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Being so, so drunk
Article by Anonymous
1. My once-not-boyfriend’s first time getting drunk is at my place with our friends. It starts off with nice, fleeting touches and long, open conversation about his parents, maybe, possibly divorcing. His best friend, Emir, and I watch, entranced, as he rambles on, words spilling out all over my printed sheets. Usually closed off and stiff as a rod, now laid raw and open.
It ends with him turned inside out, puking everywhere. He tells me he loves me and I pretend he says it to Emir, mop up orange-brown vomit and scrub my hands clean.
I do not kiss him that night.
2. The first time I get tipsy is when I’m at a grungy roadside eatery with my theater crew. It’s the brink of Valentine's day and when I stumble back onto campus, I opt to send an anonymous rose to Sadie from my English class. Scrawl “To Sadie,” with my left hand so nobody will recognize it, nothing else. A little pink slip, not enough to capture the extent of my longing in the four classes I share with her.
It’s no matter. I think of her slim ankles and smooth hair and the boyfriend hoodie she wears fucking everywhere and send it anyway.
3. My best friend’s first time getting high is with me. I’m crossed, she’s buzzed, and when I teasingly say, “Come here,” she does. She meets me halfway in a clumsy kiss, and I jump back, burnt.
“I just stole your first kiss,” I say, horrified. My lips are so, so dry.
“I don’t want it to be a big deal,” she insists, and we’re back into it. The vodka and weed have slowed my brain and I pour all my focus into her slightly parted lips and lace my fingers into her hair. She’s hurried about it, clinical, but I hold her waist and urge her to slow down, move with me.
Our three friends are sprawled next to us, watching intently. It’s voyeuristic.
“Did you enjoy that?” I ask, just a little anxious, when we pull apart.
“Yes? I have nothing to compare it to. I don’t like you… like that… but I—I enjoyed it.”
Kisses are disposable things, so I do not consider the semantics (or the consequences) of teaching your best friend how to make out. I do not consider the clichéd nature of it. I do not consider any of it until a month later, until we are at a club together, and I want to do it all over again.
4. The first time I kiss kiss a girl is when I am so, so drunk. At my friend’s day party, a girl was talking to the boy I like; and then, she’s dancing. With me. She’s very American, with wavy sunlight hair and elongated syllables. Her eyeliner is cute, all neon pink and blue. Her pale skin can pull it off.
She’s close now. The music is good.
“I’m a lesbian!” she shouts, randomly. I catch it in the air between stray notes. “Don’t worry!”
Something in my brain stutters, falls shut.
“Oh? Ok.”
We keep dancing. Her long fingers are now intertwined with mine, lovely manicured nails catching light. I’m so drunk I’m floating along, on top of the clouds.
I’ve been told I give people the eyes when I’m floating. I do that now, catch her eyes once, twice, thrice. There’s heat. I’m dizzy.
She holds my shoulders. Pulls me imperceptibly closer. Her blonde hair brushes my neck. I love long hair.
“Wanna go make out for fun?” she shouts. She’s direct like a knife. And I do want to make out. So badly. The “for fun” is unnecessary.
I do not respond, just nod, smile (with heat), and tug her along. The sun beats down.
I kiss her on the front porch where everybody can see. I kiss her until I’m anxious that she hates it. I kiss her until I realize I’m sloppy with alcohol.
5. I show up at his, drunk. A few shots of liquid courage. Earlier tonight, he asked me if we were going to the same party, so naturally, I knew in my gut that he would kiss me. Maybe.
We sit on his bed. My brain is lagging. I tell him things about my night, ask him a question or two, but what really matters is that we’re touching. Often, I will touch a boy, speak into his ear, look at him with the eyes, and he will kiss me—no doubt about it. This one, though, he comes too close sometimes and other times, he inches away immediately. The alcohol sloshes around inside of me. I’m itchy, feeling a tantrum rise from my stomach.
At some point, we lie down, melded together, for what feels like a long fucking time. I can feel his breath, yet he draws away. We lie there for so long that I sober up, slow and painful, shame creeping up my throat.
His face is close to my chest, my lips in his hair. I shoot my last shot, press a kiss into his forehead. He does not move. I do it again, more deliberately this time. More sound, more of a smack, so he does not miss it. No response. I draw away, in disbelief. What did I read wrong?
Silence stretches out like fabric being pulled apart.
Then: “Are you sober?”
His voice is soft, hesitant. Slightly hopeful.
I break out into a smile, radiant with relief, as I clamber on top of him. Dip in, close,
“Sure.”