candy kisses, sugary sweet. I twist and turn, shoving through the stink of sweating bodies, staggering away from the table and into the relative coolness of the open bar.
There are so many people here. How can there be so many people on a Thursday night?
College town, my head tells me. Everyone drinks all the time. Does the day end in ‘y’? Someone is drinking.
I have to find the restroom. I really do have to piss. Or pass out.
I feel my way in the dark, knocked between my fellow drunks like a pinball, heading for the back of the bar, where the restrooms always are. The bright neon lights tell me I’m getting some where, though I can hardly read them, I’m so drunk.
To my relief, the bathrooms are through a cramped little hallway. Women’s at the end. I push through the door and practically mince to the nearest stall. I grab the edge and sag against it, suddenly feeling far more drunk than I thought I was. With clumsy fingers, moving strangely through time, I unbutton my pants and shove them down before finally relieving myself. I lean against the side of the stall, thinking how comfortable it is here.
The sound of the door opening jolts me awake. I’m not sure if I was asleep, but I was drifting somewhere, afloat on a cloud of numbness. Shakily I stand up and pull myself together. As I wash my hands, I try not to look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to know how terrible I look.
When I leave the restroom, my drinking contest opponent is there.
He smiles at me and grabs my hand before pulling me into the men’s room.
He’s still hot, I think, but now I don’t want to fuck him. I just want to sit down and go to sleep. It doesn’t matter where. I’m tired.
But then he sequesters us in the handicap stall and his mouth meets mine, and for a moment I am warm all over, inside and out.
I’m too drunk. I fade in and out as he kisses me, his hands everywhere on my body, slipping under my shirt, moving over my waist and down to my ass, pulling me against him. I feel the hardness of his erection through his pants, and the familiar flood of desire and need sluices through me. I am lazy in his arms, leaning into him, and his hands come up to cup my breasts.
I fade out. I fade in.
His jeans are open. In my fingers he is hard and hot, and his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me down, down.
I shake my head.
I fade out. I fade in.
I’m looking straight at his cock. I’m on my knees. The tiles bite and hurt. He’s trying to guide himself inside my mouth, his hand fisted in my hair.
I push away. “No,” I say.
The cold of the tiles under me cuts through the drunken haze. I come to myself a bit, and I realize where I am.
A dirty bathroom in a shitty club, about to give a blowjob to a complete stranger.
With great effort I scramble to my feet.
“Come on, baby,” he’s crooning, but I shake my head and fumble with the lock. He mutters something, but then I am opening the stall and stumbling out of the bathroom, past two guys standing at the urinals. I duck my head and push back into the bar, feeling so sick with myself that I can hardly think.
Smoke stuffs my nose. I’m going to vomit, and it has nothing to do with alcohol. Shoving forward, I fight my way through the crush of people until I’m miraculously at the front of the bar. I fall against the door and spill out into the cold October night.
The chill air slaps me across the face and sobers me somewhat, and I realize that I don’t recognize where I am. I thought I was at McGruder’s, but I’m not. I crane my neck to look at the neon lettering over the door, but my eyes hurt, and I’m too drunk to read it. My vision is blurred, skating over the letters as though they were ice.
Closing my eyes I take a deep breath of cold air.
I need to get home somehow. I need to call someone. Someone who wouldn’t mind coming out at, oh God, one in the morning on a Friday. Fuck. Fuck. Someone who won’t judge me. Someone who won’t gossip.
I pull
There are so many people here. How can there be so many people on a Thursday night?
College town, my head tells me. Everyone drinks all the time. Does the day end in ‘y’? Someone is drinking.
I have to find the restroom. I really do have to piss. Or pass out.
I feel my way in the dark, knocked between my fellow drunks like a pinball, heading for the back of the bar, where the restrooms always are. The bright neon lights tell me I’m getting some where, though I can hardly read them, I’m so drunk.
To my relief, the bathrooms are through a cramped little hallway. Women’s at the end. I push through the door and practically mince to the nearest stall. I grab the edge and sag against it, suddenly feeling far more drunk than I thought I was. With clumsy fingers, moving strangely through time, I unbutton my pants and shove them down before finally relieving myself. I lean against the side of the stall, thinking how comfortable it is here.
The sound of the door opening jolts me awake. I’m not sure if I was asleep, but I was drifting somewhere, afloat on a cloud of numbness. Shakily I stand up and pull myself together. As I wash my hands, I try not to look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to know how terrible I look.
When I leave the restroom, my drinking contest opponent is there.
He smiles at me and grabs my hand before pulling me into the men’s room.
He’s still hot, I think, but now I don’t want to fuck him. I just want to sit down and go to sleep. It doesn’t matter where. I’m tired.
But then he sequesters us in the handicap stall and his mouth meets mine, and for a moment I am warm all over, inside and out.
I’m too drunk. I fade in and out as he kisses me, his hands everywhere on my body, slipping under my shirt, moving over my waist and down to my ass, pulling me against him. I feel the hardness of his erection through his pants, and the familiar flood of desire and need sluices through me. I am lazy in his arms, leaning into him, and his hands come up to cup my breasts.
I fade out. I fade in.
His jeans are open. In my fingers he is hard and hot, and his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me down, down.
I shake my head.
I fade out. I fade in.
I’m looking straight at his cock. I’m on my knees. The tiles bite and hurt. He’s trying to guide himself inside my mouth, his hand fisted in my hair.
I push away. “No,” I say.
The cold of the tiles under me cuts through the drunken haze. I come to myself a bit, and I realize where I am.
A dirty bathroom in a shitty club, about to give a blowjob to a complete stranger.
With great effort I scramble to my feet.
“Come on, baby,” he’s crooning, but I shake my head and fumble with the lock. He mutters something, but then I am opening the stall and stumbling out of the bathroom, past two guys standing at the urinals. I duck my head and push back into the bar, feeling so sick with myself that I can hardly think.
Smoke stuffs my nose. I’m going to vomit, and it has nothing to do with alcohol. Shoving forward, I fight my way through the crush of people until I’m miraculously at the front of the bar. I fall against the door and spill out into the cold October night.
The chill air slaps me across the face and sobers me somewhat, and I realize that I don’t recognize where I am. I thought I was at McGruder’s, but I’m not. I crane my neck to look at the neon lettering over the door, but my eyes hurt, and I’m too drunk to read it. My vision is blurred, skating over the letters as though they were ice.
Closing my eyes I take a deep breath of cold air.
I need to get home somehow. I need to call someone. Someone who wouldn’t mind coming out at, oh God, one in the morning on a Friday. Fuck. Fuck. Someone who won’t judge me. Someone who won’t gossip.
I pull
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