The art of getting laid - Day 3Submitted by Spam at 2008-08-07 13:19:58 EDT
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My forehead rests against the glass and I watch lazily with unfocused eyes as the countryside slips past my window in a haze of green and brown. I can just about hear the hubbub of conversation as the other 3 guys in the car laugh and joke warming up for the party but, even though they're sitting right next to me, it sounds murmured and muffled as my thoughts wander.
I think about The Girl and The Phone Call that set this in motion and all that's happened in the last few days. On the amount of effort and money that I've expended on what used to be such an easy task. How close I've come to succeeding and the heartache when it all got taken away at the last minute. I try to work out if I feel better for it, if it was worth it, if things would've really been any worse had I just stayed at home on my sofa drinking cheap brandy.
Fuck it. None of that really matters at the moment, today's the last day, the moneyshot, there'll be enough time for idle reflection later.
*****INCOMING SMS - SCOTT*****
***Whats up guys? party's in full flow, when you getting here?***
I shake off the last vestige of weed-induced introspection, adjust my flatcap and try to get into character. All or nothing now Samuel, Half measures are for pussies.
Thursday Day 3 - Michelle
"Hey everyone, Sam One's turned up!!"
There's a cheer as I stroll into the garden and even now, after however many years, I am somewhat taken aback by the celebrity status I have attained amongst these Cambridge socialites. Strangers and friends alike amble over to greet me with wide smiles but amongst all the pleasantries and back slapping I notice one belligerent expression. On cue, Scott Introduces us.
"Sam One, Meet Sam Three, one of my housemates"
His expression makes sense now and I try to hide a smirk that he notices anyway with a glower. Scott knows three people who share my name and a while ago he took to numbering them all for convenience. Not only does it annoy this guy that even though he lives with Scott he only ranks at number three but a few months ago this practice spread and now even his friends refer to him as Sam Three and joke about the day they get to meet the original and best of the Sam's. I have to say, in his position I'd probably be a little pissed too.
"What makes you so fucking special then?"
He's got ratty blond hair and a wiry frame and I can tell by his tone and arrogant expression that he's not blessed with an abundance of originality. It doesn’t take too long to work out that if he wants to step up it would take almost no effort at all to physically and intellectually bitch-slap him back into place but I could really do without that sort of hassle.
But thankfully, before I can craft a response one of his mates pipes up.
"Because he fucking better than you dickhead, now shut your mouth and respect your superiors."
It's delivered in a jocular fashion but the fire behind Sam Three's eyes tells me that I've made myself a mortal enemy already.
I laugh in his face, just to get the ball rolling.
Scott’s sister Michelle slinks up to me wearing a figure-hugging beige dress and, not for the first time as I admire here six and a half foot frame, I sympathise with how the French felt about Joan of Arc. This girl would be pretty stunning if she didn't have that head. I go for a quick embrace as she approaches and give her a chaste peck on the cheek but the kiss she returns is delivered a little too close to my neck and feels moist and sensual.
"I've been looking forward to seeing you again" she breathes into my ear, "Especially after last time you were here,"
She gives my backside a cheeky squeeze that a couple of people notice with raised eyebrows before disengaging and flouncing off drunkenly.
“So what happened with you and Nikki then?”
It’s Scott that asks the question but holding court amongst the backyard stoners as I am, my answer will have to be delivered to a group of relative strangers and I’m just not ready for that.
“Long story” I say evasively.
“Well shorten it”
I think long and hard about how to succinctly explain my derision for the girl without going into too much detail. About the lies and the cheating and how much I did for her only to get nothing but heartbreak in return. About how pissed off I am that I let it all happen because I was too busy kidding myself that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t mean it.
“She’s a Cunt,” I say.
There’s a silent pause from the crowd before they all break into laughter that I take no pleasure in. Only Scott sees through the bravado and his eyes well with sympathy as he lets the matter drop.
My moods are swinging pendulously between witty erudition and silent depression in ten minute cycles and the misery isn’t something I want to share with these people so I slink off to the kitchen to fix myself a drink. High on the shelf above the cupboards I see a dusty bottle of Courvoisier XO still in it’s presentation case and I give a silent prayer of thanks to whoever bought this ludicrously priced taste of heaven only to leave it here untouched for me to one day find and enjoy. At this particular instant, It’s worth every penny of the hundred or so quid somebody else paid for it.
