It Makes Them Good Girls Go Bad

Even though my actions over the past few years may depict otherwise, I was never quite the wild child one might assume. I've always been a respectful girl and a good student, never really getting into trouble or disobeying my elders. I must admit, however, that I have had the occasional bout of disregard for the rules and have sporadically succumbed to my impulses. 


Bearing that in mind, one night circa 9^th grade, my parents left my siblings and me alone for the night as they went out to some work-related dinner party. My best friend {A} was staying over for the night and the absence of adult supervision, combined with the recently-introduced tomfoolery of high school, had sparked a sense of mischief in us normally well-behaved girls.

After little deliberation, it was decided: tonight was the night we were going to drink. And we weren’t thinking like a “let’s steal a Mike’s Hard Lemonade out of the fridge and share it” kind of drinking; tonight wasn’t about getting a sugar rush off some frufru bullshit. No no, tonight, we were going to DRINK drink… And get DRUNK drunk! Since neither of us had acquired a fondness for beer and we were “sooo over” wine coolers, it was concluded that liquor would be the next step. When we realized that the two of us wannabe rebels were too puss to actually take any liquor from my parents, we sought outside reinforcements.

Seeing as we were a mere 14, we didn’t exactly have a lot of friends who were old enough to buy alcohol. We did, however, have this one “friend” that we specifically maintained contact with so we could use him as our little bitch boy. This pathetic noob was a boy our age with these incredibly bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows. Despite his furry face friends, he wasn’t completely atrocious. He was tall and pretty muscular for a barely pubescent teenager. And he was pretty much in love with us, so we obviously liked that aspect of him. But keep in mind that he was a total dweeb, and these slightly-enhancing qualities far from surpassed the fact that he was a loser that we could (and often did) walk all over (And yes, our sadistic, manipulative tactics were already fine-tuned long before we even had our Learner’s Permits.).

{BushyBrows} didn’t go to our school, so I’m not even sure how we met him in the first place, but he lived relatively close so I can only assume we met through a mutual friend during a golf cart ride through the ‘hood. My neighborhood was considerably large, and “relatively close” meant about 6 miles away. Not too great of a distance, but by bike, about a 30 minute ride. With our clever negotiating skills and a dash of teenage lust, {A} and I convinced {BushyBrows} to steal some liquor from his parents and make the 6 mile trek to deliver it to us. The cost? Each of us promised him a kiss on the lips. Scandalous, I know.

After the call was made, we reassessed the situation. Neither of us was willing to stoop as low as to actually kiss {BushyBrows}… We needed an escape route; one that would let us inherit the stolen goods and preserve our fragile high school reputations while simultaneously convincing the naive pants-splooger that we really did WANT to kiss him, but some unforeseen circumstance had intervened. 


Being the devious Machiavellians that we were, the plan came quicker than a 13-year-old boy with a Victoria’s Secret catalog. We waited for his arrival, beaming with anticipation. Soon enough, we got the call. We peeked through the blinds and saw {BushyBrows} peddling his Schwin down the street with a plastic bag dangling from the handlebars.

“Hey, I’m like 4 houses away. Come outside!”

Execute Operation: No Fucking Way Am I Kissing That

“Oh shit! I can’t! I just realized my brother’s here!”

“Damn. Can’t you just come outside!?”

“No, we can’t! Then he’ll want to know what we were doing and come out and see the liquor! You’ll have to leave it somewhere!”

“Where am I supposed to leave it??”

“Um… I don’t know… Oh crap! He’s getting ready to go outside! Quick! Hide it in the mailbox! And then get out of here so he doesn’t see you! Otherwise we’ll get in trouble for hanging out with boys when my parents aren’t home!!!”

Okay, let me interject momentarily. Everything I just said was technically true but, in context, just a shish kabob of skewered bullshit. I would definitely get in trouble for having boys in the house while my parents weren’t home, but not for talking to them as they casually rode by on their bicycle. And my brother was most certainly not a prick that was going to march outside to see what his boring sister was doing. And even if he did, he wouldn’t be giving the third degree and investigating the situation. Oh, and my brother was only seven. 


But {BushyBrows} didn’t know any of this. He just credulously assumed that my big, scary, incredibly nosey and overprotective brother was there, alert and prepared to decipher any shenanigans. So he shoved the goodie bag into the mailbox and took off on his rusty 12-speed.

