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Get-togethers like this remind you of just how much you miss being alone. Literally thousands of miles (and hundreds of years) away from the rest of the world. There were times you said you’d give anything to be in one of those little suburbs, surrounded by all your friends who’d be there at the drop of a hat to come shoot the proverbial breeze with you. And you suppose, in a way, you did give everything. So here you are at the sixth potluck this month, in a little suburb surrounded by every friend you’ve ever made, and you’d honestly rather be anywhere else.
And if you’re accepting suggestions, you wouldn’t mind that “anywhere else” being back when you were all that way away from everyone. Nothing more than a name on a screen. An elusive, sweet-talking chap from across the pond who nobody could seem to get enough of. Everything had gone downhill rather fast when you very suddenly became all 100% of yourself, as opposed to the extremely curated online persona you tried desperately to maintain. Being that fine-tuned kind of character meant that there were some disappointing truths about yourself you didn’t have to reckon with. When you came into what you’d hoped would be your real start at life in society, you were abruptly dropped into those truths. And who knew that you were actually annoying as all hell, and that any poor soul with the misfortune of being into you ought to be taken out back and shot for their own sake? Not you, you’ll say that much!
When the conversation turns to what animal everyone would be, you’re very quickly reminded of this unified perception your friends seem to have of you. It doesn’t feel stellar, being told to your face that you’ve probably got less wits about you than a dog. Not even a smart dog, like a husky or an Alsatian– maybe you could cope with that. No, rather, you find yourself awkwardly laughing through the thorough roast of Jake English, while you’re likened to a loyal, albeit criminally annoying chihuahua. Lovely.
So you fix yourself a drink. One little glass of whiskey, that’s all. Just taking the edge off. It softens the sharpest tones in their voices, rounds out the warmer ones. You nurse your drink tenderly. Really, you’re trying to make it look like you don’t despise the taste. Holding it in the back of your throat, easing it down so the bitterness just aches rather than burns. When Rose inevitably notices, she gives you that “I’ve been there, pal” look, and it almost makes you want to jump up and tell her that you’re definitely not doing precisely what you are doing. But then you wouldn’t be doing the yappy chihuahua comparison any favours now, would you? You get the last of it down and stare at the empty glass instead of meeting her eyes.
You make another drink. Someone’s left their half-drunk can of fizz on the countertop, so you discreetly pour some of that into your cup, and top off the rest with a bit more whiskey. It’s a Highball, by some vague definition. The colour’s a mite pale, but you’re sure if nobody looks too closely, they won’t notice. Rationally, yes you know it’s kind of silly to be insecure about your taste (or lack thereof) in alcohol. And seriously, what does it matter that you don’t want to suffer through what’s supposed to be a nice drink. Why shouldn’t a man be able to cut his booze with a little soda pop? To hell with it. These judgmental so-and-so’s are half the reason you drink anyway, so why should you care what they think?
In the time it’s taken you to pour a drink and regain your resolve, your seat’s been bagsied. You sit down on the floor by the couch, and try tuning back into the chatter. God, you have no clue what anybody’s talking about. You’ve got a bit of a buzz going already– something you wouldn’t admit to anybody. You’d say you’re keeping it together pretty well, throwing back the second drink with much more ease than the first. You’re rather good at hiding the fact that you’re an absolute lightweight, sitting back, drinking in the conversation and the alcohol, laughing when you’re supposed to and nodding along. Nobody would suspect a thing.
Roxy waves her hand in front of your face, and as she yells out to everyone about how very plastered you must look right now, you realise you’ve not properly heard a word anyone’s said for a solid five minutes.
You say, in your best “I’m not drunk” voice, that you’re not drunk. And, alright, you are quite drunk. You know you’re drunk, not because you absolutely can’t say “I’m not drunk” and sound convincing, but because when they laugh at your expense, it suddenly doesn’t feel like a personal slight. It’s all just noise now, what they’re laughing at suddenly doesn’t matter.
