The first time your boyfriend spends the night/ The first night you spend at his.

What's the worst that can happen?

The topic came up after a close girlfriend of mine rang me to tell me she'd finally slept with her new boyfriend for the first time.

"It was awful. I mean, just awful! I was completely naked. Butt bloody naked. I was trying to find my phone, but I couldn't really see properly. Oh god it's just so tragic! I....leaned over to try and look for it, but I sort of half tripped at the foot of the bed, and fell onto him. Naked. Completely bloody naked. In the cold light of day. Do you think that's why he hasn't called?"
"What, because you fell on him naked?!" I laughed. "No! I'm being serious here! Seriously, I fell on him. Naked. No one is going to want that first thing in the morning. I don't really like anyone seeing me naked, you know that. Least of all someone I've only just met. Plus, when I woke up, I went to the bathroom, and, I could not have looked any worse." "Er, no. Can we take a moment to remember my experience of staying over at you-know-who's place please?" I said laughing. "I know, but it couldn't have been as bad as mine" she said."Are you kidding me? It's one of the most tragic experiences I've ever had to live through." "Oh, I bet it wasn't that bad."
"Right, you're just asking for it now. I'm warning you. It is tradge." I said laughing even more.

OK. So. Cut a long story short. I'd been seeing said person for a little while, and was rather smitten. Things were going well you might say. Little catch: he lived in London, and I in Oxfordshire. (Must all men I like live in London?) It was therefore inevitable that the situation of staying over at one anothers places would come up a little sooner for us than it may do for most.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the tragic night/morning:

The first time we went to sleep together was at mine. Now that was fine. That night slash morning was really rather good actually; it was graceful. I was graceful. The situation was graceful: there was some grace. We went to sleep together. I woke early enough before him, so that I could brush my teeth, have a shower, and put some mascara on. I.e I looked half normal when he woke.
This was sadly not the case when I stayed at his.
I'm sure I'm not the only girl who worries about spending the night with their boyfriend for the first time. In fact I know I'm not as whenever a girlfriend rings me to tell me about their first-night -stay, it is always how the next morning played out that they tell me about first. The sex comes later.

I think where the tragedy may have laid, was in the sheer stupidity of me not taking an over night bag to his: I made my way there with only a wallet and a mobile phone; I did not realise I would be sleeping over. I therefore had none of the tools I usually rely on to make me look half human in the mornings.
As it started to get late, I remembered this fact, and contemplated calling a cab. Only then he started kissing me, and I lost all concept of time.

As the sun started to rise the next morning, and light began to pour in through his bedroom window, I felt a warm wave of contentment over my body; that was until I realised my face was stuck to his chest. I slowly untangled myself from his arms, and began to paw my way softly to the edge of the bed.

- First strike of tragedy.

As I softly tried to paw my way to the edge of the bed I somehow managed to get caught in the bed sheet, which resulted in me falling to the floor with a loud thud.

"What the hell was that? Are you OK?" he said, startled.

"Oh yeah, um, I'm fine. Morning! Just looking for something. Um, I think I dropped my phone under the bed."

'I bet this has never happened to Nicole Kidman', I thought. 'Nicole Kidman is always so graceful. Why can't I ever be graceful?'

"Where's my underwear?" I asked him, as I desperatley tried to cover myself with his bedsheet.

"Why?"

"Er, because I want to go to the bathroom?" I said sheepishly.

"So?"

"Well, I don't really want to walk around your house naked." I said laughing, but meaning it.

"Why ever not? I think it would be nice for you to walk around my house naked. Very nice actually."

"Well that's sweet, but I don't want to scare your housemates this early in the morning."

"No one's here. It's just you and me honey."

"Well, I'd quite like not to be naked all the same if that's OK."

"Spoil sport. Here you go." He said, as tossed me my underwear.

Remembering I had no toothbrush, I quickly rummaged through my bag hoping to find a piece of chewing gum: no such luck. I hurriedly made my way to his bathroom, preparing myself for what I was about to see in the mirror.

'Right, whatever you look like, it is salvageable. I'm sure it will be salvageable.' I said to myself. Not so much. I looked in the mirror. Only it was not myself who looked back at me, it was some hybrid of a monster. Something between Alice Cooper and Worzel Gummage.

'Damn. This isn't good. I look like a drag queen', I said to my reflection, as I stood in front of the mirror. Without a hair brush I began to try and salvage the situation, and started to run my fingers through my matted hair; desperately trying to pat down the weird Amy Winehouse beehive that had occurred in the space of me being asleep. Only, when I started to do this, my hair started to expand. OK. STOP. TOUCHING. YOUR. HAIR.
I then began to focus my attentions on the bigger task at hand: My face. The night before I had looked in F2's bathroom for any form of a face wipe, or face wash that I could take my eye make up off with. Was there any? Was there hell. I was therefore forced to go to sleep with said eye make up on: 12 hours later, and said eye make up was now mysteriously in my hair line (!?) and well, pretty much all over my face. This was bad. This was seriously bad. By now, I had been in his bathroom for almost ten minutes; ten minutes frantically spent:

1. Trying to make my hair a little less Winehouse, and a little more groomed. (2 mins approx)

2. Looking for toilet paper so that I could roll a piece into some sort of faux cotton bud capable of getting the gloop of eyeliner out the corner of my eye. I couldn't find any toilet paper. (3 mins approx)

3. Staring in bewilderment at just how much I looked like a drag queen ( 5 mins approx)

I then searched fruitlessly for a spare toothbrush with which to clean my teeth. There was however a tube of macleans on the sink. Salvageable. Salvageable. 'I'll just eat some', I thought. 'That will freshen me up'. Clearly this was not a toothpaste that had been used in quite some time, as when I went to eat a mouthful it was distinctly hard, and well, distinctly old. There I was, some weird mix of Amy Winehouse meets Worzel Gummage, meets Alice Cooper, eating stale toothpaste. Classy.
Aware that I had been in his bathroom for quite some time, and that there was nothing in there capable of making me look anything near human, I admitted defeat, and went back into his bedroom. I crawled back into bed, hoping, just maybe he had less than normal vision and therefore would not be able to see just how horrific I looked.

"Right. Are you starting to feel my pain?", I squealed to my girlfriend down the phone.

"Yes. Does sound pretty tragic to be fair, but I have two questions. 1. What did he do when you got back into bed? and 2. Did he call you when you got home?"

"Well. We slept together, and yes he did, but that does not prove anything. All it really confirmed was that he was partially sighted."

"Let's hope mine was too then." She said. "I'm still waiting for the fucker to call!"