Touched: A Stort Story

touched

Mid 199-

 

The house has about twenty, maybe thirty people in it. I sit outside smoking with a beer in one hand. I don’t know how many I’ve had. I lost count somewhere around ten. But I’m drunk enough to laugh my ass off when someone decides to cut a circle out of the afro of the guy passed out on the sofa in the front room.

Dude who rents this house and host of said party is cooler than a fan. Not really my type, he’s a little on the heavy side but he’s been looking at me sideways all night and I’m feeling good, so who knows.

The music is loud but no one dances. There were a few attempts to start card games or board games; hell I think someone tried to start a dance contest. In the end it just a group of young adults having a good time.

I’m sitting on a plastic, basket weaved lawn chair that has seen its better days. I’d be surprise if it survives my ass sitting in to for the next ten minutes. I turn when I hear a yell and get up when I hear banging. The guy with the plug must be up.

I walk into, and am almost knocked down by, a tangle of arms and legs. The two boys rumble their way out the open back door I just walked through. I see the guy with the missing silver dollar size bald patch still passed out on the couch. I go and sit at the end by his feet.

The room is full of people. I don’t know how anyone can sleep in here. The room also has four large speakers from which the music is blasting and everyone has to yell to be heard above it. I don’t talk to anyone. Other than the occasional words passed between me and the host, I haven’t really spoken to anyone, but I’m not bored. The people are my entertainment.

The door opens as another party guest arrives. He’s tall and thin, black as the ace of spades and looks a little like Flavor-Flav. There is just enough difference in his features so that instead of being unacceptably unattractive he’s marginally good looking. If you’re drunk, look at him out of the corner of your eye, and squint. His personality saves him completely. He’s loud and fun and the life of the party as soon as he crosses the threshold. I think he’s from New York or maybe L.A.

 

“Hey girl,” my host says as I open the door to the fridge to grab my – fifteenth beer?

“Whatsssssssssssssup,” I slur. It’s not a sad lonely drunk slur but a happy go lucky slur. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this drunk. I think I may be too drunk to drive.

“Girl you’re faded.”

Not too drunk to notice how he just checked me out, but drunk enough for it to raise the familiar tingle between my legs and drunk enough to sit on his lap.

“Whatup playa?” I said better. I throw my arm around his neck and put my head on his shoulder.  He puts a surprisingly firm arm around my waist to hold me in place. I don’t feel like I’m going to fall, but whatever, it’s all good.

“You smoke weed?”  He asks.

“Hell yeah. You got some?”

Now this would be bad news for a weaker woman. This situation would surely lead to the story about that time you woke up next to that guy you had no memory of going/coming home with and the stretched, loose and mildly sore feeling of a good fuck fills you first with disgust and then with dread. While you’re looking for your panties you’re also looking for a used condom, you’re actually praying for one.

But I’m me and I have never been that drunk nor am I now. Yes I am contemplating and will probably smoke some weed, and I am thinking about and will more than likely fuck this dude. These are conscious decisions. I have lowered my standards but I don’t plan on marrying the guy. I just want to have a good time.

I try to stand up and his arms tightened around me.

“Going to the bathroom,” I said and he lets me up, “Get that weed ready.”

I finish, wash my hands and open the door to find Flava look-a-like standing there. I don’t know if he’s waiting a turn or waiting for me. He steps into the bathroom and instead of leaving I close the door.

Tonight I have a dress on purely by circumstance. I have been partial to them most of my life. I had not planned on having sex, had simply picked out something I thought pretty and comfortable.

My bathroom companion is easily six-five and he towers over my five-three frame. I push him gently so that he sits on the edge of the tub. I need a little something to take the edge off.

I stand in front of him looking down at his upturned face but even seated, a few more inches and he would have been looking me straight in the eye.

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