It was late in the summer, and a friend of mine threw a house party – as he does at the end of each summer. A sort of send off to the warm, sunny days, and something to hold everyone over until Halloween and New Years arrived.
He grilled, he fried, he had cases of beer. His kitchen was littered with bottles of strange and unusual liquors. It was an old Victorian seemingly out in the middle of nowhere; it sat on several acres of land, and he seemingly had no neighbors. One could see the starts at night. It was a great place for a party.
The house itself seemed not to have been built, but rather seemed to have evolved over its history. Extra rooms and additions, strange passageways, closets with doors in the back of them to adjacent hallways. Living rooms, sitting rooms, extra rooms downstairs, while up the old, carpeted stairs were bedrooms and closets, a maze of portals dimly lit and smelling of pot.
Outside, in the back, there was a rather extensive porch, and that was where we first met. Or rather, where we first became aware of one another. You told me later that you had noticed me before I noticed you. Evidently, you had seen me standing there, at the corner of the railing, an actual glass in my hand instead of one of the ubiquitous, red, plastic cups. To one side of me was a large porch swing on which two couples had crammed themselves. To the other side was a glass deck table and a half dozen chairs.
"Naturally, naturally," I had said just as you came out onto the porch with your friend. "It only makes perfect sense for all parties involved. No one wants a mouth full of hair when they're pleasuring someone. It's not a deal breaker, sure, but it certainly doesn't make things as pleasant as they could be."
As happens when enough people of a certain age get together and drink with reckless abandon, the topic of conversation had turned to sex.
"Ugh, so nasty," one of the girls at the table said. Everyone laughed.
"Totally not!" One of the girls on the swing exclaimed. "I'll totally admit that I love to suck cock!" Everyone laughed some more, and the man squeezed in next to her grinned sheepishly.
"Lucky boy!" Someone called from the house through the open window.
"Damn skippy!" The girl from the swing replied. "Ask him about the drive here!"
Everyone laughed some more, someone groaned, and the man next to her blushed.
I left the railing, announcing that there was too much air in my glass, and that the only solution to that problem was to fill it with more bourbon. I reached over and patted him on the back. "Well there you go. Count your blessings. Not every man can find a woman who loves to have a cock in her mouth."
I looked at you as I passed you to go inside, and saw that you were looking at me, your eyebrows raised. I grinned, tapped the side of your shoulder, and said, "It's true. They're more difficult to find than one might think." I gave you a wink, and went inside.
The evening went on much like that. I told stories wild and fanciful, shucking and jiving where ever I went. I thoroughly enjoy house parties, and moved from room to room, enjoying the conversations I encountered. People drank, people laughed. A beer-pong tournament was in full swing in the garage. Someone pulled a joint out on the porch. Someone pulled a bottle of a rare, anise flavored alcohol out of a knapsack. Friends and strangers mingled, moving through the house, losing each other and being pleasantly surprised when they found each other again.
You and I had run into each other a few times during our respective minglings. Your friend had apparently disappeared with her boyfriend, and you at last happened to be in the kitchen at the same time I was. I poured myself a whiskey and ginger, and looked up at you when you wandered in.
"Hello, hello!" I said. I introduced myself properly. I asked how you knew our host – a short, thin man of whom I'd lost track some hours earlier.
"It's complicated," you said with a brief smile.
"Ah, oh dear." Visions of drama began dancing through my head.
"No no," you continued. "I was dating this guy whose ex was also his ex, and...well..." You trailed off.
"Ah, I see. No worries, no worries. These things do happen." I asked you what you were drinking, and you looked at your red, plastic cup with a frown.
"I'll tell you what," I began, taking stock of the various liquors and mixers on the counter, "I'll mix you up something somewhat more delicious than what you had there." You bit your lip and smiled and handed me your cup. I rinsed it, and, changing my mind, threw it away, getting you an actual glass from the cabinet.
"We're civilized people here," I said with a grin, and began pouring this and that over ice for you. The resulting concoction was pale red, ice cold, tasted very much like Hawaiian Punch, and was probably about 75 proof, including mixers.
"It's delicious!" You exclaimed after the first few tentative sips.
"Yes, yes it is." I winked.
