You put the waxy edge of the red cup to your lips.
Pause.
You take the next few seconds to consider the contents of your drink. Something with vodka, you presume. It's always something with vodka, you joke with yourself.
Why are you laughing. Jess wants to know. You understand that the noise is coming from her throat and through her mouth, but her dress is cut such that you can't help but assume anything she says is coming directly from her cleavage. You laugh again.
Why are you staring at my boobs. Weirdo.
Your boobs are staring at me, you start to explain. They're talking to me. You gesture with the cup.
In a graceful arc, something with vodka splatters across the breasts that were talking to you a minute before. You dab at it with your hands, taking the moisture with you and licking if off.
All better, you say in a sing-song way, and leave to get another drink.
The bottles are arranged in rows, like schoolchildren. You wrap your fingers around one without really registering the label and begin to pour into your cup. It's empty. You try another one, only to realize that it's empty too. A third is no better.
They pour a lot better without the caps, offers a voice behind you.
Well, aren't you helpful. You're not sure if you come off as more bitter or coy. You're not sure which one you want to be.
You notice the voice belongs to a tall boy. A very tall boy, with a mop of curly hair and a wiser pair of eyes than anybody at this age could possibly have earned.
You decide you were being coy.
How can I help you, you say, priding yourself on not slurring.
Curly looks at you sheepishly. You could start with your name, I suppose.
Lisa, you say a little too quickly.
Pause.
Boom.
Your last name is Boom? He's confused. You can't blame him. Only one person calls you Boom. You check your phone. No texts.
You turn back to Curly.
You? You ask, ignoring his question.
Jared, he slurs, and as he does you pause to consider that he's not nearly as cute as you thought he was. Or is he? How many drinks have you had? More than one, definitely. Less than 20, to be sure. You're not helping, Memory. Well, what do you want from me, Brain. I'm only human. That doesn't make any sense.
Lisa. Why is curly talking with Jess's voice? Lisa. Your name interrupts your reverie again. Oh. It is Jess. Haha.
Hi! Jess this is Cu-Jared. Jared this is Jess. One sec, k Jarie?
You cluth Jess's elbow and pull her to what you feel is a reasonable distance. Jurly/Cared studies the contents of the alcohol table. Is he cute, Jess? you ask, knowing the answer.
Totally! You should totally hook up with him. Go for it. Do you want my help? Here, I'll help you.
Before you can say no, Jess is inviting Jared back to the house to watch something. Clockers. Maybe Knocked Up. You're too busy fixing yourself a drink to hear them properly. Memory, finally being helpful, has suggested that it might help the night's proceedings. You have an inclination of how this will end.
The three of you prepare to leave the party. You can't be more than a hundred yards away when Jess gets a phone call.
Shit, you guys, go ahead. I gotta take this, it's Greg.
Jared sacks up on the walk back and lopes his arm around your shoulder. You encourage him by leaning against his frail torso, even though it's warm out and you would rather not have his sweat slicked across your left arm. It's a short walk to your house. You take the key out and slide it in. You jiggle it.
The lock sticks, as always.
Jared offers and understanding smile. Of course. Nothing you could short of kicking him in the testicles (and maybe not even that) would make him reconsider coming up to your room at this point. You both know he, with relatively minimal effort, has sealed the deal.
Damn vodka-thingy-mixes.
You finally get the door open and hold your newly-manicured index finger to your once-glossed lips in an exaggerated gesture of silence. Each stair creaks as you try to tiptoe to your room. You both step in, more sheepishly than necessary. Well, here it is, you stage-whisper. Casa de Lisa. You laugh again.
You kick off your heels and sit on your bed. He sits beside you, in the manner that a dog might. Awww. Luna. You reach over and impulsively stroke his curly hair.
Its all the invitation he needs. Jared slides his butt the distance between you and begins rubbing his face on yours. You've begun kissing. You'd supposed this was going to happen, and now it was. You purse your lips in an effort to restore order to the kiss, which feel suspiciously like a very soft but very insistent headbutt. He takes this as an invitation to open his mouth wide, a move that you're forced to replicate, lest his teeth scrape the bridge of your noise.
See: Sloppy.
Also see: Bleecch.
His tongue flickers over your lips in a way that you know he assumes is sexy. It's a sort of relief when he shimmies his fingers up your tank top. It's not pleasant, per se. But its certainly a welcome distraction from the fact that his saliva is coating the lower half of your face. How do you get spit on somebody's cheek while kissing. You're genuinely curious.
You start to ask him, then think better of it.
Curly continues his oscular assualt while sliding his fingers over your nipples, like one might if one found a particularly smooth stone. Unlike a stone, your nipples aren't hard. Wait. You have an idea. You stumble over to your window with his hand still in your shirt and turn on the AC. On high.
Problem solved.
You sit back on the bed. Are you supposed to rub his nipples too? You decide that it's only fair. In a pleasant surprise, he has well-formed pecs with nice, neat nipples. Small favors, you think. He pulls up your shirt, and, in a gesture of kindness, you help him take it off. You pull his shirt off. You look at eat other for a moment that should have been filled with sexual tension, but you instead find filled with something else. Very full. Damn vodka.
You put your hands on his lips in what you hope is a sexy way, and scurry off to the bathroom. While your first instinct is to take as long as possible peeing, so as to give your chin and neck a chance to dry, you realize that you don't know Curly very well and don't want him rifling through your things.
When you come back, Curly is reclining on your bed. What was his name. Something with a K. Kody? Maybe it was a J.
You're not just going to stand there, are you.
Upon further reflection, you realize his hair is more messy than Curly. Nonetheless, your mama didn't raise no quitters, and you get back in there. Curly pushes the cups of your bra over your breasts and begins his pebble-rubbing once again. Is it too early to moan? You decide that it is not.
Encouraged, Curly wedges his hand between your back and the bed and and lifts you up slightly. He fumbles with the middle of your back.
Five seconds go by.
He twists the strap of your bra back and forth. He looks at you plaintatively.
Ten seconds.
Finally, you get what his eyes are pleading and unsnap your bra and toss it on the floor. You're down to your jeans.
He rubs your the area around your belly button for a few cursory seconds before going back to kneading your breasts like bakery dough, or a porn star. Every so often, you feel mild frissons of pleasure intersperesed with boredom.
How long have you been up? you wonder to yourself. It's getting late.
Curly tries to unzip your jeans. You decide against it and wriggle away. He tries one more time for good measure, before consenting himself to playing with his two newfound globes. He softens his touch, until it becomes soothing…relaxing…
You wake up with a start.
Curly/Messy is snoring lightly beside you.
When you wake up again he is gone.