A soft upper-class voice breaks my contemplation with perfectly enunciated, well-rounded tones.
“Could you pour me out one of those please?”
I turn to face her as I pass an empty glass and stop dead in my tracks for an awkward thought-erasing second. Blond, expensively coiffed hair, deep blue eyes brimming with intellect, all wrapped up in stylishly cut plain cocktail dress that shows more of her slender physique with how much is covers up.
And I just stand there frozen, awkwardly holding the bottle in one hand and her glass in the other as I stare at her perfection.
A Long time passes like that before she tears her eyes from mine and eyes the bottle with a approving grin.
“I see you’ve gone for the good stuff?”
“Only the best.” I drawl as I take a sip from my glass, never once taking my eyes away from her.
There’s not much left of the bottle by now but neither of us seem to notice as we lean against the worktops facing each other in Scott’s narrow kitchen. Other people come and go and try to engage us in conversation but quickly they realise that there’s something between us and take their leave tactfully.
Our conversation is urbane and ceaseless and I feel I’m in one of those zones I hit from time to time where everything that comes out of my mouth is witty and interesting. She laughs at all of my quips and I at hers and the connection between us seems almost tangible when she rocks her head back in silvery laughter and unconsciously strokes my arm as I speak.
This is what this was all about Sam. This is the whole point of this weekend. It was never really about sex but more of a way to prove something to myself, prove that I’m worthwhile, that there is somebody else out there who gets me, that it wasn’t just a fluke. I’d almost forgotten what it was to actually feel good about myself.
*****INCOMING SMS – SCOTT*****
***Sorry mate, she’s engaged. Drop it***
“Are you single?” I demand.
After a couple of hours of polite and pretentious light-hearted conversation the tone of my blunt delivery wrong-foots her and she goes bright red and begins to stammer a response.
“Sort of,” she mutters “I’m living with someone but He’s in Singapore for two months with work and…”
I don’t let her finish.
“Then why am I wasting my time with you?” I say harshly, my disappointment manifesting itself as anger before I even have time to reflect on the situation.
Her eyes well up and I see her lip quiver and regret my comment almost immediately but it’s too late and she snatches up her bag from the sideboard, marches out the room and leaves the party without saying goodbye to anybody.
And I don’t feel so good about myself anymore.
Through the drunken haze I can just about make out Michelle’s towering silhouette in the doorway but I don’t utter a greeting. The XO finished a long time ago and I’ve been standing here alone since, downing cheap shitty vodka wrapped up in a blanket of self-loathing.
“You okay?” she says.
“Well let’s see what we can do about that then”
And she slinks her arms around the back of my neck and kisses me passionately.
If feels all wrong and I’m not there, not in the moment. I can’t help but compare and that’s a sure sign if ever there was one. Her skin feels hard and weathered where Nikki's used to feel so soft and there’s and edge to this girl that I’m not used to and don’t feel that comfortable with.
I pull away for a breather and stare at her face and realise that I’m not attracted to her, not even slightly. I guess in the grand scheme of things it shouldn’t matter. But it does.
She takes my hand and moves it up her skirt with a smile.
“I shaved for you today” she says and it’s probably the unsexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
But I slide my hand between her legs anyway and she lets out a little moan of pleasure as I take advantage of the fact she isn’t wearing any underwear
Her breath is coming in gasping pants now and she grabs and handful of my hair and pulls me to her breast hard as her groaning gets louder and all of a sudden I become aware of the fact that we’re in the middle of a crowded party and the door is open so I pull away for a second time. She misreads my intentions, hops onto the counter and wraps her legs around me.
“Fuck me” she whispers. “fuck me right here and now”
But her aggression kills my already waning mood and a flash of lucidity cuts though my drunken fumblings. There’s a time and a place to fuck your best mates sister, I think, and the smart money says that on a counter in his kitchen in the middle of his 26th birthday party probably isn’t it.
“Look,” I say reasonably, “I don’t think we sh…”
But before I can finish the sentence, she’s pushed me up against the other sideboard dropped to her knees and unzipped my flies.