Now feeling particularly imperious, {A} and I frolicked (somewhat stealthily, of course) to the mailbox to collect our prize. Once the treasure was secure behind the locked doors of my bedroom and private bath, we set the bag in the bathtub to prevent any evidence of our soiled youth spilling on the rug. Our eyes lit up as we opened the bag to find the liquid gold, awaiting consumption. All clearly labeled in three bottle-like Tupperware containers, there were 4 shots worth of Captain Morgan, another 4 of Svedka, and 2 shots of Jose Cuervo; more than enough to get us drinking newbies perfectly plastered!

Being totally hardcore (and ignorantly inexperienced), we each grabbed a container and took a big sip straight from the bottle. Vodka in {A}’s hand and Captain in mine, we recoiled as the liquor flooded our mouths, our tongues tingling as we choked it down. After responding with a wincing, scrunched up face and an acrid sigh, {A} and I looked at each other as our faces of painful shock quickly melted into roguish smiles. THIS SHIT WAS REALLY HAPPENING.

We decided that chasers would be a vast improvement on the entire experience, so I scampered downstairs to the kitchen and fetched a few Diet Cokes and a glass of Crystal Light. Back upstairs, we stood in my bathroom taking baby shots followed with huge gulps of our savior drinks. For the next hour, we each tried all the liquors/chaser combinations and, soon enough, we were left with three empty containers, horribly impaired motor skills, and a raging fit of the giggles. After a dance party in our PJ’s, a (failed) attempt at flying with my makeshift bed sheet-cape, and an online diary update, our bodies were still tingling with the rush of the alcohol. Suddenly, we felt a rumble under our feet. The garage door. My parents were home!

Leaping into cover-up mode, we fumbled to rinse out the bottles before stashing them in the back of my linen closet. We crammed a few squares of Dentyne Ice into our mouths and polluted the air and every tangible surface with some Love Spell body splash. I clamored to unlock my bedroom door as {A} hurriedly sat down at my computer and opened her AOL messenger. I rebounded off the door and dove onto my bed, flicking on the TV midair. We waited anxiously as we heard my mom’s footsteps climbing the stairs. Down the hall, we heard the door to my sister’s room open and, a moment later, close. We listened as my mom sauntered into my brother’s room across the hall, followed by the silencing of his blaring TV. The momentary stillness was interrupted by the squeal of the only creaky floorboard in the entire house: the one just outside my door. My mom knocked on the other side before turning the handle and gently pushing her way in…

“Hey, girls! Just wanted to let you know we were home!” she rang in a singsongy voice. “How was your night?”

{A} let out a giggle and I shot her the shut-the-fuck-up-or-you’re-gonna-blow-our-cover look. We would be DEAD if my parents found out.

I attempted to appear as sober as I should have been. “It’s was okay… pretty boring…” I lied. “How was YOUR night?”

Thinking my question would receive a generic answer, I mentally facepalmed myself as my mom took a seat at the foot of my bed and began divulging every mundane detail of their night. As she was talking to me, she seemed upset about something, but I was more spaced out than a stoner on 4/20 and absolutely could not comprehend what the hell she was talking about. I attempted to console her with a casual “Yeah, sometimes they’re like that…” and prayed to fucking God that it somehow made sense and fit into the conversation. I stood up in hopes that it would indicate the end of story time, but it was to no avail; she kept talking... And talking… And TALKING. She was talking for what seemed like a damn eternity! Even if it was only for three minutes. Nevertheless! Regardless of how much time (or lack thereof) my mom was sitting there in the lingering stench of corrupted youth and too much body spray, every second was excruciating.

As I stood there, I felt the waves of drunkenness lapping at my body, making it difficult to maintain my balance. My mind drifted off… “I wish I had a little more Captain in me...I bet that scurvy pirate had a strong set of sea legs...He probably props that one foot up to stay balanced!" I raised my foot to rest it on an open drawer…

Finally, my mom let out an exasperated sigh, signaling the end of her saga. She moved over to {A} and gave her a goodnight kiss on the cheek. {A} gave a sheepish smile as she said goodnight, thankfully keeping my mother’s attention long enough to for her to miss my elbow slide of the edge of the dresser I had been using to steady myself. (I guess that foot thing isn’t to help keep you balanced after all.) My mother said goodnight to me as we kissed on both cheeks (because we’re fancy like that) before she slipped out the door.

