The kitchen of her college apartment was tiny but somehow, they'd managed to wedge themselves in there. The four of them were so different, stunning young people, but all drunk as proverbial skunks. Anderson was short, slight, with a scraggly blond ponytail; he was the true genius of the bunch. Joey, with the shaggy mop of brown curls she'd always wanted to run her fingers through, her pal and acting partner. Josh, with the crazy-short ROTC buzz cut (what nice Jewish boy from Great Neck joins ROTC anyway, she wondered?). And then there was Bridget, her post-punk purple-streaks and tousled, spiky hair, suffering the indignities of multiple late-night hair experiments, her torn and oversized t-shirt, baggy skirt and turquoise Converse Chuck Taylors the height of collegiate geek charm.
These were her boys. Not her boyfriends, but her boys. Here at her party, in her tiny apartment. She was merrily learning how to shotgun a beer, much to the amusement of the boys.
"You mean you don't know?" "Get outta here!" "No way!" Cheap cans of Old Milwaukee were shaken, a Bic pen produced, and as the fizzing cans were punched in the side with the pen, the foam flew against the whitish walls and enameled-tin cabinets. Laughing and spraying, she managed to get half of one can down, soaking herself head to waist, white beery foam against her dark hair.
Joey, spiraling a bit, leaned against the swinging door, and fell, flopping onto the mattress they had conveniently parked on the living room floor. His head landed on the smooth, bare belly of her roommate, already conked out. They laughed; Joey, a writing major, was more of a pothead than a boozer. She smiled, closing the door on the slumber party in her livingroom. There were still more Old Milwaukees yet to be drained.
Shake, poke, pop, shoot, swallow. Repeat. Repeat. The three of them downed another nine beers. And the conversation turned, as it often did, to fucking.
Anderson was first, "If you weren't my friend, I'd totally nail you." Laughing, she replied, "You're awesome. And surprisingly gentlemanly." Her boyfriend was at home for the summer, counseling handicapped kids. He wasn't keen on the boys, her boys, or the beers, or the parties. She thought she wasn't so keen on him anymore...
She swatted Anderson hard on the ass and said, "And you've done everyone else in my house!" All those guys had fucked her two roommates, at one point or another -- Sarah, the athletic brunette passed out in the livingroom, and Ellie, a petite redhead with a sweet ass. Bridget suspected that's why they got along so well. "True enough!"
Josh chimed in, "And so have I," handing her another beer, looking her over, her wet sweatshirt clinging to her 38D chest She smiled, even as she felt his intense brown eyes burning through her. She felt a little exposed, somehow; he'd never looked at her like anything but a buddy before.
"Oh my God you are so right! I feel so relatively pure!" swilling down the can, not bothering to shotgun it. "Would you do me, soldier boy?" she says, cocking her head, in a flirty, fake-southern drawl. She pouted, her full lips looking quite inviting, and she was feeling a little sexy. It had been a long time for her, to go without sex, and the beer was making its effects known, making her head spin and her body a bit warm.
"Yes." She was taken aback by his serious response, but figured he just sounded more intense than the always cheerful Anderson, who was neck-deep in the cabinets. Josh locked eyes with her again, then scanned her curvy body, the skirt cascading over her long muscular legs and the shirt still clinging to her large breasts.
"Dude, what are you looking for?" Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, she turned her attention to Anderson.
"Shot glasses, to toast our mutual platonic love for you, and your amazing hooters." They laughed, and Bridget relaxed. Anderson broke out the University-logo shot glasses (a joke birthday gift from her brother) and topped them with cheap vodka, the plastic-bottled house brand at the local liquor store that doesn't card her, ever. She squeezed some lime over the tops of them.
She noticed Josh leaning against the kitchen stove, silently watching her, and, grinning, grabbed his hand, "Get over here, all for one, one for all." He squeezed her hand, as they all lift their glasses and slam the harsh vodka down.
Through her growing alcoholic fog, Bridget hears the music and murmurs outside the kitchen door. Her face flushed, she grabs on to Josh and Anderson's shoulders. "I love you guys," she slurs, pulling them into a huddle, hugging them close. She likes the feel of their bodies, their sweaty Tshirts under her hands, Josh's broad shoulders and Anderson's narrow ones.
Anderson playfully tousled her messy hair, "You too, babes, but I'm out of here, it's like three and even geniuses got to get some sleep." She woozily waves him and the kitchen door seems farther away as his ponytail bobs out of sight.
