Free Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy by Ophira Eisenberg

Orange Crush later, I guzzled a Lite beer and smoked a joint in preparation for the drinking game, an athletic event where we put our hands on a beach ball, spun around three times, and ran as fast as we could toward the headlights of the Land Rover. The car radio was blaring pop music, and everyone was hooting and staggering in the sand. It was like a frat party without being in college, and I was having a blast.
    The next thing I knew, the sun was peeking out from the horizon, and people began to crash on the beach. Still fully awake, walking thefine line between drunk and distilled, I decided to go for a stumble near the ocean. Trying to keep my balance while sinking in the sand, I heard a male voice call, “Hi!” It was one of the Brits from the group. We stood quietly near the lapping waves, the first rays of sun warming our feet, and he leaned in to kiss me. I pulled away ever so slightly, but quickly submitted to how good it felt, sloppily kissing back. For months, I’d been skirting real abandon on this trip, so I welcomed the opportunity to give in and let go. What’s a little make-out session between strangers, right? Isn’t that on the subitinerary of every backpacker’s trip abroad? But the next thing I knew, we were lying down on the sand, naked. Then we were having sex on the beach. It felt like grinding pepper.
    I woke inside the oven of burning nylon that was his tent. My head throbbed, my throat was parched from my lips to my stomach, and the scent of fermented liquor oozed from my pores. Peeling my eyes open, I shuddered as the memories slowly crept in.
    Had I really cheated on Michael? With this guy? Some snoring, Beatle-loving, slightly pudgy, ginger-haired Brit? It wasn’t a nightmare. Fuck. Fuck! Shame washed over my soul. I’d ruined everything. Ruined my perfect relationship. Become the stereotype of a stupid seventeen-year-old girl who drank too much and screwed some guy. I didn’t even know his name! This wasn’t a rehearsal. I wasn’t in boyfriend previews anymore. Michael was the real thing, and I’d destroyed it in one dumb night.
    But in reality, I had no idea what it really meant to ruin something. Not yet.
    Plucking the Brit’s sweaty arm off my naked body, I shimmied into my shorts and went for another walk to figure things out. Along the forest path, I spotted an iconic red pay phone nestled between a palm tree and a giant fern. It must be a sign . I collect-called Michael.
    I didn’t know what I was going to say, but before I could sputter a desperate hello, he said, “I have a big surprise for you!”
    That made two of us.
    “I’m going to come meet you in Los Angeles on your way back. I’ll drive down, pick you up at the airport, and then we can make our way back home together up the coast.”
    He also mentioned that this was an extra big deal because it would be his first trip with a girlfriend. Ever .
    I was stunned that the universe would actually reward me after what I’d done.
    I replied, “I can’t wait!”
    AS THEY SAY , there are no atheists in foxholes, and for the next two months I made promises to God, the universe, dead relatives, and the laws of science that I wouldn’t screw up again. If I could get through this, I pledged to become the archetype of the ideal, faithful, doting girlfriend.
    At a hostel in Auckland, two days before my flight to LA, I woke up startled by a creeping thought. I did some mental menstrual math, only to confirm my worst fear: Holy shit. I might be pregnant.
    Okay, Ophira, don’t freak out . I steeled myself against panic andwent into troubleshooting mode. I could figure this out. I was plucky and self-reliant, right? And I was still off the grid for the next forty-eight hours. God and my dead relatives wouldn’t let me down. They couldn’t . Michael and I were meant to be.
    With the kind of conviction a better person would reserve for something really important, like peace in the Middle East, I ran down to the front desk of