The second my mom left and the bedroom door was closed, {A} and I locked eyes and let out a huge sigh of relief, followed by another obnoxious bout of laughter. For the rest of the night, the two of us good-girls-gone-badass carried on in the same clumsy fashion, just at a lower volume. The last thing I remember is laying on the floor of my bathroom, having drunken phone sex with my then-boyfriend. I was interrupted by {A} sliding the door open as I pulled my hand out of my pants and quickly looked up, only to smash my head into the bottom of the toilet bowl. (Bee tee dubs, I have a permanent bruise on my forehead from that… That shit hurt like a bitch.)

That whole scene is unsanitary, I know. That whole NIGHT was a fucking sloppy mess. The lying, the trickery... the total disregard for the rules and safety!? Classic.

You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three

Being a Florida girl at heart, the chilly three months of a 65˚ winter had really restricted my tanning time. Consequently, my ass was whiter than a black person’s fresh kicks. Most people would go to a tanning bed to resolve such a predicament but, living in the Sunshine State, that seems like a crime when there’s a surplus of free UV rays just outside. So one morning I decided to go lay out by the pool in an attempt to tan my pale ass cheeks. I don’t actually own a thong bathing suit, so I just picked out a pair of undies that kind of looked like they matched my bathing suit top and headed out. 


I set up poolside in a lounge chair with a margarita in one hand and a bottle of bronzer in the other. (Side note: This probably wasn't as glamorous as I’d like to imagine. This rendering of my poolside oasis is actually taking place in my apartment complex and, while the pool is very nice, it’s littered with other residents and the occasional maintenance man walking through. Also, I still had last night’s makeup smeared across my eyes and my indulgent cocktail was really just tequila, mix, and ice in a plastic Publix cup. Nevertheless, you get the idea.)

About three flips, two coats of bronzer, and an hour later, my friend {J} decided to come over and lay out with me. Like any good friend should, she showed up with more tequila. Whenever I’m lying out at the pool or going to the beach, my drink of choice is tequila and SunnyD. Tequila is great for countless reasons already, but it’s perfect for when you’re being lazy in the sun because its Mexican dirtiness is equivalent to yours, once you’ve reached that sweaty, oily, I-feel-like-a-stick-of-butter-sliding-around-a-hot-frying-pan state. SunnyD is my fave mixer because it’s kind of like orange juice, but better. It doesn’t have the intense acidity that can make later vomiting burn your throat worse than eating chips and salsa with a case of Strep (discovery made circa 1998.), and it’s so chalked full of sugar that it still tastes okay when your ice melts and your liquid concoction becomes a watered-down cup of warm Kool-Aid.

Two more hours and a few SunnyD-and-tequilas later, I get a call from one of my guy friends (henceforth referred to as {GuyFriend1}). He tells me that he has the day off and I invite him and his friend (henceforth, {GuyFriend2}) over to hang out with {J} and me at the pool. Just after I get off the phone with them, {J} decides that she’s too hot and is done laying out. Normally, I’d show an expected level of hospitality and offer to go back to the house or go out to lunch or something, but at this point I was already too intoxicated and sun-drunk to even think about moving, let alone being a good hostess. I tried to convince her to stay by bribing her with the notion of the two cabana boys that were already en route to the pool. “You have to stay! There are two boys on the way! What am I supposed to do with two of them?” I managed to slur. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she joked as she packed up and headed home. If only she had known.

I had brought my actual bathing suit bottoms with me so I could put them on over my thong in the event that I was asked to cover up my then-pale, now-sunburned ass. When I originally spoke with {GuyFriend1}, I had intended to put them on before the boys came over because, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a total hoebag like that. However, my once-prudent intentions were completely overshadowed by the clouds of alcohol. Shocker. I decided my attire wasn’t provocative in the slightest and that it was perfectly acceptable to wear these skimpy-ass panties around my guy friends. So there I was, all alone in my inebriated paralysis, feeling my skin getting singed by the rays of the Florida sun, when {GuyFriend1} and {GuyFriend2} finally show up.

Much to my delight, they arrived with more alcohol (Cran and vodka, to be exact. Not too partial on the cranberry juice, and a little thrown off by the fact that this homo cocktail was what the boys chose to drink, but it was enjoyed nonetheless.). We figured that playing a drinking game would be a good idea. Ring of Fire is always a good go-to game if you need an excuse to chug your entire drink in less than 7 seconds, so I ran home (and by “ran” I mean “drove my car the quarter mile around the corner”) to get some playing cards. When I came back with the cards, they questioned why they were plastic. I proceeded to explain that these were my “pool cards” and that they wouldn’t be ruined in case they got wet. Seconds into my explanation, I dumped my entire cran-and-vodka on the neatly laid out ring (of fire!), revealing the real reason why my clumsy drunk ass only uses plastic playing cards.

