Okay, so. Two more chapters, because by the time I finished Chapter 2 *I*
wanted to see what was going to happen next. ;) Hopefully you will as
well.
I've probably totally mutilated all the character histories and I'm really sorry for that. Like I said, I don't know the show as well as y'all. Most notably, I've no real idea how old Maureen is. And I've probably flubbed up lots of stuff I don't even know about.
Read. Review. pets reader's head Good ff.neter. ;)
JOANNE
Oh. . . my. . . God.
Head. . . ache. . . and. . . swollen. . . and -
OW!
Touching head not good idea. Apparently.
Okay, let's think.
(Ow. Head hurts.)
(That's good, that's a sentence right there. Or almost.)
(Attemping coherence -)
This is not my bed.
Oh, my God, this is not my bed!
Jerking upright was a really bad idea, but I had other things on my mind by then. And - damned if it wasn't Maureen. In her bed. With me, of course. The two of us, sharing her bed. Naked.
Well, there are any number of ways this could have come about, right? This doesn't mean anything at all.
Won't know what happened till I ask her, I guess.
Oh, God, my head hurts.
Try to think, Joanne. Just what did you do?
MAUREEN
She thinks I'm still asleep, doesn't she? Well, it's more fun if I keep on pretending. Give her a chance to work this out for herself.
JOANNE
So, let's take stock. My head feels like the crashing cymbals in a marching band, my mouth tastes like a sewer, I smell like I haven't showered in three days, and I just slept with Maureen Johnson.
At least the last thing makes the rest feel manageable in comparison. What time is it? She hasn't woken up yet - well, of course not, it's 7 am by her clock, which means it could be anywhere between 6:20 and 7:50. When has Maureen ever woken up before noon?
Great. So that means I have plenty of time to figure this out.
So. Last night.
I'm sure I can remember at least parts if I concentrate.
The beginning, of course I remember that. We went out to a bar, naturally. Her suggestion. I might have made a fuss, told her it was coffee or nothing, but since I was planning on telling her, once and for all, that she had to leave me alone or I was calling the cops I figured it was only fair to let her choose the location.
It was one of her mixed bars. The one we met in, actually, though I had no idea it was a mixed bar then. I swear that if Robert hadn't had a sublimated desire to ogle lesbians while he was dating me we wouldn't be in this situation. It's his fault I ever became aware of that bar's existence. What a shame, that he wasn't around to watch last night. I'm sure he would have been vastly entertained. Not to mention aroused.
Oh, my God, it's beginning to come back. She -
No, no, I'm going to do this chronologically.
So she chose the location. "Lava Bar." And, you know, I really intended to order a ginger ale, maybe ask for it on the rocks if Maureen was going to demand sophistication from me. I wasn't going to have anything to drink. Nothing alcoholic. But then we were there, and she was obviously having a great time, flirting with me hard as ever, and something about the way she was doing it -
No, I remember now, what it was. I ordered a drink, and she made a crack about how if I was going to play so hard to get she was going to have to slip something in it to get things going. I was offended - in my job, I've seen too many cases of exactly that to find it funny - and I said something like that and she did her typical wide-eyed innocent "What, is it a crime?" I said, yes, it's called rape, Maureen. And all of a sudden she was serious. I had never seen Maureen serious. I did not think it was possible. But she was, and what she said was, "Come on, Joanne, you don't really think I'd ever force you into anything you didn't want to do, did you?" There was a pause there. "Joanne?" I wasn't sure what to say. "Flirting's one thing, but come on, honey, if you're starting to think I'd take advantage of you, ever, you need to say it. Now."
She's right. She never would. In fact, I'm starting to remember that she didn't, but that's for later. All that mattered at that moment was that suddenly she was acting like she cared about me.
So I ordered a drink. Stoli shot, lime chaser, her suggestion. I thought I'd need some alcohol in me if I wanted to break it off.
Well, this worked out splendidly.
