Hi, my name is Maggie and I have a problem.

(Hi Maggie!)

After at least four whiskeys (wait, maybe it was six) that are totally not on my diet, I think I can only manage stream-of-consciousness this morning.

The biker woke up at six in a panic; he had to be at work by eight, and needed to go home to Harlem first to change. I washed all the smeared eyeliner off, grabbed a spare blanket (it was freezing; when will the heat come on?), set the alarm for 8:00 and went back to sleep . . . until 9:00.
The alarm had gone off, I'd just slept through it for an hour. My hair was a matted snarled mess and had to be washed, but at least it didn't wreak of smoke (thanks, Bloomburg!).

Where was my bra? Oh, right, in my purse. (but my cell phone wasn't, I discovered later. Still AWOL, egads.)
My boots? One was in the kitchen, the other in the bed.
My raincoat? Covered with pigeon droppings from the fire escape. I'd have to wear something else.

I barely managed to water the cat before I dragged my sorry ass out of the house. Late again. Those resolutions are dropping like flies. But at least I was wearing eyeliner while drinking more and not driving!

Of the men who undressed me in my foyer this weekend...

...one then went for the bed, the other for the couch; one left too soon, the other I couldn't get rid of fast enough; and one was only there at all because the other one wasn't.

The Bachelor and I had a lovely time on Friday night. And more on Saturday. He was sweet and charming and funny and attentive and ... ohmygod so good. I know I've talked about circus sex in the past, but that was just adventure. This was so far beyond, good thing the neighbors were out of town for the holiday weekend. No tricks or bells and whistles or feats of exhibitionism either, just enthusiasm and a talent, and a big payoff for my patience.

Alas, the Bachelor has a built-in expiration, and the alarm usually goes off after about a dozen hours or so. As I'd used up my quota for the week, he wasn't available to enjoy he fruits of my bender on Sunday. Which leads us directly to the door of...

The Biker, also known as "Chew-your-arm-off-and-leave-it-behind-in-Harlem-if-you-have-to-but-get-out-at-all-costs Guy." Why on earth would I hook up with him again? I was drunk, he's a good kisser with a hard body (biker as in cyclist, not Harley), and the Bachelor didn't answer my messages.

That said, there are a few lessons to be learned here.

-- If you have to keep score ("I went down on you in the bar; now it's your turn"), then you've already lost.

-- If you push down on the top of my head even once, it will be the last time you will be in a position to do so. This is not a porn flick, I am not a prostitute, and you need to show some respect and appreciation.

-- As I am non-confrontational to a fault, I probably won't actually kick you out -- unless you've gotten physically violent. But if I don't offer you a shower, a toothbrush (I keep a stash of spares, courtesy of my dentist), or breakfast, consider yourself unwelcome.

Also, "You're so macho" is not a compliment, Don Juan.

Nicfit, if you're reading this, please stop me from ever making that mistake again. Three strikes is enough.

circus freaks

For some as yet unexamined reason, Bachelor #2=circus sex. We didn't break anything this time (neither furniture nor body parts), and we managed to stay indoors, but we did sort of flood the apartment. The cat coped with that pretty well.

Then (or maybe first) there was the bizarre drunkenness episode. After work, a few of us got together for a drink. The third round arrived while I was still only half-way through with my second beer, but I let it wait, I wasn't rushing. And though I didn't have dinner last night, I'd had a big lunch. So halfway through beer #2, I go out for a smoke, and I'm slightly wobbly on my feet. Try to shake it off, go back in, finish second and third beer, and am suddenly totally woozy. If I didn't know my companions better, I'd think someone slipped me something.

Luckily the subway was right next to the bar. We got on, I failed at small talk, and soon I was asleep, waking just in time to get off at my stop (hello, GAP!). As soon as I exited the station, I was stone cold sober. Total time of drunkenness, extreme though it was: 40 minutes.

No hangover this morning. And for the record, the reconcilliation with B#2 and the decision to go home together happened well before any wobbliness.

So yes, we're talking again.