For those of you who have ever played Ring of Fire, you know how much one can consume as a consequence of the game. After my morning of pre-drinking and my afternoon of “waterfalls” and forgetting my little green man, I was nonsensically drunk. At this point, I start blacking out. The rest of this tale is only what I can derive from the flashes that remain in my memory [Insert feelings of shame and embarrassment here].

I remember us finishing the remnants of a bag of Cheesy poofs and deciding that we were still hungry. Ale House was suggested.

We stopped back at my house because…? I have no idea why we’re at my house. I drunkenly stumble into my roommate’s room and ask her if she wants to go with us to Ale House. She says “No, not really.” and rolls her eyes. Whatever, her loss. Ale House is the SHIT!

I'm in the passenger seat of someone's car. I can only assume we're driving to Ale House.

I'm right! We come in through the patio and walk to the other end of the restaurant to the host stand. The hostess leads us all the way back across the restaurant to a high top.

It’s cold. I realize I’m wearing a dress. ONLY a dress. No bra, no undies, just a short, flimsy, really-really-REALLY-needs-to-be-worn-with-undergarments dress. I’m worried that my coo is touching the seat. I check. It’s not. But I’m still paranoid.

I’m trying really hard to make my eyes focus on the menu. What do I want? I order. Wait, what did I order? I can’t remember.

Still consumed with worry over my nearly-naked body and this sleazy gossamer of a dress. I wonder if other people can see my boobs. I hate my boobs.

The food comes. I ordered fajitas? I never order fajitas. I eat one. They’re delicious! Why don’t I ever order fajitas?! I burn my arm on the sizzling fajita plate. I remember why I never order fajitas.

We’re back at my house. Climbing up the stairs is a challenge. Did somebody just spank me? Ow, sunburn! We’re in my room. There’s a spot on my bed that’s soaking wet… Wtf? {GuyFriend1} informs me that it’s another one of my spilled cran-and-vodkas. However, this one’s spill wasn’t the result of clumsiness. It was just me being a fucking dumbass. Apparently, I put the nearly-full Solo cup in my purse (Whaaa…?) and threw the purse on my bed before we left for Ale House. It has soaked all the way through two comforters, my sheets, and the pillowtop. Fuhhhk.

We’re on my bed (the dry part). I don’t think the door’s closed. Oh well. I’m kissing someone. The other one slides a hand up my dress. I haven’t shaved my hooha in like 5 days… fuck. Whoever I’m kissing pulls my dress down. “Why don’t you like your boobs? You have cute little boobs.” Thanks for the compliment, but “cute” and “little” are some of the describing features I specifically don’t like about my boobs. I’m getting finger-banged and still making out with someone. The finger-banger puts his head between my legs. I tell the other one to put his dick in my mouth. There’s a dick in my mouth!

The one between my legs has a sex toy. Wait, where did you get that? I keep my vibrator in the nightstand and you’ve clearly been in the southern region. Hold on, that’s not a vibrator. That’s a full-on dildo. Oh my god… that’s Alejandro... my 12”, bottle-thick, it-was-a-present-relating-to-an-inside-joke, clearly-only-on-display-for-humorous-decorative-purposes, not-to-ever-be-used-as-a-sex-toy-because-it’s-filthy-and-it-would-NEVER-fit-in-my-vag-because-I'm-not-a-complete-whore(!) dildo.

I freak out. You just tried to cram a dust-covered stick of death into my chee-cha! I jump up and go into my bathroom. I need to take a shower. I realize I’m sunburned as the water hits my skin like holy water on a hooker. I decide I’ll have to sit in the tub instead. I pass out in about 6 inches of water.

I wake up what seems like 4 minutes later and hear the boys still talking in my bedroom. I’m surprised they’re still here. “I can’t believe you guys are still here.” Apparently, they interpreted that as “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ASSHOLES STILL HERE?! GET THE FUCK OUT!” even though I meant it as “Wow, I’m surprised you stuck around while the girl you just violated has been locked in the bathroom for 10 minutes. That’s kinda nice. I guess I’ll hurry up and come out so we can continue.” I hear them leaving. I decide that’s okay too.

I come out of the bathroom and look at the clock. It’s only 5PM. I begin to contemplate my life decisions, but quickly decide a nap would be more pleasant.