So I had a drink, and I was going to tell her, right then and there, but the conversation moved on, and the moment was lost, but I kept ordering drinks because I didn't know when it was going to be right again, you see? And then somehow she'd dragged me onto the dance floor, and I really don't dance, but last night I was dancing, and she was shaking her ass at me and swinging her hair and I think if she didn't have those little blond curls that fall in her face when she ducks her head to laugh I wouldn't be in this situation either. Not to mention those outrageous leopard-skin pleather pants she had on. There's no one else in the world who could have carried those off.
Yes, so, getting back to the point. I was drunk, in short. And you know, she was not. I'm starting to realize this. She got me drunk and she took advantage of me exactly like she said she never would and -
No, no, I ordered all those drinks. I got myself drunk. It's not her fault she had to be the designated driver.
It was her fault that she drove me back to her place, but it's true that mine's twenty-five minutes from the Lava Bar and she'd have had a fifty- minute round trip. "You can crash at my place," she said, saucy as ever, licking her lips. I was too drunk to care, or maybe just drunk enough to find it sexy. So she drove me back to her place. I was in a babbling state by then. I don't care to think of what I was saying, but I know she found it highly amusing, I remember her laughing the whole way home, her hair falling in her eyes and then flipping back when she'd gun the engine. I do remember realizing, somewhere during the ride, that she's gorgeous. I'm pretty sure I told her that. I must have. Why else would she have leaned away from the wheel to kiss me on the cheek? I remember horns honking. Just the memory is making my head hurt.
We got back to her place and - okay, this is when it all happened, I have to remember. We got back to her place, and I kicked my shoes off, because I was wobbling seriously in those heels by then. I noticed that the inside of the sole was dirty, I need new shoes, those ones are old and I can't use baking soda to take the smell out much longer. Maureen kicked off her shoes, and threw her jacket off, and suddenly I was so aware of that halter top she was wearing, and I wanted to undo all my buttons, but I only undid one of them. Maybe two. And - what did we do? I remember more drinks (*that* was her fault, or did I ask for them?) And - what else?
Oh, my God, it's all coming back to me now. I remember.
We played Truth or Dare, that's what we did. What, are we fifteen years old now?
What did I tell her?
I've probably totally mutilated all the character histories and I'm really sorry for that. Like I said, I don't know the show as well as y'all. Most notably, I've no real idea how old Maureen is. And I've probably flubbed up lots of stuff I don't even know about.
Read. Review. pets reader's head Good ff.neter. ;)
JOANNE
Oh. . . my. . . God.
Head. . . ache. . . and. . . swollen. . . and -
OW!
Touching head not good idea. Apparently.
Okay, let's think.
(Ow. Head hurts.)
(That's good, that's a sentence right there. Or almost.)
(Attemping coherence -)
This is not my bed.
Oh, my God, this is not my bed!
Jerking upright was a really bad idea, but I had other things on my mind by then. And - damned if it wasn't Maureen. In her bed. With me, of course. The two of us, sharing her bed. Naked.
Well, there are any number of ways this could have come about, right? This doesn't mean anything at all.
Won't know what happened till I ask her, I guess.
Oh, God, my head hurts.
Try to think, Joanne. Just what did you do?
MAUREEN
She thinks I'm still asleep, doesn't she? Well, it's more fun if I keep on pretending. Give her a chance to work this out for herself.
JOANNE
So, let's take stock. My head feels like the crashing cymbals in a marching band, my mouth tastes like a sewer, I smell like I haven't showered in three days, and I just slept with Maureen Johnson.
At least the last thing makes the rest feel manageable in comparison. What time is it? She hasn't woken up yet - well, of course not, it's 7 am by her clock, which means it could be anywhere between 6:20 and 7:50. When has Maureen ever woken up before noon?
Great. So that means I have plenty of time to figure this out.
So. Last night.
I'm sure I can remember at least parts if I concentrate.
The beginning, of course I remember that. We went out to a bar, naturally. Her suggestion. I might have made a fuss, told her it was coffee or nothing, but since I was planning on telling her, once and for all, that she had to leave me alone or I was calling the cops I figured it was only fair to let her choose the location.
