College parties; Drugs and Sex

After several shots of cheap whiskey, she was in seventh heaven. “Mmm, am in cloud nine,” she thought as she took a puff. It burned and chocked. As an amateur she coughed, almost spitting out her lungs. A relaxing and a dizzy feeling—then everything became obscure. She liked being in this world of building castles, she didn’t mind however intense the cough got. She then took an ash-tray, shook off the burning end of the roll and took another puff like a boss. She then slyly wiped the moist hands behind the hem of her skirt, on the underside of a table — it didn’t matter, no one would notice. She was sure of it. Besides, they were just as sozzled as her.
 

And for the chaps in the corner, they just stood there, barely a hint of expression, meditating so strongly and salivating at anything with breasts. Once in a while they would raise their booze-filled drinks in a silent cheer. They thought, “She’s such a whore. I’ll totally feel her tonight.” They would not. They would end up rubbing their hard cocks for pleasure. Jerking off. The brain game satisfaction, no wonder they took centuries in the bathroom, perhaps having an appointment with the soap.

 Her pulse rate increased and then constant string of sinister ideas, sophisticated plans, and superfluous compliments began to flow. “Who does your hair? Who? How much? Where did you get those shoes? Where? This girl is pretty… ugly! That is my favorite song. I love it”. Only to her it sounded like straight chain of thoughts. She gained verbal sovereignty and everyone was her audience. Only that they were not, but she continued. She needed attention. She needed to distract herself.
 

She found a guy, he was cool looking. A rugby player, tall and muscular, hair trimmed to perfection and his smile could scare away wizards. She sat with him alone in the other room while the party continued as the music set to anonymous pop songs. She touched her hair, a lot, while he tried to touch her. His hands were now in her knickers. Whenever they moved closer to embrace, they would lock lips, it would be a deep kiss instead of the intended doze of appreciation. The strings of mindless rant went in ripples, he told her his major a dozen times. And she kept asking about the same. Again and again. It was history. He wanted to be an architect, but…………….” he said. She really didn’t give a shit what he wanted to be, or who he was, because she just wanted him. He was there. And she was jumpy—a good lay would calm her down.
 

It did not. They went to the bedroom and as she ripped off her tight dress to reveal her curvy body, perfect than the pillars of a palace, he just stared at her—his heavy breathing filling the room with the odour of vodka. Low-priced vodka. The room was spinning as she lowered herself down to his lap. “Oh my God,” She was not wet, but the urge for getting nasty somehow was enough to manage. They did not talk, did not make a sound, and did not even kiss. She was just there. Before long her wide open legs were moving so fast, the bed making noise as every nipple got a bite. They switched positions as though doing yoga. He was getting harder and harder. The noisy bed, no, she hated when that noise.
 

He didn’t come and she was in pain. So she pushed him off. She just got dressed and left him there, naked and dumbfounded. “He’s got a lot to learn about this game,” she chuckled to herself.
She got in line for the bathroom. “Fucking bitches,” she whispered as the group of girls ahead of her giggled, laughed and yelled. All of them were inebriated, cheap wine. She smelled it. Gross.
 

When she finally was alone again, she looked in the mirror. Her brown eyes looked dead, her face pale. Then she painted her lips a deep crimson. She did not care; she thought she looked like one of those Hollywood fashion models, so burnt out, thin and sick they looked cool. It was a dream of most girls to be like them.
 

Reaching for her purse she grabbed a tiny packet with a few rolls. Lifting the lighter, someone knocked on the door. She shouted, “wait a minute asshole!” She hated it when people interrupted her, she wanted to be alone. She opened the door, stormed out, and pushed the girl away before banging the door to a loud thud. She walked straight into the noisy crowd. She squeezed herself through the crowds and found her way back to the crew she had met. ‘Drink, smoke, drink, smoke’ was the slogan. Their corner was like a fume chamber. It would soon be a ritual at every party.

Her already racing heart began to pound as mixed feelings surged up inside of her. She wanted to scream, cry, hit someone…kill someone, like get out of her skin. She hated everyone right now, not that it was a new feeling. Oftentimes, at these parties, she would sit in the corner, gnawing her teeth and wishing death upon anyone who didn’t fit in to her ironic perception of perfection. Some deem it as the weed state of mind.


She left the party alone. As she walked through the dark pavements besides beautifully tended flower beds, she slipped, and broke one of the pair of her six-inch high heels. She kept going; the imbalance was a perfect dance. Her mind still trying to keep up with the speed of her pulse, “I’m too good for this shit,” she thought.
 

She got to her apartment, and lay in bed, her heart beating so fast she couldn’t close her eyes. When she did, that was it. The next day at afternoon, her best friend came to inform her that her family had dropped by to see her.