He was a DMU student, which should have been my first warning about the night ahead. For anonymity let’s call him “Baz”, after the legendary O2 photographer. I’d been on a few dates with “Baz” and was in that slightly unsure phase and couldn’t decide if I wanted to see him again. I invited to my house for a drink while my flatmate was out determined to make my mind up.
I was drinking wine while he was drinking gin and we were keeping a steady pace, but I wasn’t feeling too rough. It gets to about midnight and he says, “I feel a bit drunk, is there anywhere I can lie down?” I thought this must be a line but either way, I let him into my room, and he sits on the bed staring at the wall, at this point, I start to think he might actually be very drunk.
I take my place on the bed next to him concerned I might have a bloke passed out in my room all night causing me a dodgy night’s sleep. All colour has drained from his face and his throat is making a wet gagging noise.
“You sound like you’re about to be sick…” I say concerned just a moment before he projectile vomits everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean everywhere: the walls, the carpet, my bed, his-self and me. Dazed, I sit frozen while somebody else’s sick drips off my hair and “Baz” runs to the toilet. After a few minutes where I haven’t moved, he returns apologising. However, instead of leaving, he proceeds to climb into my bed wearing his vomit-covered clothes.
I ask him to get out and leave because I don’t want my room to smell of digested pizza for the next month and I need to shower and fast. After an hour or so of stripping my bed and scrubbing my walls with bleach and hot water and realise, at least he’s helped me with my decision, and I don’t have to see him again. I’d almost see it as a favour if there wasn’t a permanent brown stain on my carpet.
The author would like to remain anonymous.
Image from CANVA