I was bored. It always started like that.
I usually had some sensibility. But only in the same way a lion is sensible around prey when its trainer is near- well behaved enough to earn its food. That burning monster of need was kept controlled by a version of me with higher morals, for the most part. I hesitate to call myself an addict; some people just have a very big appetite. But I kept it mostly sated with the occasional hookup, or attempted to. Sometimes it just needed too badly- I needed too badly.
Tonight was one of those nights, I thought, gazing detached at the scene in front of me. It was New Years Eve, and the party I was standing outside of was deafeningly alive already. You couldn’t walk more than ten feet without touching glitter or spilled alcohol. Part of me loved it. But that other part of me cried in the back of my mind that I needed a different type of thrill.
It would have to wait. A chill on the breeze shocked me from the depths of thought back into my shoes. My friends huddled in a large circle, shivering in the cold as we waited in the long line to get in. Two different groups meshed together in coming; my three best girlfriends were all dressed to the nines, like me, and looked stunning even trembling at the night’s bite. A guy friend of mine, one of the only other stoners I could find at the school, was going in with a friend of his and ours and splitting off to meet more friends inside. Pressed together, we gossiped about people we hoped not to see. I couldn’t keep my mind in the conversation, though. I’d taken tequila shots and smoked a shared joint before coming here, but I was definitely still too sober. As we finally got past the makeshift security of frat pledges, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t be conscious by midnight.
After two beatboxes and twenty minutes of shouting over the music with people outside, I needed to dance. I grabbed my friend by the arm.
“Do you want to head inside? I love this song!” I had to scream into her ear for her to hear me.
She nodded excitedly, and we tapped our other friends and gestured to follow through the crowd. Inside was about thirty degrees warmer, and for a moment each flash of the pulsing lights blinded me. But it didn’t matter; I was tipsy. And toeing the line of drunk, thanks to Mr and Mrs 11% ABV. Nursing a third box in one hand, we danced. As friends and as a party, a sea of people and a feeling like a world of freedom.
And yet. The little voice in the back of my head kept snapping me out of the party’s trance. My eyes lingered too long on every semi-attractive man with exposed arms and full lips, and I knew it. On the outside I maintained ‘normalcy’— laughing, shouting song lyrics, and ignoring eyes I saw undressing me, but inside I felt like a dog in heat. I needed to do something.
I appraised the crowd nearest me. Always looming were boys who would never say a word, spending the whole party trying in vain to work up the will to act. They loved when you talked to them. I turned to one and gave him a sly look. Holding out my hand for his, I placed it on my shoulder and turned around with a snap that made my hair flip dramatically. Legs locked, I slowly bent at the hips in front of him and circled my hips with the music a few times teasingly. He was slack-jawed, and I was able to draw words from him. After a few lines of stumbled speech, though, I quickly decided my efforts would be best spent elsewhere.
I leaned to my friend's ear and told her I was stepping outside for a minute. She made sure I had my phone, asked if I needed anything, and assured me they wouldn’t leave without me. Then she wished me luck, and I was on my own against the crowd. I weaved my way back outside and found an empty bench to sit at.
I shivered and chastised myself for not planning for the weather better. A jacket would be impractical, but leggings would have made for a much more comfortable evening than my short sleeveless dress. The dark navy fabric made my eyes pop, but did little against the cold. Not to mention the breeze against my inner thighs with every gust; my inner exhibitionist convinced me not to bother with shorts. I tried to mentally block out the cold; I was slowly processing the alcohol I drank, and I knew before long it would feel relieving anyways. I took a slow breath, and let the feeling wash over me. Slowly my body heat was increasing, flushing my cheeks in a way I could only compare to one thing right then. God, I was horny.
The bench creaked as another partygoer settled next to me. The smell of skunk hit my nose before I turned my head, and I could recognize my friend before my eyes met him. I burst into a drunkish-tipsy smile. “Hey, how’s your night going?” I asked, only slightly slurred.
He chuckled. “Pretty good, but I’m out of gas. I expected to be drunker at this party, so I didn’t bring or smoke enough.”
My lips curled to a more mischievous grin. “Well, I might have something for that.” I reached behind each ear, and proudly whipped out the joints I’d brought. His eager grin betrayed his scolding tone as he quickly grabbed my hands.
“You wanna share with the whole party? Keep those away!”
