This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.
I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.
Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.
Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.
First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.
Then the audience started throwing beer cans.
I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.
The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.
"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.
I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.
"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."
"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."
"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.
Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.
Then I saw the girl.
She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.
She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.
She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."
"Are you really drunk?"
"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.
'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.
Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.
"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.
"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.
"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.
The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.
"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."
"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.
"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.
"So-and-so is a slut," I said.
"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"
"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.
"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.
"Who's your girlfriend?"
"She isn't here..."
Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.
Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.
"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."
The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
Part two will be posted later.
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