The Art of Getting Laid

Rule Fourteen: Sometimes Pant are Optional

Rule Fourteen: Sometimes Pant are Optional

The air swirled around me like fireflies; crisp, calamitous and completely alive.

The grass was damp and freezing cold on the pads of my feet. A shiver rippled through my entire body and then hummed around me.

I shrugged out of my coat. My hands were shaking so hard that I dropped the Columbia before I commanded my fingers to curl open.

The baseball diamond looked like a dark lake with small buoys bobbing at each corner. “Should we do this?” My brain was hazy and my heart was pounding like war drums. The adrenaline was shooting from the tips of my hair to my toes, intoxicating and completely irreversible.

Liz pulled off her dress and threw it like a banner behind her, laughter peeling left and right. “No.” She turned to me and the wind threw the fragrance of her shampoo at me. I sucked in my breath; her bra was faintly lighter than her skin and shimmered from the handful of stars scattered across the sky. 

I flinched when her dress hit me square in the face.

“C’mon,” she said laughing. “Let’s just do it.”

“I can’t yet,” I stopped as she came closer to me. Her shoes were still on—it was strange to see someone in their underwear and shoes. They were simple ballet flats, but a still earth white that made feet look somehow unnatural and blinding. “Just give me the vodka.”

The problem with her giving me the bottle was that she had step even closer to me. The erratic thrumming in my chest was nearly painful, I clutched my hand over my heart convulsively and she shot me a look that—instead of prompting me to answer to my actions—made my body suddenly feel too hot again. It was as if I was back in the closet, smothered in wool scarves and coats. I took an uneven breath, and then let it out again in a small laugh.

“You alright?” She put into words, because I clearly wasn’t going to respond to silent communication.

“Yeah… I’m fine. Just—“ She handed me the vodka quickly and just as quickly stepped back, observing me cautiously.

“You sure you’re alright? You’ve been acting weird ever since I took my clothes off.”

I couldn’t help it. I snorted at the statement. “You do just realize what you said, right?”

She scrunched her eyebrows together and made no move to answer.

“I’m gonna be alright. Just cold and you know,” I nodded my head in the direction of the blank baseball diamond, “a little pissed. This,” I held up the alcohol, “will be just what I need. Take the edge off.”

Liz didn’t look completely won over. “Whatever you say. Buttoms up—mines freezing. It’s no fun streaking alone.”

“You’re not streaking yet.” But you’re getting there. I uncapped the bottle and took a long, hard swig. Drinking straight vodka isn’t fun—especially with the stuff Liz grabbed. It burned the interior of my mouth and I felt it down the back of my throat and up through my nose before I swallowed. I swilled it around in my mouth, as if numbing my taste buds would numb the rising of my dick once Liz took her clothes off.

“You drunk?”

“Liz, it’s not instantaneous.” A slight thrill rocketed through me at saying her name. What on earth was going on? I looked upwards and a chilly breeze rattled the coat I’d discarded on the grass.  It wasn’t the answer I was looking for.

“I’m cold. Clothes off.”  Liz was rubbing her arms—I didn’t need to see the hair rising up over her skin to know that she had goose bumps.