You feel your legs begin to twitch under the covers. You open your eyes. It's light outside, but very little of the light is getting past the room-darkening shades. Nothing around you looks right. Your balance is off, and your head swoons. You look at the clock. It's in the wrong place. 5 a.m. You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Then you feel the hangover right behind your eyes. What did you drink last night? Oh shit! Tequila shooters. You try to remember if you smoked any shit. It's gone. The whole evening is gone.

You feel a stirring next to you. You turn slowly to see. Yup, there's somebody there all right, huddled under the covers like dirty laundry. You ponder whether to leave her there asleep, or wake her up. She clears her throat. Damn, she has a deep voice. You peek under the covers. The girl is creamy white like she never gets out. She's lying on her stomach. She sure has a skinny ass. And she's small. She has a body like a little boy. A mop of brown hair covers her face. She rolls onto her back. The bitch has a dick!

You resist the impulse to shout. You don't want to wake her . . . him . . . it up. You vow never to drink tequila again for as long as you live. Ok. You've got to think. Maybe there is a reasonable explanation. Maybe nothing happened.

He rolls over and slowly opens one eye, then both eyes, then smiles at you.

"Hey, baby," he says. His voice is still deep, but now it has a whisperyness to it. He wants to sound sultry. He has a Puerto Rican accent. "Did you sleep well?" He smells like a man.

"Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I live here," he answers, his smile still radiant. You wonder if his too even front teeth are real.

"Ok, then what am I doing here?"

"Getting ready to play mama, I hope."

"I don't do the mama thing," you inform him.

"That's not what you said last night."