Blackouts: A writer reflects on the drunken blackouts that stole huge chunks of her 20s and 30s | Daily Mail Online
'How did I end up in a stranger’s bed?': A writer reflects on the drunken blackouts that stole huge chunks of her 20s and 30s
I’m in Paris for work, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a fancy restaurant and drink cognac — the booze of kings and rap stars.
Somewhere near midnight, I tumble into a cab with my friend and the night starts to stutter and skip. How did we get back so fast?
I walk through the front door of my hotel alone. I exchange a few pleasantries with the concierge, a bit of theatre to prove I’m not too drunk.
The last thing I hear is my heels, steady as a metronome, echoing through the lobby. And then there is nothing.
This happens to me sometimes; a curtain falling in the middle of the act, leaving minutes and sometimes hours in the dark. But anyone watching me wouldn’t notice.
I don’t know how much time I lose in this darkness or what takes place. When the curtain lifts again, this is what I see: there is a bed.
The lights are low. Sheets are wrapped around my ankles. I’m on top of a man I’ve never seen before, and we’re having sex.
Can this be right? It’s as if the universe dropped me into someone else’s body. I wonder if I should be worried, but I’m not.
I don’t mean to suggest I’m brave. I mean to suggest that you could break a piece of plywood over my head and I would smile, nod and keep going.
The guy isn’t bad-looking.
‘You really know how to wear a guy out,’ he says.
It seems unfair that he should know me and I don’t know him, but I’m unsure of the etiquette.
‘I should go,’ I tell him.
I’m in Paris for work, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a fancy restaurant and drink cognac — the booze of kings and rap stars.
Somewhere near midnight, I tumble into a cab with my friend and the night starts to stutter and skip. How did we get back so fast?
I walk through the front door of my hotel alone. I exchange a few pleasantries with the concierge, a bit of theatre to prove I’m not too drunk.
The last thing I hear is my heels, steady as a metronome, echoing through the lobby. And then there is nothing.
This happens to me sometimes; a curtain falling in the middle of the act, leaving minutes and sometimes hours in the dark. But anyone watching me wouldn’t notice.
I don’t know how much time I lose in this darkness or what takes place. When the curtain lifts again, this is what I see: there is a bed.
The lights are low. Sheets are wrapped around my ankles. I’m on top of a man I’ve never seen before, and we’re having sex.
Can this be right? It’s as if the universe dropped me into someone else’s body. I wonder if I should be worried, but I’m not.
I don’t mean to suggest I’m brave. I mean to suggest that you could break a piece of plywood over my head and I would smile, nod and keep going.
The guy isn’t bad-looking.
‘You really know how to wear a guy out,’ he says.
It seems unfair that he should know me and I don’t know him, but I’m unsure of the etiquette.
‘I should go,’ I tell him.
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