Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

  The End

  You nod and follow him up the stairs, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and excitement, and luckily the alcohol has gone a long way to counteract the former. Mark’s approach might not have been the most seductive in the world, but what’s the point in playing hard to get when this is, after all, what you came for. Finally, after months of wondering what he feels like, tastes like, kisses like, you’re going to get the chance to find out.

  He pushes open a bedroom door and, finding it empty, ushers you inside. Dragging you over to the double bed, he murmurs, “C’mere,” and then pulls you on top of him. Mark turns out to be one of the few men who has mastered the art of unhooking someone’s bra in one swift and professional movement; in fact, it has to be said that Mark’s whole technique is a little too polished. And god, would he ever stop with the running commentary?

  “Your skin’s so soft. You’re really turning me on. Can you feel that? You’re pretty hot. You like this, don’t you? What about that—do you like that, too? You do, don’t you? I can tell.”

  “Mark.” You finally sit up and adjust your shirt. “I like you, really, but could you shut up for a couple of minutes? Someone’s going to hear us.”

  “Okay, sorry,” he says, not thrown off his stride in the slightest. Now he’s undoing his zipper. “Maybe you could do something to keep me quiet.”

  Even as you bend your head and start going to work you realize this night is not going to work out as magically as you might have liked. There are two reasons for this. One: there is an unmistakable feeling in your gut, telling you that though you might have been attracted to Mark for months, now that you’re actually here with him, the chemistry just isn’t right … and it would help if he quit acting like he’s starring in a low-budget porn flick. Two: there is another unmistakable feeling in your gut, one that has been building since a few minutes after you took that pill … whatever the hell it was. You’re about to throw up.

  You lift your head and hold still for a second, hoping the nausea will subside.

  “Hey … you forgotten about me?” Mark says, prodding you.

  “Can you excuse me for a minute?” You stand, shivering slightly, and you can feel the color draining out of your face.

  “Get back here,” Mark says, feigning jokiness, but it’s clear that the only thing he’s interested in is getting off. He tries to pull you down again, and you struggle to get free. All the jostling is only making you feel more queasy, but Mark just won’t get the message.

  “Look, asshole, let me go,” you shout.

  “What the hell is all this about?” he snaps. “You say you want to come up here and then you freak out on me? What’s your fucking problem?”

  For a moment you think you’ll be able to hold it in till you get to the bathroom. But this is a force that won’t be denied—nanoseconds later your stomach is heaving and you can feel the vomit rising in your throat. The look on Mark’s face as you finally give into the inevitable and throw up—all over the bed, the carpet, and him—is something you’ll never forget.

  “That,” you say, as you leave a dazed, horrified Mark and go to clean yourself up, “is the fucking problem.”

  The End

  You enter the Pub and go straight to the bar and order a shot of whiskey. “Your roommate’s here,” Kate says. “Make sure you take her home, will you?”

  Why hadn’t you thought of that?! You down your whiskey, then start to work your way through the crowd like a hunter seeking his prey. You find your roommate by the pool table, handing the pool cue off to someone and shaking hands with her opponent. She smiles at him, but you can tell from the expression on her face that she lost. She hates to lose.

  “Hey,” she says to you. “What are you doing here?” She looks behind you. “Where’s your little chickie?”

  “Listen,” you say, pinning her against the wall opposite the bathrooms. “If I don’t have sex with a woman tonight, I’m going to go crazy. I’ve already seen you naked, so—”

  “You have?”

  “I live with you. I’m a guy. Of course I have. So my point is … well the rest is just a technicality, really.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” You were coming on superconfident sure, but you hardly thought she’d go for it.

  “Okay.”

  “Really?” You’re going to blow it if you’re not careful.

  “Yes.”

  “Just sex?”

  “Just sex.” She rolls her eyes. “I could really use a good lay and you’re at least a little more fun than my vibrator, providing you have a tongue and know how to use it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  The two of you head for the door, and you nod at Kate as if you’re being so caring, responsible, and gentlemanly as you leave. Your roommate’s trailing behind you, her warm palm touching yours.

