Party Animal 2

Please excuse the brevity of this post. It's thankfully rather short - I came to my senses before I got myself into even more trouble.

Party Animal

My first year at University did not get off to a good start.

Finally free of the constraints surrounding my parent's familial regime, I went a bit nuts and, rather than study, I became something of a total party animal. I hit the social whirl pretty much 100%. Being popular enjoyed a higher priority than studying.

And because I was a party animal, I received lots and lots of invites to parties. Why? Because when I was drunk, I got into the habit of taking my clothes off.

This shabby practice began at a party in, where else, a sleazy bedsit in the wrong end of Newcastle. I turned up with a bunch of friends, having spent the greater part of the afternoon and early evening in a pub, drinking.

Study? Wassat? Lab work? Screw that. Let's party. Did you bring the booze?

The best parties start in the kitchen for a reason. Nine times out of ten, it's where the host keeps the booze. So we hit the kitchen. Already drunk, I began circulating and eventually came across the sex and drugs room.

The smell hit you first.

Dope.

Dope and sex.

And stale booze.

And a lot of it, too.

A deep blue haze lingered in the middle of the room, as if Aladdin had just rubbed his Magic Lamp. Curtains drawn, the lighting was low and subdued. Two couples lay against opposite walls, neither involved in any activity that could be classed as sexual. Another solitary male wearing a huge Army-style Grey Coat sat behind the door, smoking something herbal. In the middle of the room, under the solitary hanging lamp, stood a girl - tall, blond, attractive, but seriously off-her-face. She was dancing to a song that only she could hear, with a beat that moved in time with her own rhythm.

I watched, mesmerised, as she swayed from side to side, hardly moving from the spot. Others followed, and formed a circle with the dancer at the centre. Music spilled out from another corner of the house and she began to move in time with this different beat, slow and sensuous, smooth and calming.

In time, a crowd formed and voices from the rear began to urge her onwards though she ignored them completely, lost as she was in her own world.

I circled the room, away from the doorway and over towards the big bay windows.

She began to unbutton her blouse, slowly, taking her time. The blouse was discarded, tossed into a dark and distant corner. Beneath, a t-shirt, baring the University logo and a coat of arms. It, too, was removed. The dance continued.

Shoes next, then her socks. Her Jeans proved difficult but she managed. Finally, after much struggling, she stood before us in her underwear. That was as far as she went, though the dance continued without interruption.

Dismayed, and wanting more, the crowd departed amid cat-calls and other unsavoury comments. I remained, out of curiosity.

Bottle in hand, I approached her, syncing my crude dance movements (if you could call them that) to her own. She opened her eyes and smiled, then took my bottle and drank from it. Actually, she downed it in one.

As far as I was concerned, we were best friends forever.

In time, the party faded to nothing save for the residents, a few of their friends and the dancer.

With the majority dispersed to the four winds, the music and the dance began again. And I joined in.

My friend removed her bra and then her pants, much to the approval of those gathered to witness the display. Still very drunk, I followed suite and, within minutes, found myself slow dancing, naked, in front of a small but enthusiastic group of my peers, who hooted and jeered in appreciation.

We cared nothing for what they thought and nothing for what they said. Only for the moment, and the moment was ours.

Only when the music stopped did we part. Only when dragged to the bathroom and forcibly dressed by my friends did I consider what I'd done in any way inappropriate.

Only when I sobered up the following morning, and checked my mobile, did I discover exactly what I'd done.

Yeah, photographs. Lots and lots of photographs. Some nice. Some... not so nice.

This episode became legend and, for a time, I enjoyed something close to celebrity status around the Campus as the cop's daughter who disgraced herself. Some people became my best friend. Others shunned me. I was dirty. Unclean. The girl who 'did stuff'.

The party invites continued and, alas, I started to pick up a reputation. I became a 'sure thing'. The girl who would. And usually 'did'.

The nude or nearly nude floor-shows continued. Time and time again, I would end up padding around a stranger's house in front of several hundred people with my tits out, or my ass hanging out of my jeans. My displays became raunchy, explicit even. To me, it was just a laugh. Nothing serious, but rumours began to spread and people began to talk.

Then I started to flunk classes. That was most uncool.

I was a mess and I knew it.

One night, after a particularly raucous session in Rosie's Public, I ended up swimming in the Leazes Boating Lake, where I nearly drowned. I was rescued by a Policeman, called to investigate reports of students attempting to break into the Boat House.

Dragged from the lake, I was escorted to the local Emergency Room, where the doctors and nurses pumped litres of pond water and booze from my gut, and a cop took my name and address. He then called my folks. They were not amused.

After that, I resolved to 'get clean' and stopped drinking altogether. Alas, once clean, the party invites dried up as did my pool of friends who were of the mindset that a life at University meant a life of debauchery. I needed to distance myself from them, if only to keep my sanity (and my liver) intact.

In time, I repaired my reputation by hard work, a meticulous attention to detail and academic excellence. Eventually, I graduated with a 2:1. I did wonder that, had I not partied so hard in my first year, maybe that could have been a first. Who knows?

More importantly, I learned self control and that following urges, especially sexual urges, are apt to get you into a lot of trouble.

Still, memories, eh?

Sometimes, in the wee hours, when sleep prove elusive and counting sheep has lost its magic, I often wonder about my dancing companion, and what became of her. And I often wonder what else is out there, in cyberspace. Images of naked asses and bare pussies don't just disappear overnight. They're still out there, somewhere, on someone's hard drive or a memory stick, or on an old Windows XP machine, stuffed away in Grandma's attic.

That's the thing about nudie pictures, however innocent.

They never, ever go away.