I was drunk.
Six pints of beer, two pints of cider, at least four whisky chasers, with only a cheeseburger and a few packets of Cheese & Onion crisps to soak up the booze, was enough alcohol to leave me smashed. Intoxicated, excited and charged. A few of our entourage had bailed when we hit the spirits. The rest of Paul's friends had scattered themselves around his student flat in a highly inebriated state. Lightweights! They were between nineteen and twenty-one years of age, and a few drinks at the popular University venue should have been in the lightly sozzled territory, not knocked out rhino. Embarrassments, the lot of them.
I had more cause than most to get sloshed at the union nightclub. Lucy, my girlfriend of six months, had danced with other men. She gyrated her body against a classmate as she downed shots of vodka in a dress that even Miley Cyrus might have considered a bit too risque for public viewing.
The svelte blonde had worn that slutty number, my favourite, when we met. And again when we first fucked. The long slits gathered plenty of male attention, the short length of the garment permitted lots of indiscretion, and the large quantity of mesh panels showed everything whenever she danced or moved.
And that night she had shown a lot. Every guy in the club got an eyeful of her assets. They saw the tops of her thighs and her peachy derriere. They even glimpsed the smattering of pubic hair that nestled above her heaven. Many wanted, and a few got lucky. Because Lucy did not disappoint. I observed a procession of men grind their bodies against my girlfriend, and they openly fondled her tits, her ass and her cunt. A couple took Lucy to a quiet corner of the student nightclub for more than just a grope on the dancefloor. The popular venue had many such places for naughtiness; it was that kind of establishment. The nightclub was where I first met Lucy; it was where we had our first kiss, and our first shag.
Lucy Ann Rhodes was my type of girl. I had always been attracted to sexually liberated and promiscuous women. Paul labelled them "sluts" or "slags" and, as I watched a classmate rub his crotch into the writhing ass of my girlfriend, I mooted that his terms were more accurate descriptions of what I called freedom. For Lucy, anyhow.
It had been over between us for weeks. Neither of us had the courage to end the relationship, and both of us avoided the subject. We just met up, screwed and parted. In between dates, I knew she cheated on me; she brazenly left used condoms in her bedroom bin for me to find. Lucy fucked someone else every single day and then claimed she was faithful; she was aghast when I suggested otherwise.
She lied, and I knew it. And she knew I knew it, but it changed nothing. Her address book had more phone numbers than a telephone directory, and she used more condoms than a music festival. She fucked who she craved and did not care about any of the consequences. If I wanted to enjoy continual access to her pussy, then I was required to feign ignorance of her indiscretions. We had no future together, but witnessing her brazen nastiness on the dancefloor, seen from on high, was a brutal reminder of the reality of our relationship. She saw me watching her and smirked as I shifted uncomfortably. She loved that I witnessed it, and I downed a few more drinks to slake my sorrows. I tried to pull a couple of good-looking girls without success. The aroma of desperation stunk, and it lingered around me.
So, I stayed with Paul throughout the night. His entourage, celebrating his birthday, grew and thinned dramatically as the celebrations wore on. The alcohol never stopped, which is why at 3am in the morning, I slouched on his sofa, surrounded by three drunken and snoozing lightweights in his student flat, who could not handle their beer.