“Jesus Christ” I say as she takes me in her mouth and goes to work with an enthusiasm that is frankly, quite fucking scary.
The door opens for, miraculously, the first time in about half an hour and Sam Three stops dead in his tracks as he sees what’s going on inside. Michelle has her back to the door and continues her work undisturbed while my namesake and I share a long silent moment of acute embarrassment. His face reddens and I don’t know whether it’s resentment, jealousy, anger or all three but after how he acted to me earlier, something kicks in and there’s no way I can pass up the opportunity.
So, my best friend’s sister still kneeling in front of me with my cock in her mouth, I maintain eye contact, point both thumbs at myself in a gesture reminiscent of The Fonze and exaggeratedly mouth the words:
And he walks away, his head bowed. Defeated.
But there’s no way this can carry on after that so I ease myself out of Michelle’s mouth with the barest tinge of regret and zip myself up.
“This can’t happen Honey. Not here, not right now.”
I expect her to understand – I mean, how could she fucking not? – but she doesn’t and a pall of shame and rejection visibly washes over her as she stands up and wipes her mouth.
“Fine” She spits out, “Be like that”
I want to be pissed off that she’s angry but I guess her reaction’s no different to how mine was earlier so I let it slide and make my way to living room where the party is gradually fizzling out to get some much needed sleep.
Booze and drugs are scattered everywhere and the room’s only occupants are six people spread across Scott’s 4 sofa’s, all on the verge of passing out where they sit. I kick an unconscious Indian guy off one of the couches so I can have it myself and stretch out and somebody silently passes me the dieing remnants of a badly rolled joint. I suck long and hard on it before closing my eyes and waiting for sleep to take me.
I am awoken by a feminine groan that sounds oddly familiar and for a second I think I’m dreaming of Her again and try to ignore it but the grunt that follows it is definitely male and definitely in the room.
I prise open my eyes groggily without moving and my jaw drops as I see the Indian who’s sofa I’ve stolen in the middle of drunkenly fucking Michelle on the floor in the centre of the room
I don’t have to be a genius to realise what’s gone on here, Michelle, aroused and frustrated has literally grabbed the first person she’s come across, be he unconscious at the time, and demanded sex. Possibly she has chosen this particular venue to spite me but even though this is the quickest I’ve ever gone from having my cock in somebody’s mouth to watching them fuck somebody else, it doesn’t bother me. I’m way past shit like that.
I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep to the sound of their groaning and realise absently that I can still taste her perfume in my mouth.
Of course, it’s impossible.
I can’t sleep to this overture and I can’t just get up and go somewhere else because for some reason, the idea of catching somebody at it seems as embarrassing to me as actually getting caught.
But after ten minutes of lying here pretending to sleep I’m starting to get fucked off by it. Fuck them for putting me in this situation. Seriously, who has sex in a crowded room full of strangers and expects uninterrupted privacy?
“Is this likely to go on for much longer? Because I’m really fucking tired and it’s impossible to sleep with this going on”
My words, spoken normally, seem a lot louder in a room populated with people trying to be quiet. I hear a snigger and a muffled guffaw from a couple of the other guys who have obviously been trying to ignore it and pretend to be asleep like me.
But the worst thing is the complete lack of remorse as Indian guy looks up at me, mid stroke, and calmly says, “sorry mate, we’ll be done in a minute or so.” and carries on.
Park benches aren’t even very comfortable to sit on let alone sleep so I’m glad I scooped up a handful of weed from the table when I left the house in search of somewhere less akward to sleep. It’s a windy morning and the trees overhead rustle nosily as I try and smoke myself into unconsciousness but it’s better than listening to an amateur sex show at least.
I’m too drunk and numbed by the events of this night to even begin to fathom whether they constituted a minor victory or a crushing defeat.
But as I curl up to protect myself from the elements and begin slipping away into a troubled sleep where rogue strands of thought start to fall onto Nikki yet again, one thing is for sure:
I’m no closer to getting over her then I was last Wednesday.
And a light drizzle begins to fall from the cloudy sky.
Final part - http://www.ubersite.com/m/118136