Make-out Marathon

I had consumed three quarters of the Charles Shaw Shiraz she had left at my apartment, the remainder of a good night. I settled into my half of the couch, reserving a spot for my roommate on his half despite his absence. At approximately 9:10PM she sent me a text, inviting me to Williamsburg for drinks with her and her friends. She had taken the red eye back to Bradley, driven to White Plains, taken MetroNorth into Grand Central and met up with her good friend in Brooklyn. I battled the lethargic urge to wallow in my Shiraz drunk, and made it to the other borough. We exchanged pleasantries, caught up, she downed shots and beers, and then fessed up. See, I had always believed her when she maintained her posture as an asexual. I really had no reason not to, but then she shattered that notion with a simple sentence.

Friend: I had a make-out session with a 19 year old for 8 hours on a Lovesac.

S.A.: What the f*ck? [I look at her friend and confirm the fact as she displayed a laugh] No f*cking way. I'm going to call bullsh*t on that. I've known you since I was thirteen... Also nobody makes out for 8 hours. I'm sorry.

Michelle: What's even more ridiculous is that you timed this 8 hour make-out.

S.A.: Yeah, absolutely no possible way. Who does that? I mean when I time myself it's fairly simple. Eight seconds, and she's completely unsatisfied.

Friend: I made out with another boy for 6 hours after twelve hours of drinking and a softball game.

S.A.: Alright, I've heard enough.

The night stumbled on, and bottles of liquor were emptied, but nothing was really notable beyond that exchange.