Should I say something? I wondered, breath paused as to not relay I was actually immediately awake, still tightly bundled in my pleasantly grey coat, trying not to stiffen, praying that hand, that gorgeous blonde-furred arm, wasn’t, as I so sadly knew it was, working its assuming, stalker-like way up my still-clothed crotch. The poor, adorable, gorgeously golden-haired comedian I discovered in the ruins of that night’s bar crowd was poised behind me now, threading his fingertips over my thighs with a drunkard’s grace, fanning his foul, arid breath into the air between us, and I knew, for sure, this was a conversational cliffhanger.

Ugh, he had been charming. Tossing his flamingly crazy jokes and nervously tugging on his golden blonde curls, I had loved his ability to make me double over with laughter, his crazy self-denigrating yet hilarious dick size comments and the pearly, bar soap white of his teeth. Contrary to my sexpert status, I rarely head home with strange men, knowing full well the Rochesterian gossipy grapevine extended outside dorm room walls, and I was fearful of those things left unsaid, those comments implied with only an eyebrow raise, but, alas, my friends had left for greener pastures and warmer bedsheets and he had looked (oh oh oh oh!) so playfully benign.

I unconsciously petted my hair into smoothness, reapplied strawberry lipgloss and hoisted my underwire to perk up my gigantic boobs, trying my hardest to subliminally sear the image of me, naked, into his conscious. Withholding any explicit mention of my more devious intentions, I tacitly conveyed I was more than ready for action, and, while I thought I had done a pretty good screening job, I had hesitated when I discovered that we were walking to his apartment with his roommate, a scrawny Asian ‘World of Warcraft” aficionado, flanked by a one-night-stand dressed like a 30-year-old hooker, a mess of embroidered fishnets and undereye liner smudges. Despite those implicit warnings, those red flags tucked so subtly into experience, I charged on ahead of the duo and ignored my inner hesitation.

As soon as we got to his apartment, we navigated the disaster of unclaimed dirty dishes, overturned potted plants and disregarded thermometers he called his living room, and he held me by the hand, a true gentleman, as he unleashed a torrent of foul breath and unrestrained saliva on my mouth. I desperately calculated my distance from the nearest exit, feeling a churned mixture of pity and confusion for this adorable blond-haired boy. Feigning a headache, exhausted from a full day’s worth of unsuccessful seduction, I disappointedly passed out on his futon with all my clothes intact, hoping to bail early enough in the morning to miss the inevitably cheesy ‘So, how do you like your eggs?”

But here I was, awoken at 5 in the morning, uncomfortably discovering Whatshisface’s hand snaking its way between my thighs, clearly indicating by the unrestrained noobtasticness of this tragically gorgeous stranger. I weighed my options: Should I scream, scold or simply wiggle out of reach? I hate to use the clichd line, but what’s a girl to do? Should I sexually scar him with a visceral shutdown or turn over in bed and begin snoring, hoping he’ll get the message I’m not into the five-finger discount?

Of course, I said something, as I’m never the type to keep mum, but I still tried to be gentle on his ego, hoping I wouldn’t decimate his chances of confidently getting laid in the future. Caught off guard, however, my polite cease and desist degraded into: ‘Hi. Sorry, I’m not trying to interrupt what you’re doing, but I’d really appreciate it if I could fall asleep at 2 in the morning with my clothes still on and not wake up with your hand lodged halfway up my vagina.”

…Damn. Last week I saw him at another bar and we chatted briefly, me puzzling over his gorgeous blond waifs and his snort-laughing punch lines, not discussing the gigantic incompletely felt-up elephant still brooding in the room. We stood there in conversation, cracking jokes and clinking glasses, and I contemplated the ridiculous level of nonacknowledgment shared there on the bar tab between us.

When it comes to the awkward matter of pseudo gropefests or even the more terrifying matter of love, love, love, I reckon it’s always better to not mince words, open your heart up, disregarding the possible dire consequences of your conversation and just say explicitly what you feel.

Or, in my case, what you’d really rather not.

Titus is a member of the class of 2011.

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