbs and spins.
The sheets ruffle.

“I love you!” He screams and moans the words, as his tight grip on my hips tightens even more.
I slam into him again – harder.

“I fucking love you.” He screams in ecstasy.

He lies still again – no more movements. I look beside the bed and see my jeans. I sneak over to them and pick them up slowly.
The belt rattles a bit, and I freeze. I look over at the still bundle of sheets and body parts.
I pull on my jeans – holding the pieces of the belt separated – stumbling around in the process. I finally get them all the way up, and I silently close the belt.
I look around – scanning the room for my t-shirt.
It’s nowhere to be seen. Where is it?

“What if someone walks in?” I ask – my voice husky and dry from the heavy breathing.

“Should we stop?” he asks. I line up with his tight entrance.

He tosses in the bed and lies still on his other side. He’s facing me now – half of his flawless face lying on his outstretched, tattooed arm.
And there, underneath is left armpit, is my t-shirt.
I’ll never get it out.
He grunts.

“Mm. Fuck you, asshole,” he mutters out – clearly still asleep. I snarl – shoving my teeth along with my disgust.
I find his hoodie lying haphazardly on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I pull it over my head, before I sneak over to the door.
I slip on my shoes – which is the only item of clothing I had no problem finding, except for my socks – and tip-toe over to the door.
I turn the lock and silently open the door. I sneak out into the hallway, before I slam the door behind me as hard as I can.
Fuck, I hate that guy!