  The End

  “Not just yet,” you murmur. “Okay?”

  “I guess,” he answers, sitting back on the couch and crossing his arms.

  “You’re not mad, are you? You want another drink?” Or maybe a treehouse you can sulk in? Men.

  “I’m not mad, no. I just thought you’d want to, is all. But fine … it can wait. I’ll go get us both a drink.”

  He wanders off toward the kitchen and you sit there patiently. And sit there. He’s taking an inordinately long time to find that drink, and, meanwhile, there seems to be something weird going on in the region of your stomach. A queasy feeling has been building for the last thirty minutes. At first you attributed it to Mark’s proximity, but now that a little clarity has set in, it seems more likely to be related to whatever was in that pill you took. The only way to check out this theory is to find Hayley and see how she’s feeling.

  She’s not in the kitchen. Nor, for that matter, is Mark. You climb the stairs, pushing past couples in various stages of intimacy. There seems to be some sort of instinctive hierarchy at work—the further up the stairs you get, the more intense the making out. The bathroom door is straight in front of you, pushed open a crack, and you can hear the distinctive sound of retching closely followed by the even more distinctive sound of Hayley swearing. You’re about to call her name when there’s another voice—and no mistaking that one either. It’s Mark.

  “You okay now?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” comes Hayley’s muffled response. She must be talking through a towel. “Must have been something I ate. Thanks for helping me find the bathroom.”

  “No problem.”

  Pause. Sound of flushing toilet and running faucet.

  “So,” Mark continues. “Do you want to find somewhere more private?”

  This can’t be happening. In the course of an evening Mark has been transformed from Object of Your Affections to Something You Stepped In. Even though you can’t see her, you can imagine the look on Hayley’s face. She is the master of the withering stare. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly,” she says very softly.

  “Come on, it’d be fun.”

  “But you’re with my friend,” she says, as calmly as a nun. There is something positively intimidating about Hayley’s composure in situations like this, even after losing the contents of her stomach in a stranger’s bathroom.

  “I’m not really with her. Nothing happened.”

  Oh Mark, Mark, why have you forsaken me!

  “Thank you for the offer, Mark, but I would rather sit on my finger.” With that, Hayley opens the door and stops short when she sees you. “Hey…,” she begins, but you shrug and motion for her to follow you downstairs. Mark doesn’t even see you—he’s busy admiring himself in the mirror and getting prepped for victim number three.

  “I’m sorry, babe; that guy’s an asshole,” she says when you get downstairs. “But I guess you figured that out by now. We can go home if you want.”

  True, you could go home. Still, this is a party, and your stomach is feeling a little better, and why let some lecherous scumb
ag with the morals of a weasel ruin your whole night?

  “I vote we stay, Hayley. You know my motto: If at first you don’t succeed…”

  “Give up, get drunk, and throw yourself at the next available guy?” she suggests.

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  The End

  When you and Dave show up at Spinners—a bar that basically looks like a big decorated barn—Sadie, to your extreme pleasure, is the first person to greet you.

  “You two look like you’ve been up to no good,” she says.

  “What on earth do you mean?” you reply, as innocently as you can.

  “Yeah.” Dave shrugs. “What do you mean?”

  She looks back and forth between the two of you, then puts a hand on her hip. “Whadaya think I yam, dumb a somethin?” You know it’s a line from a classic movie, perfectly delivered, and the look on Dave’s face says he could be in love. This could be trouble. Time to make a move.…

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  The problem is that these words, directed at Sadie, came out of Dave’s mouth. He beat you to the punch. Maybe you should have made your intentions toward Sadie more clear to Dave; you imagined there might be some cock blocking going on tonight—Sadie’s a desirable girl—but you hardly imagined it coming from Dave.

