'I must have been crazy, agreeing to this,' I told myself as I paced between the window and the nightstand. I was four glasses in, with another bottle standing nearby just in case after having come up to a room from the bar downstairs. My friends had coerced me into this, dressing me up to their specifications and scanning the bar’s occupants for a suitable hook-up. Their justification was that I seriously needed to get over my six month-long dry spell which had been affecting my mood as of late. With a snarl I drained the considerable amount of what was left in my glass and tried to convince myself they were wrong.
This was stupid, not to mention risky. They were going to send some man, some stranger up here to have sex with me. And for what? So I would stop getting that crinkle between my eyebrows and have the endless Snickers jokes finally stop? As I poured another glass full of rich red wine I could have spat on the floor remembering those jokes. “Hey __________, do you want a Snickers? You turn into kind of a bitch when you’re ‘hungry’.”