One morning about a decade ago, my best friend Leah* and I woke up in a hungover panic.
We were about 19 or 20 years old and visiting family in Florida for Christmas break. We had been recklessly partying for about a week straight, waking up with brutal headaches and shame shudders, only to reapply our red lipstick by 7 pm and be wasted again by midnight.
"Who the hell did I make out with last night?!" Leah screamed, shooting out of bed.
I clumsily rolled over and loudly groaned. I felt like the weight of the world had landed on my brain.
My mouth was so dry it was like someone had stuffed a bag of cotton balls into it. I wasn't used to being this hungover. I was 20, I was practically a newborn and had that wonderful youthful resistance to shield me from hangovers.
However, I had mixed vodka with cheap Champagne, and no one is immune to the ramifications of that deathly combo.
I opened my sore eyes and felt something hard breaking inside them. I had slept in my contacts, and those plastic little disks felt like shards of glass, cutting open the whites of my eyes, which I'm sure were now blood red.
I blinked a few times. My vision began to clear, and I made out the sight of Leah.
She was in a black lace bra and black skinny jeans. One platform sandal dangled off her foot.
Her newly cut bob haircut (she's still one of the only girls I know who can pull off a successful bob to date) was going in a thousand different directions. Her big brown eyes were puffy and had bruise-like dark circles resting beneath them.
She still looked pretty in a hangover chic, disheveled way. It's a look you can only pull off when you're young and your skin is poreless and velvet.
"You made out with Matt*," I managed to croak. My voice was a good three octaves lower, and I sounded like either a frog or a 70-year-old Manhattan chain smoker.
I threw a pillow over my head. The world felt too severe for me.
"WHAAAT?" she exclaimed as she put her little head in her hands.
"I. Made. Out. With. Matt," she said the words slowly, letting the cruel truth of reality wash over her. "Matt has a girlfriend. I KNOW HER! AM I DEMON?!"
"YOU'RE FINE," I said, harshly, just wanting to go back to sleep.
A few hours later, we were eating breakfast in my mother's kitchen. My mother, being no stranger to hangovers herself, had made us eggs. She was like an angel clad in a silk nightgown sent down to us from the drinking gods themselves.
"Leah made out with a guy last night all over the dance floor, and she's freaking out because he has a girlfriend, and now she thinks she's a demon," I primly reported to my mother, feeling really virginal and proper.
I smoothed over my hair with my perfectly polished nails and smiled. Yes, there were big gaps in the night, but at least I hadn't made out with a dude with a girlfriend. Not that my gay ass would have made out with a dude with a girlfriend, but rather a girl with a boyfriend (equally as naughty).
"HA, well, look what I just found on Facebook, bitch," Leah slowly purred, placing a laptop in front of me. The harsh light of the screen burned my eyeballs. I gulped. And then I gasped. There I was, making out with my ex's ex right on top of the bar.
"There's more," she slowly began to scroll through some fuckboy's album titled, "WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?!"
Clearly, this guy had no chill.
There I was, grinding my life away on the dance floor with a different girl. And there I was, doing body shots. And there I was, kissing another girl, a straight friend (gasp) this time. I took a sip of my teeming hot cup of tea and felt the fiery liquid burn my throat. I liked the burn and hoped the heat would burn the sins away.
You know how when you're hungover and all it takes is the birth of one drunken memory to trigger the entire course of the night? That's what happened.
Suddenly, my mind was like a funhouse mirror, and all I saw were twisted, blurry reflections of a distorted version of myself. But the scary part was, it was me. It might not have looked like me, but it was still me stretched out, gazing right back at me.
"AM I DEMON?!" I screamed, shame snaking its way around my waist like an unwanted touch from a lover you don't love anymore.
My mother looked at us, one hand on her hip, her straight blonde hair hanging in front of her face like two silk curtains.
"No, darlings," she purred in her posh English accent. "You're not demons. You're just highly sexual women who can't keep it in your pants."
And she was right. We weren't demons. We were horny.
And while now I wouldn't dream of making out with a straight girl, and for the most part, I can remember my Saturday nights clearly, there are still real struggles of being a girl with an unstoppable sex drive.
Here are just 20 of them:
- You're constantly late to work, not because you overslept, but because you were having morning sex.
- People think wild "sex hair" is just how you like to style your hair. Little do they know, it's actually authentic sex hair.
- Before weddings, the bridesmaids feel the need to prep you on whom NOT to make out with. "You know, cousin Lisa is a in a vulnerable place right now," or "You know, David has a girlfriend, and they're, like, really happy. So cool it." You're treated like a sexual predator (and you might be one).
- You fear going downtown on first dates because surely, you'll run into at least one person you've slept with, made out with or at least exchanged a few sexts with.
- If you wake up with a hangover, your first thought isn't, "WHAT did I do last night?" It's, "WHOM did I do last night?"
- When you know you're going to be around hot people, you purposefully don't shave your legs to try to deter yourself from hooking up with them.
- When you swear off sex, you become depressed, anxious, sad and a shell of the woman you are.
- Your friends are nervous to introduce you to their newly legal, younger siblings.
- Your friends are nervous to introduce you to their much, much older siblings.
- Your friends are nervous to introduce you to their newly divorced parents.
- You've made out with all of your friends.
- You've slept with a few, too.
- The only promise you've ever broken to yourself is, "I will NOT sleep with X tonight!"
- You exude a palpable sexual energy everywhere you go, and it's contagious to everyone in your presence. People just become hornier around you. It's not your fault.
- You're drawn to the following textures: black lace, black leather, silk, distressed denim and shiny patent leather.
- You look hot in red lipstick. In fact, you're just one of those girls who was BORN for red lipstick.
- Your black eyeliner is always slightly smudged around your eyes. Something about incessant orgasms makes even waterproof eyeliner run, you know? We need orgasm-proof eyeliner.
- However, you totally pull off black, smudged eyeliner, and when your friends or enemies try to pull off black, smudged liner, it just doesn't work. That's because it only works on the sexually charged creatures, baby.
- No one is off limits (except, of course, boyfriends, girlfriends, wifeys and hubbies of your friends and family). You will go after anyone who is hot, including bosses, co-workers, bartenders, enemies, cousins (yes, cousins), strangers, old friends, your former high school nemesis, your ex from back in the day, whoever. NO ONE IS SAFE.
- You're constantly glowing because you're constantly getting laid. People ask you for your skin-care routine, and you're one of those annoying people who says, "Yeah, I just use whatever drugstore shit that's cheap! Must be genetics." But, it's not genetics. It's sex.
*Names have been changed.