  “Dave, do you know Sadie? Sadie, Dave?” Surely he’s heard you sing her praises a million times. Surely he knows she’s the very reason you’ve come here. You told him that. Something will click in his brain.

  They say hi to each other and it’s obvious Dave hasn’t caught on. They go to the bar together—Sadie turns and says, “Mike’s over there,” and points—so you make your way over to Mike, making a quick stop at the bar along the way.

  “There you are.” Mike pulls you into a circle formed by him, Lisa, Will, and Tracy. “Maybe you can help us out, ace. You know how ‘Mony Mony’ had that thing where everyone always shouted out, ‘Get laid, get fucked,’ in the middle of the song? We’re trying to think of a nineties equivalent of that.”

  You confess that nothing strikes you right away, then set your mind to thinking. In the meantime Tracy speaks: “You’re not going to think of one, Mike. None of us are. We’re too old. All those things had to do with adolescent sex. Like people used to add ‘sex’ to that Depeche Mode song any time they said ‘I just can’t get enough.’”

  “Sex,” you say.

  “Thanks for the demonstration,” Tracy says wryly. “My point is all of those things were started by sex-deprived teenagers. Even if there’s a new one that kids everywhere are dancing like crazy to at their proms, you’re not going to know what it is.”

  “Well, then,” Mike says. “What are we sex-starved twentysomethings supposed to do? If we’re not letting our frustrations out on the dance floor, what are we doing with them?”

  “I don’t know.” Tracy takes a swig of her beer. “You can always make up some ridiculous story about a threesome you were involved in and how amazed the women were by your good eight and a half inches and post it on the Web.”

  Mike turns beet red and you wonder whether he’s already done that.

  “Or,” Lisa cuts in, “you can just whip out ‘Mony Mony’ once in a while and play it really loud and scream the ‘get laid, get fucked’ part yourself. Whenever I’m really horny and I know I’m not getting any I’ll put on that old Liz Phair album and sing that bit ‘I’ll fuck you till your dick is blue’ really loudly.”

  If you suddenly feel like Lisa’s the most appealing person in the room, read on here.

  If your sudden erection prompts you to go find Sadie and Dave, read on here.

  You go to the address Lisa has and find it suspiciously quiet. Still, you ring the bell, are buzzed in, and proceed upstairs. There, you find that the word party has been used loosely; no doubt the host, Kelly, also calls those five discs near the stereo her “CD collection.” The gathering consists entirely of Mike, Tracy, Will, Sadie, her friend Alyssa, and Kelly. They’re all sitting around looking more bored than a bunch of lesbians at Chippendales. You, Dave, and Lisa get drinks and join the quiet circle.

  Before long, Mike proposes a game—X-rated charades—and everyone acts like it’s the best idea they’ve ever heard. Kelly seems reluctant—woohoo! the girl knows how to throw a party!—but eventually succumbs and digs out some paper and pencils. You all write five words on little pieces of paper and throw them into a pot. By a miracle of the musical-chairs game that goes on while people replenish their drinks and empty their bladders, you end up beside Sadie on the couch. Can you help it if your arm occasionally brushes against hers?

  Volunteering to go first, Mike gets up and picks a word out of the pot. “Okay, you ready?”

  He gets down on all fours and you quickly shout out, “Doggie style.” He shakes his head.

  “Humping,” you say. He shakes his head again and proceeds to slink around the room and then act like he’s grooming his claws.

  “You’re a cat?” Sadie says, and Mike nods and points at her. “What has a cat got to do with … Ewww. Who wrote that word down?”

  You’re hardly going to admit to it now.

  “Alright,” Kelly says, snatching up the piece of paper on the floor beside Mike. “Next word.”

  “Why do women hate that word so much?” Mike’s laughing.

  No one answers, so he shrugs. “Guess you’re up, Sadie?”

  “Alright.” She reaches for the pot. “But if it’s gross I’m not doing it.” She looks at the paper, deliberates, and decides to go ahead.