It was one of her mixed bars. The one we met in, actually, though I had no idea it was a mixed bar then. I swear that if Robert hadn't had a sublimated desire to ogle lesbians while he was dating me we wouldn't be in this situation. It's his fault I ever became aware of that bar's existence. What a shame, that he wasn't around to watch last night. I'm sure he would have been vastly entertained. Not to mention aroused.
Oh, my God, it's beginning to come back. She -
No, no, I'm going to do this chronologically.
So she chose the location. "Lava Bar." And, you know, I really intended to order a ginger ale, maybe ask for it on the rocks if Maureen was going to demand sophistication from me. I wasn't going to have anything to drink. Nothing alcoholic. But then we were there, and she was obviously having a great time, flirting with me hard as ever, and something about the way she was doing it -
No, I remember now, what it was. I ordered a drink, and she made a crack about how if I was going to play so hard to get she was going to have to slip something in it to get things going. I was offended - in my job, I've seen too many cases of exactly that to find it funny - and I said something like that and she did her typical wide-eyed innocent "What, is it a crime?" I said, yes, it's called rape, Maureen. And all of a sudden she was serious. I had never seen Maureen serious. I did not think it was possible. But she was, and what she said was, "Come on, Joanne, you don't really think I'd ever force you into anything you didn't want to do, did you?" There was a pause there. "Joanne?" I wasn't sure what to say. "Flirting's one thing, but come on, honey, if you're starting to think I'd take advantage of you, ever, you need to say it. Now."
She's right. She never would. In fact, I'm starting to remember that she didn't, but that's for later. All that mattered at that moment was that suddenly she was acting like she cared about me.
So I ordered a drink. Stoli shot, lime chaser, her suggestion. I thought I'd need some alcohol in me if I wanted to break it off.
Well, this worked out splendidly.
So I had a drink, and I was going to tell her, right then and there, but the conversation moved on, and the moment was lost, but I kept ordering drinks because I didn't know when it was going to be right again, you see? And then somehow she'd dragged me onto the dance floor, and I really don't dance, but last night I was dancing, and she was shaking her ass at me and swinging her hair and I think if she didn't have those little blond curls that fall in her face when she ducks her head to laugh I wouldn't be in this situation either. Not to mention those outrageous leopard-skin pleather pants she had on. There's no one else in the world who could have carried those off.
Yes, so, getting back to the point. I was drunk, in short. And you know, she was not. I'm starting to realize this. She got me drunk and she took advantage of me exactly like she said she never would and -
No, no, I ordered all those drinks. I got myself drunk. It's not her fault she had to be the designated driver.
It was her fault that she drove me back to her place, but it's true that mine's twenty-five minutes from the Lava Bar and she'd have had a fifty- minute round trip. "You can crash at my place," she said, saucy as ever, licking her lips. I was too drunk to care, or maybe just drunk enough to find it sexy. So she drove me back to her place. I was in a babbling state by then. I don't care to think of what I was saying, but I know she found it highly amusing, I remember her laughing the whole way home, her hair falling in her eyes and then flipping back when she'd gun the engine. I do remember realizing, somewhere during the ride, that she's gorgeous. I'm pretty sure I told her that. I must have. Why else would she have leaned away from the wheel to kiss me on the cheek? I remember horns honking. Just the memory is making my head hurt.
We got back to her place and - okay, this is when it all happened, I have to remember. We got back to her place, and I kicked my shoes off, because I was wobbling seriously in those heels by then. I noticed that the inside of the sole was dirty, I need new shoes, those ones are old and I can't use baking soda to take the smell out much longer. Maureen kicked off her shoes, and threw her jacket off, and suddenly I was so aware of that halter top she was wearing, and I wanted to undo all my buttons, but I only undid one of them. Maybe two. And - what did we do? I remember more drinks (*that* was her fault, or did I ask for them?) And - what else?
Oh, my God, it's all coming back to me now. I remember.
We played Truth or Dare, that's what we did. What, are we fifteen years old now?
What did I tell her?