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I met B at a party two years ago.

B was very handsome: pale skin, soft brown hair and a chiseled jawline. All the boys at the party went gaga for him—so, naturally, I didn’t like him. He was taking attention away from me, and that wasn’t easy: I was wearing pleated wool mid-thigh shorts.

Unfortunately, once I introduced myself, he was sweet, oozing Midwest charm. He made it impossible for me not to like him. We talked for a bit and added each other on Facebook.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago. We’d talked here and there, in small spurts, but suddenly B decided to take a real interest in me. Talk of jobs and selfies turned to talk of blowjobs and dick pics, and one night he invited me over.

I was free, but if I wasn’t I would have cancelled whatever plans I had. In truth, I was just as bad as every boy at that party, spending the better part of two years drooling over his Facebook photos and wondering if I’d ever run into him again.

He sent me his address: Upper East Side.

I cannot possibly live further away from the Upper East Side. There is no train I can take, unless I want to go way downtown from my Upper-Upper West Side apartment (Yes, we’re talking Washington Heights) and then uptown again on the green line. With payday the following day, I didn’t have enough money for a cab. After making sure it was OK for me to spend the night, I packed my Coach leather backpack with clothes for work, spritzed on Burberry cologne and made the trip.

I took the 1 train down to 86th, then transferred to the M86 SBS all the way through Central Park to 1st Ave.

Once I arrived, I knew it would be worth it. He’d just showered and answered the door in a towel. The towel didn’t stay wrapped around his waist for long, and neither did my Andrew Christian jockstrap. We flip-fucked for hours, and I barely had the energy to clean up before passing out.

The next morning I kissed him softly. “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked as he came to.

“Urg,” he mumbled. “That’s actually through my roommate’s room, and she sleeps in late.”

I sat up. “OK. Well, I’m sticky on both sides, and I have to be at work in an hour.”

“Yeah…I don’t know what to tell you.”

I jumped up, put my sweater on inside out and ran to the bus stop. I caught a glimpse of my over-proccessed blonde hair in a storefront—it was sticking straight out on both sides. I looked insane.

I took the bus to the train to my apartment, showered, blow-dried my hair and got back on the train to work. I was 30 minutes late.

And I’ll do it all over again if he asks me.

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