Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Girls at Play

We met in a bar. I was there first, having come from an earlier vodka party. I was dark, and mysterious, dressed in black silk knit and chainmail.

“You’re wearing that out?” he asked.

“It adds to my allure.” I respond when getting ready for the evening. And why not? Flavored vodka house parties can be fun, but while the consensus was if you were to flavor vodka you should use cheap vodka, I disagree. If you are going to do anything do it well. Including dressing up for a vodka party on my last full weekend in my home city in Daegu. So I was dressing to kill for a party full of married people, pregnant women, and virgins, but dammit I would impress.

So in chainmail and black silk I go to a vodka party. At said party I proceed to drink a quarter of a bottle of tequila. I gave up the vodka when I found out I couldn’t have the sugars, and tequila or wine are the only beverages that don’t give me blinding headaches the next day. The couples drank shots with the virigins, and the pregnant women sucked on toothpicks dipped in vodka for at least a sampling of the party. I tossed back my tequila until I felt warm and fuzzy enough to be out and about.

My phone was being terminally annoying at the party. So much terminally that before the end of the night it took a dip in a bath and was fried completely, which freed me up to enjoy the rest of my evening. I conversed with various peoples about various things, but my mind was not in it. Finally it was suggested we moved to a bar. Always an excellent idea.

I walk in feeling every inch the black silk and chainmail. I order shots for myself and the closer friends. I turn around and there she is, coming in the door. I want to make a beeline for her, but I hold back; the part of me that can’t help thinking that it is always better if a girl comes to me first. She is blonde hair and dark brown eyes, she is pretty and petite. She is a Tasmanian Devil and it suits me. I lock eyes with her across the bar and she moves with people to stand in front of me. I smile at her, a flash of teeth, wide, and biting. She says nothing, just stares at me her eyes on my eyes, and her eyes lower.

“I’m sitting over there,” I point. “What are you drinking?”

I take her order and hand her my coat, while going to get another drink at the bar and sit next to her.

She moves close to say hello. I can smell her breath, the warmth of her mouth close to mine. I move forward toward her and then turn away. Engaging someone else in conversation. I talk, my mouth moves, words come out, but all I think about is her pale skin and how it will look in the soft incandescent glow of the neon moonlight that always shines in Korea. I feel her watching me, not talking, she presses close, her hand on my thigh.

I hold her hand, keep it still. I can feel her pulse beating under my fingers. I stroke her finger against my thighs, distracted.

A girl in red dances at the front of the room, drunk on the evening and soju. I watch her while the Tasmanian Devil persists against my leg. She says in my ear, “I want to dance with her.”

“Go dance.”

I sit the table and engage people in random conversation, but my attention is on the Devil pressed hard against the girl in red, gyrating in time with the music in the small envelope of space in front of the band for dancing. She looks at me while she dances. I sip my drink and wonder what her mouth will look like open and wet and touching some part of my flesh.

I got to the bathroom. Move to close the door, but small hands interceded, tiny fingernails it seems to me, skin so smooth, the Tasmanian Devil pushes the door open and closed behind her. I smell her, I smell her neck, pressing my nose to her flesh, my lips, follow. Her hands in my hair, my hands in hers. A moment of warm breathing as I kiss her and then move her out of the way to go back to the bar. Thus begins an evening of girls in the bathroom.

The second time we exit the bathroom we trail the girl in red with us, a boy asks as we pass “what is it I don’t have?” We smile, we giggle like girls do, knowing amongst ourselves that what they imagines is both more than we have been up to and less interesting that we have done. We smile and return to drinks. I sit again with the Devil pressed close, her hands on my hands, trying to direct them. It becomes unbearable. I think about her pale skin, her legs, seeing them exposed and shining in soft lights. I grab her hand and tell her we are leaving.

She says nothing and we walk out the door.

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