So then…I fumble for the washcloth through bleary eyes. My head’s throbbing as I soap up my arm, my chest, my breast – hey, what is this? What’s this big black mark on my boob?
I squint and bring my wobbly head closer to my left breast. I scrub harder but the black mark isn’t disappearing! What the hell? How’d my boob get so dirty and why isn’t it getting clean?
As the shower spray pounds my head like a thousand jackhammers, I have sudden flashes of last night’s escapades:
LOTS of drinking
Dancing – was I dancing?
I finish the shower post-haste, trying to shampoo tenderly, but each touch is torment.
I open the medicine cabinet for Tylenol, but it’s my brother’s house and apparently he and his wife keep their hangover cures elsewhere.
We’re all in our 20s – and they love to party, so I know they have hangover cures somewhere.
I stumble into the guest bedroom and paw through my suitcase for clothes. My business trip was fairly close to their Dallas home so I had hopped over for the weekend. They took me out last night – and I recall having a blast – but the details are…sketchy.
I walk into the kitchen, bypassing my brother Dan, and go straight to his wife Shelby, baring my bosom. “What the hell is this?” I ask.
“Ohhhh,” she says, laughing. “That’s the autograph!”
“The autograph? It wouldn’t come off!” I say. “Is it written in Sharpie?”
“Yes, I think he did sign in Sharpie,” she confirms, giggling. Dan snickers.
“‘He?’” I ask. “Who the hell signed my boob!?”
“The Hood!” they say in unison.
Ahhh, yes. The Hood. Suddenly a memory flashes. One of the band members!
“The bass player?” I ask. They nod.
Now I remember that Dan and Shelby took me to see one of their favorite local bands last night. They are a really great band and the whole club was rockin’. The Hood wore a black hood that completely hid his face, sort of like this:
I sit down and pour some cereal. “Do you have Tylenol?”
Shelby joins us at the table with the Tylenol and her coffee and says teasingly, “You really liked him, Darcy.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “He was so sexy.”
“How can you tell?” asks my brother. “He wears a hood.”
“Yeah, but he’s tall and thin – and dressed all in black leather – and you could see that his hair was a little long under his hood,” I say. “Plus he’s an amazing bass player!”
“Yeah,” says Shelby. “Lots of girls love this band. The lead singer’s really good looking and so is the drummer – but most girls like The Hood ‘cause he’s so mysterious. He never takes the hood off.”
“I bet he’s gorgeous,” I say dreamily.
Dan scoffs. “Gorgeous? I don’t think he’s wearing a hood ‘cause he’s gorgeous.”
“Well, maybe he has a day job like a doctor or a lawyer or something – and he doesn’t want his patients or clients to know he’s in a rock band,” I say hopefully.
“No,” says Dan. “It’s probably ‘cause he’s hideous – but he’s a great bass player, so the other band members are like, ‘yeah, you can be in the band, Ted, but you gotta cover that shit up.’”
“No way!” I say defensively.
“And I doubt he’s a doctor,” says Dan. “Maybe he wears the hood ‘cause he’s a fugitive from America’s Most Wanted.”
“What?” I say, alarmed. “You let some deviant sign your little sister’s boob?”
They laugh. “I didn’t know you were gonna do that!” he says. “You and Shelby went to meet the band on their break. I was still at our table.”
I whirl on Shelby, which sends a rush of pain to my head. I pop two Tylenol. “Shelby, clearly I was plastered! Why’d you let me do that?”
Dan interjects. “‘Cause she was plastered too. We all were!”
Shelby says, “Well, lots of people were asking for their autographs. But you didn’t have any paper, so when you asked The Hood, you just whipped out your boob and told him to sign there!”
I blush bright red. “Omigod! How embarrassing!!”
They laugh at me.
“I don’t even remember that happening!” I say. “When was that?”
Dan thinks a moment and says to Shelby, “Was that before she danced with that cowboy?”
“I danced with a cowboy?” I say.
“Nah, I think it was after she drank champagne out of her shoe,” says Shelby.
“Yeah,” says Shelby. “You can tell we were smashed ‘cause we started with beer and wine, then shots, then champagne.”
“Oh, man, I only remember the wine part,” I say. I curl my lip at the idea of drinking anything out of my high heel. How unsanitary!
Shelby laughs. “Oh, you were having a good time last night! Drinking and dancing! I can’t remember exactly when you got your boob signed, though.”
Dan says, “Was it before or after she threw up in her shoe?”
“WHAT!?” I shout. “I threw up? In my shoe?”
They both laugh again. “Yep!” says my brother.
“And you mean to tell me there was a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ to my throwing up? How could there be an AFTER? Why wouldn’t you take me straight home if I THREW UP?”
“It’s a really great band,” says my brother, shrugging.
Oh my good God.
I vow to never drink again.
And to burn my shoes immediately.
Regrettably, I break both those promises.
— Darcy Perdu
(Ever offer your lady parts for an autograph? Why do you think The Hood wore a hood? Please share a funny story from your drunken days so I can feel better about myself!)
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