I'm Kind Of Embarrassed By All This.

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I think I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion my deep-rooted aversion to strangers. By this I don’t mean friends. I’m okay with new people invading my personal space and telling me things I most likely don’t want to hear.

What I’m leery of. I mean really scared of... Are strange men.

What are their intentions? Do they come from a good family? Do they like dogs? Why are they drinking wine from a straw? Do they have herpes or stuffed animals on their beds? These are all valid questions that plague me on those initial first dates so it’s only right that for the most part, I’ve been a “relationship girl” until the demise of my engagement two years ago. Not ever has it been more apparent to me that opening up to people is hard to do. Or that Vin was a really great guy any girl without a few missing screws like myself would be lucky to have. Or that there are so many douchecanoes in Miami that possibly the best outlet for a single girl verging thirty is lesbianity.

(I just totally had to look that up to ensure it was a real word, guys).

Keeping the aforementioned in mind, it’s safe to say I don’t "hook-up." I don’t accept drinks unless they’re from friends and even those may have roofies in them. I don’t ride in cars with boys I’ve known for less than two months. I don’t take dudes I've just met home (except that one time, Jesus, don’t you people forget anything?!). And I most certainly never, ever, make out with strangers in dark corners of night time establishments.

***The following happened a few months back and was told to me over lunch by someone who actually remembers it. If you've been following for a while then this may not surprise you but just in case, love me still.

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My long distance relationship with John had officially been over for months and I'd forgotten what kissing someone felt like, still that night I just wanted peace, a few martinis, and some sushi with girlfriends and Katie’s sweet muffin of a mom. That night I wasn’t looking for trouble or a funny story to tell over breakfast. That night I lusted deeply for my bed and pillows straight after dinner.

Dear God.

That night…

Following the consumption of sushi and martinis, Katie went back to her boyfriend and Muffin Mom went home to sleep. Yours truly headed over to a bar called Cinco which was full of old farts and people who looked like steak that’s been cooked too long, including a man of about ninety who screamed insults at me when I declined a drink he purchased me.

After Cinco we took the party train to a joint called The Bar, where we spotted a booth with a view to the dance floor and made fun of people while downing Irish car bombs and beers on draft.

Soon after things became hazy but we managed to make it to Club 50 in another part of town. I felt the eminent need to relieve myself of all the beer I’d recently consumed and excused myself for the bathroom. After a ten minute line I attempted to make my way back to my friends when someone grabbed my hand. Tipsy Annah would’ve immediately yanked it away and scowled at the person touching her. Drunk Annah cocked her head to one side and said:

To which he simply replied: Robert.

An hour later Robert and I were still dirty dancing in the dark when my friends found me to say we were leaving to a spot in South Beach. In no position to argue, I shrugged my shoulders and allowed myself to be led towards the door. Of course, not before pouncing on Robert like a teenage girl at her first dance and kissing him for a whole of thirty seconds.

DJ proclaims herself the designated driver and we make our way to Automatic Slims. As she drove slowly down a crowded street, I spotted three cute guys headed in the direction towards us.

“Slow it down there, Deej,” I told my friend, who shot me a puzzled look but did as she was told.

Ninja like, I stuck my head out of the driver’s side of the car and called out to one of the guys. “Hey you! Cute guy with the hair. Come over here!”

Hair seemed to find a strange girl hollering at him in the middle of the night from a moving vehicle normal, so he approached our car with a smile and said hello. I in turn replied: “You’re exotic looking, Hair Guy. What’s your name?”

Him: Juanas.

Me: Juan?

Him: No, Juanas.

Me: Juanes? Like the singer? I like that guy a lot.

Him. JUANAS! Like. J-U-A-N-A-S.

Me: What kind of a fuck name is that?

Him: It’s Portuguese. (Bewildered look on his face).

Me: Oooooh Portugueeeese. I like Portuguese. Good kissers, I hear. Come closer.

Juanas and I kissed for about three minutes through the driver window, which of course meant poor DJ was sitting about two inches from our faces as we made out while the world waited. When I finally pulled away, I looked at Juanas and said, “You are a good kisser," bidding my farewells and allowing DJ to continue the drive. No more than half a mile had been covered when I spotted another group of guys.

“Stop the car!” I tell DJ.

“Are you serious?” She says, half laughing.

But by this point I was already calling out to them. This group of boys didn’t have any exotic hair or strange names, just good ol’ American boys so obviously not from Miami (Charles, Johnny, and Kyle). I took a liking to Kyle and skipped over introductions and other nonsense. No time to waste when there's kissing to be done, apparently. And kissed I did until DJ got tired of Charles trying to drool on top of her while Kimmie made out with Johnny in the back, pulling away without preamble.

When we finally arrive at Automatics I had to urinate so badly I hid behind a bush and took care of the situation. Once I returned to the car Kimmie informs me the night has ended as it was already past five and the place was closed. I shrugged my shoulders violently, focusing my gaze on two guys a block away. I immediately looked at DJ imploringly and waited.

“Oh no, you’re not,” she says while waving a finger in my face.

“Come on… Don’t be a party pooper, DJ boo boo,” I pleaded. “I just want to have some fun fun.”

“First of all, stop talking like a drunk five year old,” she sighs and rolls up my window while pressing something on her side panel I can only presume to be the child lock. “Secondly, I just know you don’t want to make out with those guys, so let’s get this show on the road and put some food in your system.”

“Oh come on… Come ooooon,” I continued.

“Absolutely not,” she shrieks while suppressing her laughter.

"Please, DJ boo boo?"

It was then that she conceded and drove me closer to the two boys huddled in the corner. Of course as we neared them it became apparent why I would, in fact, not be making out with either of them that night.

Let's never speak of this again, shall we?