The last time I went karaoke-ing, it was February and cold, and I got way drunker than everyone else. I distinctly remember started singing “Who Let the Dogs Out?”, which seemed like a good idea, but it turns out that song is way too long and way too repetitive to be a good singalong song; I still don’t quite know how much I embarrassed myself.
Later that night I ended up sleeping on the floor with a friend at a different friend’s apartment. We cuddled and snuggled and hugged and nibbled and scratched and slowly went from none- to half-naked; she let me touch her (at least until her conscious overcame her) but we didn’t kiss.
That night, we didn’t sleep a wink, both from our excessive heat radiating into each other and being blue-balled enthralled with the idea of going just a little further with each other, just not quite jumping in.
As we teased each other and ourselves the whole night, these large dogs were barking at nothing in the distance—not aggressively, but like they were defeated. Barking just to let someone know that they’re there, maybe. And each time I go back and relive that memory, those goddamn dogs are there with us.