  She holds up six fingers and someone says, “Six.” Then she holds up nine. You shout out, “Sixty-nine.”

  “That’s no fun,” Dave says. “You’re supposed to get down on the floor and try to act it out.”

  “In your dreams,” she replies, taking her seat next to you. Is it your imagination she’s sitting closer than before?

  Unfortunately, you have to get up to take your turn. You pick out a piece of paper and find that other word women hate so much—the c word—written on it. You recognize your own handwriting. Maybe you should act out something else? Perhaps cock ring?

  If you go with the word you have, read on here.

  If you go for cock ring read on here.

  You make the sign for “sounds like” by cupping your ear. Then you proceed to mime the act of bunting. Dave catches on immediately and shouts out, “Bunt,” followed by—

  “You know what?” Kelly gets up and picks up the pot. “This isn’t really what I envisioned when I planned this party.”

  “What? You envisioned people not having fun?” You can’t believe you just said that, but this girl’s just way too uptight.

  “I think maybe you should go,” Kelly says. “All of you. Well, except you, Sadie, since you’re crashing here.”

  You look at Sadie and she shrugs.

  The End

  You hold up two fingers, and Tracy says, “Two words.” You nod.

  You hold up one finger and she answers, “Yeah, yeah, first word, get on with it.”

  You point at your crotch as people start throwing out words.

  “Penis.”

  “Dick.”

  “Balls.”

  “Testicles.”

  You shake your head and cup your ear.

  “Sounds like,” Sadie says.

  You put your thumbs up by your armpits and strut around the room, flapping your arms.

  “Cock!” Mike shouts.

  You nod and move on to the second word by pointing at your finger. The responses—“Cock finger?” “Cock blocking?” and “Cock hand?”—are less than inspired. Then an idea hits you. You turn to the couch where Sadie’s sitting and get down on one knee. Then you act like you’re pulling something out of your pocket and hold it forward in the palm of your hand. You pretend to be opening a small box. She’s laughing the whole time, and it’s all you can do to keep from putting your mouth to hers to capture some of that sweetness.

  “Cock
ring?” she says, once she’s stopped laughing. And you shout out, “Yes!”

  “Only you, ace, could make a cock ring romantic,” Mike says.

  “I haven’t laughed that hard in a while,” Sadie says, once you’re sitting beside her again.

  You haven’t been this hard in a while.

  “I like to make you laugh,” you say.

  “I’m ticklish, you know.” Sadie smiles at you.

  “See now, I would have liked to find that out firsthand.”

  “You still can,” she says, with a glimmer in her eye. “I suddenly don’t feel well. Could you see me home?”

  The End

  There’s a message from Mike telling you that they’re going on to the party, but you can’t hear it because Dave’s blabbing on about Elizabeth Albern. You tell him to shush and play the message again, memorizing the address.

  “C’mon.” You hang up. “Let’s go.”

  You pick up some beers on the way to the party and, because you suddenly have the urge, you throw in a pack of smokes.

  At the party, you see Sadie across the room, but decide to play it cool. You and Dave crack open some beers, and you light up. Mike comes over and joins you.

  “Boys,” he says. “Glad you made it. Can I get one of those?”

  The cigarette bumming has begun.

  Dave, too, decides to light up, and the three of you start talking (at Mike’s suggestion) about what character from another sitcom, if added to the cast of Friends, would have the greatest impact on the group’s dynamics. Dave’s making an argument for the fat woman from The Drew Carey Show, but Mike’s insisting that both Niles and Frasier Crane are better bets.

  Sadie comes over just as you’re about to offer a suggestion—maybe someone from Third Rock from the Sun.

  “I didn’t know you smoked.” She looks at you as if she’s terribly disappointed, and you want nothing more than to make your cigarette vanish. You’re not even enjoying it all that much. In your discomfort, you find yourself saying, “Well, you do now,” and laughing awkwardly. Sadie walks away.