House party. Two words charged with maximum possible meaning. For the uninitiated, ‘house’ means ‘a room to have’ and ‘party’ means ‘sexytime’. Those readers with more conscience than most may ask– what about last week’s epiphanic moment with your best friend? Well, I would respond by saying that ‘epiphanic moment’ is far too pretentious for this humble column, and secondly, that since the ball there has been a severe communication breakdown. We said good night on her doorstep on ball night, and since then neither of us has spoken to the other. We’ve been reduced to awkward smiles as we pass in college. Perhaps this is a sign that the affair is too important for us to be flippant, or casual, about. Perhaps it shows regret starting to creep in to the memory. Either way, and as much as I think I have feelings for her, the show must go on. The whole point of this challenge is too break from paralysing relationship possibilities. It’s not reckless, it’s committed. It’s just healthy.
House party. Two words charged with maximum possible meaning. For the uninitiated, ‘house’ means ‘a room to have’ and ‘party’ means ‘sexytime’. Those readers with more conscience than most may ask– what about last week’s epiphanic moment with your best friend? Well, I would respond by saying that ‘epiphanic moment’ is far too pretentious for this humble column, and secondly, that since the ball there has been a severe communication breakdown.
We said good night on her doorstep on ball night, and since then neither of us has spoken to the other. We’ve been reduced to awkward smiles as we pass in college. Perhaps this is a sign that the affair is too important for us to be flippant, or casual, about. Perhaps it shows regret starting to creep in to the memory. Either way, and as much as I think I have feelings for her, the show must go on. The whole point of this challenge is to break from paralysing relationship possibilities. It’s not reckless, it’s committed. It’s just healthy.
The music is blaring out, and everyone is huddled together in small groups to speak over it. The garden is open, and people are sprawled across the grass or lounging on the patio furniture. Bottles and cans litter the whole house, and to a sudden visitor, a thick smog would become apparent, hanging in the air from the breath of drunks.
I’m talking to a second-year; it’s a second-year house party. It’s all going rather well; we’re exchanging little flirty touches as the conversation continues, from my hand resting on the edge of her skirt, to her turning to whisper in my ear. She goes to get a drink, and I follow her to grab bottles and then retire to a room partly forgotten at the back of the house, so it’s only the two of us around as we start to kiss.
She kisses down my neck and I grab her shirt and pull her to me, my hands running underneath to her breasts. We part mouths, let tongues alone, and she leans over the sofa and finds the door with a key to lock it. She then leans in to distract me with another bout of kisses, taking her hands to my jeans and undoing the buttons, before slipping her hand inside. In one moment, she shifts off of my lap and alongside me on the sofa as I feel her start to move me up and down. We’re kissing wildly, gasping for breath, and minutes run like seconds until I can’t kiss properly anymore. She uses her mouth for the last charge, and then we rest, spent. Then we rejoin the party, anonymous and unconnected in the crowd. This is what I said I needed. A healthy donation of temporary passion, mutually given. Sexual ephemera. Readers, I’m getting closer.
