Drunk

Yes, of course it was because we had been drinking, but still.  And of course it was kindof a irresponsible thing to do, but still.  And sure, a lot of it had to do with her big tits and her tattoos, but still.  Goddamn it was fun.

Of course it was because we had been drinking.

Still, we didn’t get drunk from all the teeny glasses of beer flights after beer flights.  I mean, yeah, we did get drunk from all the teeny glasses of beer flights, but not the sort of drunk it takes to do what we did with each other.  We all got drunk from different things to get drunk enough to do as we did.

I got drunk from the way her shirt stretched across her chest.  I got drunk from her smile, the way her eyes lit up when I said something just over the line.  They both got drunk on my jokes.  My jokes are really the only booze I’ve got, so thank god they work.

Oh, I was with the two of them, with both girls.  Were you imagining one?  One with the tits and the smile and the tattoos and the love of dirty jokes and sexiness and the willingness to do this dirty thing I have yet to reveal?  There were two, each with some of some and all of some of those things.

We all need to get a little drunk to fuck each other.  Not because we’re all hideous, but because sex is ultimately such a weird thing.  Nothing else in the rest of our lives is anything like it, which can be said of almost nothing else in our lives.  There are things that are sex, and there are things that are not, and only certain very good chocolates and beers exist in the grey area.  We need a little something to get us on the other side of that line, something to say to ourselves and each other that nothing is more important right now than the touching we’re about to do.  Sometimes, it’s actual drinking, but more often we are drunk on sexiness, on possibility, on a night that has gone well enough to make it feel like a night apart from all others, a night able to contain experiences wholly different than the rest of our lives.  

Sometimes we are drunk on the excitement of experience.

Sometime during the night, we were all drunk enough for the touching that started under the table.  Like all under-table touching, there was an accidental brush, and then another, and then knees that stayed together longer, legs that met with relief for each other and small movements up and down.

They were both across from me, and my knees touched the inside of each of one of theirs.  Once my knees sat there for long enough for three laughs, a few smiles the curled at the corners, a little twinkle in each eye, I pushed my knees slowly together, touching their legs to each other between mine.  There was a hiccup in conversation, a debate held in the hesitation of the suggestion.  There was a laugh that was too loud, a laugh at the joy of the evening, and we redoubled our drunk.  The legs were ok.  The touching was good.

In short moments, in the clinking of glasses, I felt a hand over my leg and over her leg and over her leg and then stop, a hand between both of our legs then.  I felt a new hand travel the path in reverse, find the space between my leg and her leg, slide itself slowly up and back, slide itself under a dress edge.  I couldn’t feel but could tell when fingertips touched skin on the inside thigh of her.

More beer?  Yes.  We’ll be staying.

Hands matched hands and I felt their hands against my legs traveling up the thighs of each other.  They slid forward in their seats, leaving just enough room between my knees and themselves for a hand to fit, and hands were fit.

They had been good and pretending towards conversation up to that point.  Our conversations stopped when their hands made it to the top of my knee.

Above the table we grinned like morons into beers we weren’t drinking.  They both looked over at me but at nothing.  She bit her lip, and she kept a small smile she struggled to control.  I could feel the ways their hands moved against my knees.  I could feel their knees squirm as they pressed their hands against each other, could see their lips and teeth and tongues and tits react to the touching in small ways; in beautiful and imaginary ways.  I kept my beer to my lips and smiled at them.  There were tight circles, there was fast rubbing.

She came.  She came right at the table.  She pressed her palms down in front of her, tried to push the table to the floor and press her hips against the booth.  She shuddered against my legs and sucked breaths like hiccups while she came.  There were slow circles, there was pressure and loose rubbing.

We sat and smiled at each other a bit like we had invented something amazing and a lot like we had all spilled something on the floor and were amused with ourselves about it.

There was a moment.
“Fuck this,” she said.  

She stood, and walked to the back of the bar.  We followed, through the crowds just big enough to be busy, and out the door just easy enough to unlock.  There was a patio there, but it was far too cold for patio sitters.  Smokers went out front because that’s where smokers go, and so we were alone.  So she sat and hiked her dress up, and so she sat next to her to keep touching, but we were alone and too cold for watching, so I took my chance to jump in.  Her fingers were replaced by my lips and I found warmth in her growls when my tongue found her and found her and swirling swirling found her.

They talked about me while I played.  The talking started as jokes, but jokes are hard through moans, so they started talking about me in sex.  She talked about how good I was, and she said she’d have to try soon, but she was ok for now (and thanks for that, no problem at all I always wondered how I’d do).  They talked until she couldn’t talk anymore and she sat back and watched as I sucked between my lips and slid fingers and pressed tongue and brought her to orgasm.  As she got close she tasted like copper and breath.  She came around my tongue and past my lips and tasted exactly of orgasm.

I may never have been more drunk in my entire life.

We walked back through the bar throwing cash onto our table.  We walked out to our cars and walked past our cars.

We talked about how we never go for walks anymore in the dark on cold nights, but really we were too drunk to be driving and too drunk to be doing anything but finding a place to play some more.

We found a playground overlooking a lake.  We found a tower with four walls and no warmth, we found the lips of each other and found orgasms to share.  We found the noises of birds in the darkness and the silence of night water.  We stayed far beyond the point that we were sober without finding ourselves any less than completely drunk.