Tri-Colour Sex Diary: The one where I threw up on his bed

Recounting the time my stomach didn't agree with my Tinder date

An open diary on a desk.

On a Tuesday night in March of my first year at Queen’s, I was walking through a blizzard on my way to my first Tinder meetup. I’d been talking to Ethan* for a few days, and he’d invited me to his residence room to watch a sitcom and drink cheap wine. 

Ethan was funny, forward, and resembled a character from Skins. I was insecure, seeking male attention, and a big fan of British teen dramas. It was a perfect match. 

When I met Ethan in the lobby of his residence, we made small talk as we walked to his room. The conversation wasn’t uncomfortably awkward, and he was just as cute as his pictures. 

When we got to his room, he opened a 1.5 litre bottle of Jackson Triggs Pinot Grigio, got his laptop out, and started the show. We drank the wine straight out of the bottle, passing it back and forth at a consistent pace. 

The wine calmed me down, but I made sure not to drink too much because I knew the only thing worse than awkward silence is being the drunkest one in the room—especially if the only people in that room are you and a random guy from Tinder. 

After a series of events I probably don’t have to explain, I lay awake in Ethan’s bed as he snored beside me. It was 4 a.m., and I couldn’t fall asleep no matter how many times I counted backwards from 100 or took 10 deep breaths. All I could think about was how uncomfortable I was. 

My chest felt tight and my heart was racing. I was thirsty. I had to pee. I wanted to be in my own bed. 

I was no stranger to anxiety and panic attacks. My panic attacks often came on after I had drunk alcohol, whether it was one drink or six. So, as I lay in Ethan’s bed, I realized I was more than just uncomfortable. I was panicking. 

I knew I should get up and go to the bathroom, but I felt paralyzed. I stared at the ceiling and counted myself through deep breathing. I tried a grounding exercise that I’d seen online. Nothing worked.

I suddenly got a feeling that could only mean one thing. My whole body went cold and my stomach felt like it had done a flip. I immediately sat up and tried to climb over Ethan’s sprawled-out limbs to get out of bed, but before I could make my escape, I threw up all over his Target comforter. 

And do you know what doesn’t make your panic attack go away? That. 

Ethan reacted how you’d expect. His frustration was palpable, but I didn’t blame him. I put my clothes on as fast as I could, apologized profusely, and ran back to Victoria Hall before my tears could freeze on my cheeks. 30 minutes later, I was standing with Ethan in the lobby of Vic Hall, adding $10 to his laundry card. It was the least I could do. 

After adding the money, I went back to my room as fast as the Vic elevator would take me and cried to my roommate. I was mortified. 

In typical Queen’s fashion, I saw Ethan on and around campus several times after that. I eventually got over my mortification and chose not to beat myself up for what happened. 

Anxiety is already bad enough without hating myself for it. Plus, his comforter wasn’t that nice anyway.


*Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of students.

Want to submit your own tri-colour sex diary? Email and tell us a little about yourself.

All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s)-in-Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be contacted, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to

When commenting, be considerate and respectful of writers and fellow commenters. Try to stay on topic. Spam and comments that are hateful or discriminatory will be deleted. Our full commenting policy can be read here.