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.