I was living in Sanford, Florida. THE Sanford, for those of you that keep up with current events.

Yes, Trayvon Martin, national news Sanford.

The night I went out, my roomate had gone out of town. I had told her I was going out, and had promised to make it back home to take care of the dog. I had mistakenly made this promise, forgetting that it was the night the George Zimmerman trial verdict would be announced; and I lived only about a mile away from the court house.

My best friend, let me correct that, now ex-best friend, wanted to drink. So, two tolls, 40 minutes, and a long, dusty dirt road later, I ended up in a barn in Chuluota with a case of Budlight in my hand.

Where the hell was I, and what did I get myself into?

Don’t get me wrong, I was born and raised in the South, but at the time had a city girl mentality. I was standing in a barn. A barn full of strangers, hugging the case of Budlight to my chest, as if that was my crutch for not being socially akward. I didn’t know anyone there, only my at the time best friend who I remained glued to until I had consumed enough alcohol to make my own ventures.

Before too long, once the warm, fuzzy feeling started traveling through my body, the strangers were no longer strangers. We were all laughing and joking, huddled around the radio listening to the George Zimmerman trial; making bets on the outcome, and waiting in anticipation for the verdict to be read.

Was Zimmerman innocent, or was he guilty? Did I fuck up by telling my roomate I’d be home so she didn’t have to board the dog? Would I go home or not? After all, the National Guard and SWAT were on stand-by. The outcome of the verdict was grounds for a potential riot. One of Rodney King proportions, or so I heard…

During the course of the night, a guy had come sauntering into the barn, and he caught my eye.

That’s putting it mildly. Maybe it was the beer, or my loneliness of a recent-ish breakup, but I WANTED him.

Turns out, he was good friends with the chick I considered my best friend. They went way back.

So, after staring at this handsome stranger for what seemed like eternity, I approached my best friend. I whispered some drunken mumbo-jumbo about him, in what was probably nothing near a whisper.

I have no idea what I said to her, or what she said to him, but she came up to me and told me I should go talk to him.

However, I was deterred. Come to find out, the guy I found ridiculously attractive, (but for some reason didn’t have the courage to initiate a conversation with) already knew quite a bit about me. And by quite a bit, I mean nearly everything.

How? It just so happened that he had worked with my ex. The lonely recent-ish breakup ex.

Oh what a small world.

You can rule out conversation between the two of us after that revelation. Since he already “knew” me, I was at a loss for even the simplest small talk.

I proceeded to do what I do best. I got wasted.

To occupy myself, I ended up drunkenly riding a horse for the first time in my life, and wrestling my best friend.

The horse was fun, the wrestling was not.

In what had started as a peer-pressured, friendly wrestling match between the two of us, quickly escalated into a broken-up, attempted fist fight.

It was turning out to be an eventful night.

Some time after the disastrous wrestling match when things had calmed down, I realized a certain someone had randomly walked up and put his arm around my shoulder.

Yes, HIM. The guy I had spent the whole night gawking at and being a social retard around. His arm was around me even though we had only said a total of, maybe, three sentences to each other the entire night.

What did it matter that we hadn’t talked? All I knew was that I wanted him. I was in the ‘I’m just fucking men’ phase and saw him as a conquest.

After he had his arm around me, things go dark mentally. The night is in bits and pieces after that. I may have drank a little too much…

Let’s be honest. I drank an inordinate amount.

George Zimmerman ended up being convicted as not-guilty. He was innocent, and if you didn’t know, Sanford is primarily black. Ghetto black.

My mom had called me from Orlando, telling me to not go home. It was predicted to be a dangerous night for someone of my complexion; the white kind of complexion.

However, I had obligations. As soon as the verdict was read, my roomate texted me, making it known that Zimmerman was innocent,and she was worried about the dog. I needed to be sure to make it home to check on the dog and take him out.

Somewhere in the middle of this, the cute guy and I had been kissing, and things were getting heated.

I was the damsel in distress. I couldn’t go back to Sanford and spend the night in my house with George Zimmerman being innocent, and impending riots, could I?

Having barely spoken to each other all night, my liquid courage had me ask him if he would go home with me. He walked me to my car. From there he followed me down that long, dusty dirt road, two tolls, and 40 minutes of alcohol influenced driving, back to my townhouse in Sanford.

Because fuck me if I didn’t take that dog out.

In retrospect, yes I took a random guy home. But he was my best friend’s friend. So that makes it better right?

Knowing that, you can assume we had sex that night. Sex that I vaguely remember, but sex none the less. I mean, I didn’t spend the whole night drooling over him for nothing.

When I woke up the next morning, he was still in my bed.

Not what I was expecting.

Not what I was expecting to the point that I texted my best friend from my bed, naked underneath my comforter with his equally as naked body laying next to mine.

“Why the FUCK is he still in my bed?”

Contrary to the fact that I was confused, and mildly upset that I had a naked stranger in my bed; he woke up, we went at it again, and I took him to breakfast.

I took this stranger to breakfast. I guess I wanted some idea of who this man I had slept with was.

We dabbled in mild conversation, fighting to keep our eyes open. We were too hungover to function. The lights were too bright, our waitress was taking too long, and we both realized Denny’s sucks. Even hungover.

I figured after breakfast he would go home, but that wasn’t the case.

We ended up spending the day at my pool. As my hangover started to wane, the more I realized I was almost glad that I woke up with this man in my bed. He was funny, smart, and charming, and I felt at ease around him.

The day eventually drew to an end with us cuddled up on my couch, and it finally came time for him to leave.

I kissed this once stranger at my doorstep, and he told me to text him some time.

Text him?! I realized I didn’t have his number, so I stared at him blankly while frantically thinking about how the hell to ask him for his number.

We had done it all backwards. Isn’t getting a phone number the first thing you’re supposed to do? Not the last? How did this all get reversed?

After an akward exchange of numbers, he was gone.

But not gone for long. Six months later, what was meant to be a one night stand, still hasn’t ended.

Funny how things play out.