Monstrous desserts from Betty Crocker cookbooks of bygone worlds are passed around courtesy of Jane, but you don’t have much of an appetite by the time you’ve polished off the better part of a litre bottle. You’re surprised you’re offered anything to begin with, considering you don’t think anyone here would really care if you were to die of starvation. …Maybe that’s a tad harsh. A touch too much of the old liquid courage and you start to get a bit uncharitable. Pushing your drunken tetchiness aside, you smile and wave away the passing plate of Devil’s food cake with an attempt at a polite refusal. An attempt, as in actual fact you sound like you’ve just suffered a major brain health crisis and are in need of urgent care. You’re not entirely sure whether you should rule that out as a possibility– issue there would be that you’d then just be inconveniencing your dear friends more. Better off to die quietly and wait upon your inevitable resurrection.
…You’re getting carried away in your self pity, not to mention in the actual drinking game that’s finally kicked off. Oops, you’ve given yourself a head start on that one. Time to put all the derision aside and just try to enjoy the night. As much of it as you can through half-closed eyes at least. It’s finally acceptable to drink yourself half to death, and you’ll drink to that! Damned if you think you’re going to sit here and sulk while that opportunity passes you by.
The gathering wraps up shortly after the drinking starts, because nobody here is really all that much of a social drunk. Jackets are pulled on, dishes are put in the sink, and everyone starts to take their leave. Whose place is this anyway? Not yours clearly, from the way you’re helped to your feet and swept up in the mass exodus towards the front door. Out in the front garden of this tidy little house, whose owner you don’t look up to wave goodbye to - even if just to check who it is - you hear a chorus of goodnights and goodbyes. Dirk’s here with you, there’s that.
You struggle to walk straight on your way home, even with Dirk propping you up against his side. Some part of you is aware of the fact that you’re heading towards his house and not your own. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, of course. It’s just that, at the start of the day, you had hoped you’d finish it in your own bed. You even put freshly clean sheets on in preparation! That’s not the hallmark of a man who isn’t expecting to retire to the Land of Nod in his own California King. You’ve always had a spot of trouble saying no to Dirk though. And it’s nice that he’s inviting you over, inebriated as you are. It’s a kind gesture– are you seriously going to spoil the night by acting even more of an antisocial arsehole than you already have? Finding the balance between standing your ground and not being rude is hard at the best of times, let alone when you’re still so drunk that you can hardly stand to begin with. Especially when you’ve just had to give yourself a stern talking-to about not being a jackass. The lines are somewhat blurred.
You go to bed with him without a fuss, following all the cues and commands to take off your clothes while he does the same. He neatly folds his and puts them on a chair nearby. By comparison, you cast yours here and there about the place - because honestly you wouldn’t be able to fold your clothes right now if you had a bleeding gun to your head - and you think he might be a bit upset with you, the way he purses his lips in an utterly bemused expression. It doesn’t last long if he is though, because in seconds he’s on you. You’re on him actually. Then he’s on you again. A bit difficult keeping track of all the tossing and turning in your state, mind you. Really, even in better circumstances you still probably would have mentally checked out by now. It’s not that you don’t like the time you spend with Dirk– you really do, if your sudden and strained erection is anything to go by. The thing is, is that he’s good at taking what he wants of you regardless of whether you’re actively participating or not. So it doesn’t matter all that much if you’ve checked out for the night, the show will go on nevertheless!
And that’s completely fine. You don’t mind that he’s rather forceful. On the contrary; you honestly think it comes in pretty handy that everyone you’ve had the honour of a sexual rendezvous with is quite headstrong. Were it down to you, you’d never get anything done. Better things to do than go on endless misadventures at the beck and call of your thingy. Sex just doesn’t seem to occupy the forefront of your mind the way it does with basically everyone you know. The downside is that it makes you rather blind to others’ needs, which is exactly why you’re quite content letting them take what they need, if and when. It’s the least you can do. Though, you can’t imagine that’s a particularly helpful mindset to have when you’re battling to strike a balance with standing your ground.
