Work of fiction. Kids, don’t try this at home.
You cock your head up, drool unceremoniously dripping from your half-open mouth and onto your pillow, when you catch your reflection in the mirror not far from you. You take in the view of your stained clothes you didn’t change from last night with what looks like vomit marks, your dishevelled bed hair which resembles less like Daniel Padilla’s teen idol hairstyle and more like a cartoon character that just got electrocuted, and your shitfaced look with the last remnants of makeup—not yours, obviously– smeared all over your face. Just half a second later, your head pounds as if there was a gong beating inside of your skull, and you clench your lower abdomen, then suddenly, you know the pain and discomfort all too well.
Your memory immediately scrambles to fragments of memories of last night. Of why it had to be that goddamn GSM Blue that had to be the drink of choice for the night, you never knew. It tasted just horrible, and made you smell like a neighborhood tambay giving into his alcoholism right smack in the middle of the day, instead of a young college senior enjoying the weeks left before freedom, at an intimate gathering at a friend’s house. Not to mention, it gave you the worst hangovers. Case in point.
Still, you drank. You laughed and you danced and you drank, even at one point getting up on the couch just to awkwardly groove to a remix of Miley Cyrus’ We Can’t Stop. You smack yourself on the head for being so stubborn, when you knew it wouldn’t do you any good. Your mind immediately flies through a flurry of hazy mental images from last night that could have caused the insolence.
It was a girl, you suddenly remembered. One of your buddies brought a cousin over that you’ve never met before. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl you’ve ever laid your eyes on, but there was a certain quality about her, a girl-next-door type that seemed fun to liberate even for one night, that made her so appealing. At first, things seemed like they were going well. Both of you were deep in conversation, taking a swig of a cold bottle of beer every now and then, preoccupying yourselves with mundane information that would only be important for one night. Hell, what was her name again? Stella? Sierra? You couldn’t remember, but god did you want to get in her pants.
One of the guests, an obnoxious guy that was eager to please, suggested a drinking game that everyone said yes to. You were about to play Never Have I Ever, and someone brought out a bottle of GSM Blue, the only drink available that was appropriate for the game. You hated the drink, but being the manly trooper that you were, roared “GAME!”, sending a wink back to Stella/Sierra and taking your place beside her as the rest of the group formed a circle on the floor. The first few rounds were easy, with inane ones such as “Never have I ever worn a bra”, in which the house erupted into one thunderous laughter when a guy had taken a shot. Halfway through the game with a few shots down, you make your move and try to wrap your hand around your nameless girl’s shoulder, when she leans in and whispers that she couldn’t drink any more but she couldn’t say no to the host. Your hand lands on her shoulder, as you send another cocky wink her way before announcing to the entire group that you were going to take her shots.
About twelve shots later, the alcohol effects set in, making you feel lightheaded and blurring your vision. You sit up the tallest you can, not wanting to lose your cool in front of hot stuff—your arm was still wrapped around her, after all. Shot glasses were making the rounds, when you decide that you couldn’t take it anymore and try to make a beeline for the bathroom, when Stella/Sierra whispers, “It’s my turn.”
You look at her for a second, confused. She softly explains that you needed to take a shot for her. Someone had mentioned something about public sex, as she gently nudges the shot glass in your hand. You look at her with bloodshot eyes wide open and mouth agape, as she stares back at you expectedly. You do a brief, if not ridiculous Wolf of Wall Street-type thump on your chest, before boldly downing back the bitter, clear liquid that burned in your throat and in your stomach. You smile at her, anticipating the next events you were sure would happen as the night unfolded.
Vomit spewed out of your mouth and on the floor like water out of a fireman’s hose. Your head was bowed down, but you could see the rest of the guests backing off and standing up, gasping at the sudden turn of events. You scramble to stand up, your legs trembling, but not before falling down again and onto the mess on the floor you just made. You think the worst is over, when you vomit again. You hear people screaming at the back, as if someone was having a heart attack. People can be so overdramatic sometimes.
You feel two strong arms trying to lift you up, and through half-open eyes, a hazy vision of Stella/Sierra was in front of you, and you hear her volunteer to lead you out of the house. Even in your disgusting drunken state, the sensation of her delicate skin touching your arm excites you, as she guides you outside. As you reach the front porch, you feel her kneel down. You don’t understand what she’s about to do, until you feel a soothing touch rubbing against the fabric of your pants, as she tries in vain to wipe off the mess you made with a napkin. The feeling of her stroking motions turns you on even more. You kneel down the best way you can without stumbling over, meeting her gaze, and proceed to give her a wet, sloppy kiss, too into the moment for you to witness the look of shock and disgust on her face. A loud, snappy sound and a sting hit your face not long after. You fight your eyes from drooping and try your hardest to maintain your stare at her, faces only inches apart, when the taste of bile and acid creep up your mouth and….
You run to your bedroom’s toilet and puke, trying not to remember the rest of the night, as fleeting images running through your mind only made you feel sicker. Just how bad the night went, you refused to recall, but the morning after was worse. You dread the thought of calls, texts, tweets and status updates from everyone who was there that you were sure would plague you only a few hours later. You dreaded even more that you would have to call Stella/Sierra or whatever the hell her name was, for probably giving her the worst night of her life. This was going to be a long day.
I am never drinking again, you announce to no one, clutching onto the toilet seat. Yet as all other twenty-year-olds know, you knew this was a lie. #