I chuckled. Maybe I was more drunk than tipsy. “Is your car here?” He knew the real offer, and his eyes lit up like the Christmas lights that still dotted the roof.
“It’s in the far corner, behind some bushes.” Of course it was, he always parked in the best spot for hotboxing.
I stood up and tugged my dress down. “Lead the way?”
He smirked and jumped to his feet, grabbed my wrist, and without another word we were cutting through the party with much more vigor than earlier. We were on a mission. Quickly we burst through to the edge of the party and were out. The shiver of being away from the people was dulled by the promise of a warm, cannabis-smoke-filled car. Gleefully we half-jogged, teeth chattering, across the parking lot.
We ducked into the car, and as the doors closed the rush of the party was muffled to background noise.
I sparked the joint and took a long pull. “How’s the party been?” I asked in a drunk attempt at conversation.
He took a longer pull, and let out a long breath to fill the air with the smoke. “Uneventful,” he said, sounding as bored as I was at it.
“They always are a little... flat.”
“Uneventful?” he repeated, this time with a chuckle and a sarcastic question mark. “Nothing ever happens at them. People just dance, get drunk, and go home with people they’ll ghost in a week.”
I nodded. “There’s no...” I paused dramatically, blowing a cloud of smoke. “...soul. Where’re the drunk riots?”
“Exactly!” He took a draw like he was inhaling before a long speech. “None of the people here have that. They’re not living like they’ll die tomorrow. And I just can’t get why.” He turned to me. As our eyes locked, I unintentionally took a mental snapshot of his piercingly dark yet warm gaze. “What would you do if you were going to die tomorrow?”
I chortled, not wanting to say the real answer. “Oh, ya know. Cry.”
He laughed. “That’s a little depressing. You know what I mean though, what would you do if you found out right now?”
“That I had 24 hours to live?”
“That everyone had 24 hours.”
“Well...” I thought for a second, dramatic pause unplanned this time. “Honestly, I’d probably go find some guy at this party to take me home. Or crazy drugs or something.” My voice trailed off as the words left my mouth. They sounded so much louder out loud. The alcohol flush hid my embarrassment. He hadn’t looked away, and the words ate me alive as they hung in the air.
He took a few small puffs of the joint, and the smoke made a little trail upward like cotton balls. Exhaling clouds with his words, he replied, a little quiet, “I could help with that.” He did break his gaze then, looking forward with a weighted stare. To which statement, the implication hung in the air, suspended like the smoke.
But the drunk buzz made me chuckle and gave me a wave of brazenness. “To what part?” He knew I didn’t miss the answer. But now I was asking him to say it.
“To both.” Again, he looked away, and his voice dropped lower. He cleared his throat and added a quiet, “If you’d like.”
“And how would you want to help?” My voice held something like curiosity. Asking questions just to unfurl the scene more. The lack of sobriety filtered out subtlety.
I could’ve imagined it, but for a second it looked like his eyes flashed to a darker, almost-black brown as they locked onto mine. He responded with a question of his own. “In the backseat?” He stared searchingly into my eyes and put the joint out on his door, only half-finished. The last trail of smoke slowly dissipated.
And so the scene was unfurled. There was no other implication to be made. Still keeping eye contact I slowly slipped out of the passenger side, and into the rear seat on my side as he did the same on his. The cloth of the seat bench felt like it spanned for miles. We moved to each other at the same time.
In one motion, we were kissing. His lips were eager and soft as he sucked on and gently bit my bottom lip. His tongue swirled past his lips to collide with mine in an intense battle spurred by the inhibition of drugs and drinks. His kisses traveled from my mouth to my neck, and I let out a suppressed sigh. Already he was learning my buttons.
My fingers twirled in his hair as I deepened the kiss. From the back of my neck, he turned one of his hands to grab my long locks in a smooth motion. He lightly clenched it, giving a cautiously gentle tug, and pulled it out of the way to continue his work on my neck. Already the skin was bright red in spots, and I knew within a few hours they would fade to purple.
His other hand slid down my chest and softly pulled my dress neckline down. With delicate movements he slipped his hand under the fabric and palmed my breasts, kneading them as I moaned. His fingers quickly sought out my nipples, pinching and tweaking them lightly, and I moaned louder as I melted at his touch. I kissed him hard to stifle any sounds that were too embarrassing, tangling his hair in my fingers to pull him closer.