Sex with Dirk feels like one hell of a battle. If it is, you lose every time. You might be big and beefy, but the muscles are mostly for show– you wouldn’t know how to use them properly if it were life or death. Dirk, on the other hand, is this impossibly quick, analytical, scary little thing that you can’t keep up with for love nor money. Whether he’s on top or beneath you, he’ll have you out of breath in seconds flat. It’s all quite exciting to be honest. The heart-pounding adrenaline rush, knowing you can’t do a damn thing to break even, let alone win. Would it be crazy to admit that it’s an enormous turn-on? Well, suppose you don’t have to admit it. It’s fairly self evident when he gets your hands pinned up above your head and you promptly jizz up your own stomach.
Bugger it all, you’ve blown it. Literally, no less. You’ve been invited into your on-again-off-again boyfriend’s not-so-humble abode despite the remarkably high odds you’ll end up hugging the toilet bowl for half the night– and you’ve gone and blown your load before the real action’s even begun. No, it’s not like he necessarily cares that you’re spent before he’s gotten his own, but it still doesn’t feel particularly great. And feeling “not great” wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t utterly tragic at keeping that feeling hidden. But a good poker player you are not! Your poker face looks just about as convincing as your “I’m not drunk” voice sounds. So, no, while it isn’t quite the end of the world, here you lay, inert and wheezing, looking like a kicked dog. Then as if it can’t get any worse– that look Dirk gives you when you look the way you do: you hate it. You hate how he looks at you when you’ve gone all limp and useless. You close your eyes so you don’t have to see him clean you off with his tongue.
Everything starts to go rollercoasters and carousels, feeling like your head just keeps dropping onto the pillow over and over again. You don’t know how long your eyes are shut. Then he gets on top of you and pushes your dick into him, and that gets you back with it for at least a second longer. Sure, the assault of staring right into the overhead light hurts, but at least you’re too drunk to register the usual punched-blind, leg-twitching pain of being screwed when you’ve already finished. There’s that.
It’s always a marvel how he fits you, so quickly. So easily. You can’t imagine he’s particularly sober right now either, but he’s managing to keep it together. He’s good like that. You put your hand up to try and help him out, but you can’t quite reach and he can’t quite be bothered to entertain it. He pushes your hand back down onto your chest and says something you don’t properly hear. Some kind of reassurance, you think. Like an “I’ve got this”, maybe. Your vision tunnels. You think you might be about to fall asleep. But you strain your eyes to keep yourself conscious. Watching Dirk move up and down, seeing his muscles tense and relax while he rides you. It’s a beautiful sight, you have to admit. And as much as you want to stay awake to see it all, counting sheep wouldn’t have you off to sleep much faster.
It jolts you back awake a little more when he stops moving, fully straddling you with his legs either side of your hips. If only he was facing away from you, you wouldn’t have to see how he looks down on you, literally. If he was facing away, you imagine how it’d look to see your cock completely taken by Dirk’s gorgeous body. You can’t help it, can’t help restating just how much of a sight for sore eyes that’d be. But if he was turned away from you, you’d miss out on what he’s doing now. He takes your hand, and guides it towards his crotch. You do your best to keep it there while he wraps his own hand around his dick. Then, with his free hand, he takes you by the wrist again and gently inches each of your fingers over his hand. This might be a mortifying ordeal in any other set of circumstances, but you’re very drunk, so you’re also very pleased that he’s taking the steps to keep everything in working order.
He strokes himself while you try to match his pace, loosely holding your hand atop his. Part of you feels like you should be insulted by the literal hand-holding here, like you should slap his hand away and insist that you’re very capable of giving him a bang-up job of a wank yourself. The very same part of yourself that thinks your friends want you to die of starvation and of a stroke at the party they invited you to. The self-pity streak that comes out when you’ve got more alcohol in you than blood. You choose not to listen to it. Why should you even dignify it with a response when you can see very clearly how loved you are anyway? Spread out in Dirk’s– sometimes your– bed, spoiled rotten with your merry member all the way in his ass while you sort of help get him off. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to scorn past-Jake for wishing you weren’t so alone. This is lovely. You’re right where you want to be, actually. It can’t possibly get any better than this! Letting your eyelids shutter, drifting off to dream sweetly while Dirk rides himself into oblivion atop you, you wonder if there’s any better way to spend the night.