One Night Stand Miraculously Lasts for Eight Nights

In a rare feat that some residents are calling a “miracle,” a Chestnut Hill, MA resident has somehow managed to sustain a random one-night stand for the unheard-of duration of eight nights and counting. Rachel Perrault, 29, has been spending the last week with a 23 year-old part-time bartender whom she’s “pretty sure” is named Clay.

Perrault was just off a long day’s work from her job as a teacher’s assistant at Boston College’s Jewish Studies department, and decided to stop by a T.G.I. Friday’s to grade her class’s midterm writing assignments. “I was so tired of going straight home after work all the time,” she explains, saying that her life had become very routine since taking the TA job. “I was just looking to mix it up, maybe get a little tipsy, text my ex or something, some kind of slightly regrettable way of blowing off some steam.” She shook her head, while adjusting a pashmina shawl around her hickey-covered neck. “But I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”


She headed over to the casual American eatery on Worcester Road (“They have better guac”) and set herself up with her papers at the end of the bar. That’s when she noticed the glittering eyes, bulging triceps forearm tattoo of Clay (“or maybe Jay?”) behind the rusted auto parts-covered bar. Their eyes met. She smiled, and he strode confidently over to her guitar-themed side of the room. He asked, “Are you a gold Points Rewards Club member?” before entering into some casual yet flirty banter about the drink menu.


“Right then, that’s when I knew: we were gonna fuck in my car.”


After three hours of vigorous lovemaking in her Miata behind the dumpsters of Buy Buy Baby, Perrault realized this was no ordinary one-night stand. ‘There was just something about it that felt almost impossible, like, he was actually pretty funny and smart, despite having a Dropkick Murphys tattoo on his bicep.”



They quickly drove to her apartment complex and copulated until 11am the following day, at which point Clay (“Dan?”) made a delicious Jack Daniels frittata. “It was so weird, I didn’t even care that he was still in my apartment,” she explained, trying to work out a large knot of hair on the back of her head.


On the fifth day of shockingly enjoyable yet meaningless sex, the two received grim phone calls from their respective employers, but neither seemed to mind. “We’ve been enjoying each other’s company so much, but not in a relationshippy way at all,” gushes Perrault. “I mean, after eight days, I still neither like nor hate him. I know virtually nothing about him.”


Sitting on her couch and icing a rope burn, she told reporters of the parallels between her story and the miracle of Hanukkah. “It really reminds me of the rededication of the temple in Jerusalem. The Maccabees were so tired of being persecuted all the time, and all they wanted was a little oil. Then the oil ends up lasting over a week? It’s just crazy.”


When asked if Clay (“Bjørn? something Swedish?”) would be interviewed for the story, Perrault shook her head, while checking her phone. “It’s weird, he hasn’t texted me back since last night.”