The possibility of renting out a two story loft for the sole purpose of throwing a kickass party had never occurred to me when I arrived in late February my freshman year with stern instructions not to bring anything other then girls and $15 in cash. Fuck if I cared; I was gonna have unlimited booze and an entire New York City loft to enjoy it with the company of dozens of thrill seekers like myself.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
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2 comments:
I've kissed you before, Matt. All I can say is that I had better. That girl was a drunken slut.
Well to the first part of that comment I must emphasize the nature of kissing as an act that requires proficiency from not one but two people. Any dissapointment you had from our interaction most likely stemmed from your own inabilities as a kisser which no doubt affected my own masterful performance. And with regards to the second part I ask that you don't insult people mentioned in this blog other than myself. They have no say as to what I write about them and it is unfair to judge them based on poorly written depictions by yours truly.
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