Underwhere Art Thou?

I once read in Cosmo that kissing relieves stress (which could explain why both times I took the SATs I wasn't distracted by boredom but rather by sheer, unadulterated horniness), which I assume relieves stress exponentially with how much other business goes down during a hook up session. And it makes sense; when I flip through my mental rolodex of hookups I realized that the better the night, the less that occupied my mind. When you're in that moment of a great hook-up, nothing else can possibly be on your thoughts. It's kind of like being in Jamaica where there are no worries (hakuna matata?).
The other night I had one of the most stress-free hookups of my entire life with what I can only describe as the most beautiful man in the history of mankind. Now, my not-so-inner narcissist will tell you I don't consider myself to be homely and if I was a guy I would totally want to get with me until I was turned off by my hideous personality, but I'll even admit that this guy was way out of my league. But nonetheless, some higher power took into consideration that my last hook-up had the intellect and temperament of a Real World housemate, which is how I ended up in the beautiful man's bed wearing nothing but my socks and one earring (this was not a fashion statement, I lost the other one.) Being in Jamaica doesn't even begin to describe how unstressed I was. It was like being the queen of Jamaica, smoking a fat blunt on the beach, while listening to a Reggae band play "Hakunah Matata."
Late into the night when things began to cool down, the beautiful man asked me a most decisive late-night question. "So, we have two options," he sexily said, "one, which is the option I like, is that you can sleep over and neither of us have to move, or two is that I can drive you back to your dorm." In fear that come morning and sobriety I'd be too stunned by his good looks to form a sentence, I opted for the ride to my dorm. He left the bedroom to get his keys while I dressed. Boots, check. Dress, check. Purse, check. Bra, check. Underwear... underwear?! I couldn't find my fucking underwear! I searched all over the bed and the floor, but my underwear must have been engulfed in the piles of workout clothes that carpeted the floor. Within seconds I was exiled from Jamaica and thrown into a stress-filled Hell. This wouldn't have been such a big deal had I been wearing a sexy pair of underwear, but of course I needed to do laundry so the pair I'd been wearing was from the Gap.
"Hey, you ready to go?" he asked me with his sexy grin.
Officially rendered out-of-breath and weak-at-the-knees, I managed to get out a "Yeah" and follow him obediently to his car. I should have felt free as I sat in his passenger seat totally commando, but I didn't. I felt imprisoned by my own anxiety. After the longest 3 minute car ride of my entire life, we finally arrived back at my dorm. The beautiful man kissed me goodbye, but all I could think was you're going to be cleaning your room and wonder "Why are my moms panties on the floor?" Hakunah fucking matata.