Kyle
Sitting in the car, it felt like high school all over again. Except when I was in high school I wasn't driving a dark blue BMW, I wasn't even driving at all, because the first dance I went to I was fifteen, and I drank too much and then threw up on the girl I was dancing with. It was probably the worst moment of my life, and I vowed to never go to a dance again. But here I was, thinking, "Will they like me? Will somebody I know be there? I hope I look okay in this orange sweatshirt," and a bunch of other stupid things like that. Suddenly, your voice cut through my thoughts, like that rusty knife you used to cut open that dead frog I found in 6th grade. "You took the wrong turn! Dude! DUDE, TURN AROUND!"
"Okay, okay! I just don't come down to Denver very often! Fuck, look, I'm turning around, okay?"
And I did turn around, and after driving down some street. After a lot of yelling and swearing and death threats, we finally reached the house. It was lavender with gold trim that created an atmosphere of quirkiness and oddity. A very forced and obviously intentional one. That being said, I was slightly hesitant to knock on the door, but you quickly knocked on it before I could even touch it. The door was answered by a girl with long black hair, dressed in a floppy pink hat, a yellow skirt and a purple tank top. She introduced herself to me as Wendy, and then introduced her boyfriend, Stan, who was quick to tell me about his band, 'The Weed Eaters' and the new Farmer's Market here.
"All organic man!" he said and laughed before walking into the house, crowded with people. Kenny immediately blended in with all of the lava lamp lighting and weird, Indian-sounding music.
Suddenly, I was alone. I have no idea how big that house was, or how they managed to fit like a zillion people in it, all of which I did not know. Awkwardness was soon to ensue, and so was my promised not-vomit-and-alcohol stained couch, which looked red underneath the orgy of people flailing about on top of it. But then again, pretty much everything looked reddish-orange under this Christmas-esque, lava lamp and 'artsy' light bulb set-up. I guess it went well with the not-sure-what-the-fuck-that-is-but-I-think-it's-incense scent that saturated the air. So, red lighting and smoky smells make me woozy and fuck me up, apparently. But from what I can gather this is what happened:
1. Beer
2. Talk
3. More beer
4. More talking, got a phone number
5. Tequila
6. This:
"NO, KENNY, FUCK YOU! PORN IS NOT ART."
"IT SO IS, THERE'S A WHOLE FESTIVAL FOR LIKE, ARTSY PORN AND SHIT!"
"IS NOT."
"THERE TOTALLY IS, DUDE."
7. TequilaTequilaTequila
8. Another one of these:
"ONLY REAL MEN MAKE PORN, THEY'RE THE ONLY ONES COMFORTABLE WITH THEIR BODIES THAT MUCH, THAT'S WHY YOU CAN'T DO PORN!"
"SCREW OFF, I COULD TOTALLY DO PORN! I'M CONFIDENT AS ALL HOLY FUCK AND YOU GODDAMN WELL KNOW IT!"
"WHEN HAVE YOU DONE SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE IN THESE LAST FEW YEARS?"
"..."
"EXACTLY! YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING TOTALLY OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE, SOMETHING TOTALLY FUCKING INSANE."
9. Bed, you, other people, hats gone.
Don't know what else is gone; probably a lot of things.
... Phone...
... Text messages...?
Bebe.
BEBE!
SHIT!
Rolling over, I looked around at who was with me. Nobody was naked, and nobody was in a state to have gotten dressed. That was a good sign, no orgies, don't have to cross that off my bucket list. Who was here? You, Stan, Wendy, some blond with all-over-the-fucking-place hair and a shirt buttoned all wrong. Somebody duct-taped to the floor, I think he was introduced to me as Butters, whoever he was, he had 'fag' written on his chest and a fake mustache drawn with Sharpie on his face. I looked back at my phone. There was a text message from you on my phone, too.
Kenny
3:26 AM
"Don't forget. Hotel number 275. Monday. Don't pussy out."
I would ask later. With you, it is always, always better to ask later.