“I’ll take that bet but you’re going to regret it because I can hold my liquor. In the end, you’ll have to pour some salt on those wounds, LoneStar.”
“What wounds would those be, Britton?”
“The ones that you’ll feel when your ego takes a hit and you realize your southern charms don’t work on me,” she vehemently states.
“Pick your poison, Britton,” I dare her. “Or are you too chickenshit to follow through?”
“Tequila, with salt, but apparently, no lemons,” she pouts.
“We have lemons,” I tell her. “They’re tucked in the back of the fridge, left drawer. You go cut some up while I gather the shot glasses, the Patron, and salt.”
“Patron? You’re pulling out the good stuff, huh?” she asks, looking somewhat nervous. I internally smile knowing that I’ve found her weakness. The expensive liquor takes her to her knees, it’s the cheap shit she can throw back and handle. Fuck yes!
“You pull out the expensive shit when someone challenges you to a drinking game, Britton.”
“I didn’t challenge you,” she denies.
I counter that with, “Didn’t you though? Are you backing out?” I begin bawking, turning my arms into chicken wings and flopping them through the air.
“Never,” she hisses like a pissed off kitty cat. Then she defeatedly mumbles, “I’m going to get the lemon, be right back. You’re such a dick.”
At her retreating back, I holler, “I got one! A big one!”
We’re three sheets to the wind, neither one of us capable of sitting upright. We’ve taken our challenge, the bottle, shot glasses, and ourselves to the floor where we continue to drown our kidneys in alcohol.
“You didn’t!” she squeals, laughing her ass off when I tell her the story of how my mother caught me in bed with the school’s documented ‘good girl’. Vanessa was not only the valedictorian of our class, but she was also the preacher’s daughter. She was vocal in her anti-partying and was head of the ‘virginal’ club, always voicing her opinion about staying pure until one’s wedding night.
“I did. I wouldn’t have made it a mission to fuck her if she had left my mother’s name out of her mouth,” I admit.
During one of Vanessa’s sermons to our peers, where she was shoving her religious beliefs down their throats, she used my mother as a prime example of how a person’s soul could be damned by having a child out of wedlock. Before that, I’d left her alone. I let bygones be bygones because her thoughts and beliefs were hers and I was never one to pass judgment on another—until that day.
“There I was, my condom covered dick splotched with her virginal blood, ready to lay into her for what she said when my mom pushed open my bedroom door.”
“What did your mom do? What didyoudo?” she asks, her eyes alight with an alcohol induced fever as she digs for the deets in one of the most humiliating moments of my life.
“I did what any red-blooded American boy would do if his mom walked in on him after fucking a girl, I dove for the bed and tossed the sheet over me, exposing her. Vanessa and I struggledfor the sheet for a bit, neither one of us wanting my mom to see us undressed until Mom released one of her ear-splitting whistles, ending the struggle.”
“Then what?” she asks, mesmerized. She’s got tears of hilarity falling down her cheeks as she grips her stomach from all of the hard laughter.
“Mom walked out of the room for a short beat, came back in with a roll of condoms, tossed them at me and told me to be safe then walked away,” I tell her.
“Your mom sounds awesome,” she states, a dreamy look crossing her face. I briefly wonder what that’s about until she starts telling me about her most humiliating moment. “So there I was, in fifth grade, and I started my period in the middle of class. I’d had cramps all morning, but I thought it was either growing pains or hunger pains so I ignored it. When we all lined up to head to art class, some of the girls were pointing at me and laughing. I couldn’t figure out why until my teacher pulled me to the side once everyone else went into the room and escorted me to the nurse.”
“The most embarrassing thing that happened to me in school was popping a boner,” I say, thinking guys are lucky we don’t have to deal with shit like that.
“The worst part was, they called my mom to either come pick me up or bring me a change of clothes and some pads, but as per usual, she ignored their call. I had to use one of the nurse’s Depends and clothes from the lost and found box to make it through the day. When I made it back the girls’ taunting got ten times worse. From there, my school years went downhill. Overnight, I grew tits and became the boys’ obsession. I wasfondled and propositioned by the older boys on the school bus. That’s when I grew some tough skin.”
“Kids are assholes,” I mutter.
“Kids suck,” she agrees, bobbing her head.
As we continue to refill the shot glasses, we learn a lot about one another. Her parents are dipshits, her classmates were idiots, and the only person she’s allowed herself to get close to is Jersey, who’s just as much a victim of bullying and a kid of parents who are useless.
They’re like two peas in a pod.
I understand now that she uses humor and banter to cover up her loneliness. A gnawing need to show her that not everybody is bad strangles my gut.
She needs to be able to depend on people, she needs more people in her corner than just Jersey.
