From Butt to Booty (3 page)

“Watch it! I’m walking here.” Thing with a keg of beer on board beefy back bumps into me; it’d be a swishy piggyback ride if the keg had legs. How charming.

I can’t help pointing out, “You’re weaving. It’s a whole other sport.”

“Bitch.” The shade of green tingeing his cheekbones isn’t attractive. Though I’m guessing he doesn’t care if I find him sexy. Neither is the stench: vomit-filled ficus tree. Wonder if that makes good fertilizer, or can plants get alcohol poisoning?

Lucas and Sophie have disappeared. Just as well. I’d hate to vomit without the benefit of being drunk first.

Stephen. I should find Stephen. I look around, hoping to spot him without having to wander through the downstairs again. And here I was thinking he’s clingy. He wants to talk all the time.

Are there right answers to his questions? I always feel like I’m in an interview for the role of girlfriend and at any moment I can be fired for not measuring up.

No Stephen, so I’m wandering. Drunk people are so drunk. Do you start with fewer brain cells to want to get that way, or is it a cumulative effect of parties like this? I mean, a good buzz I can see. Haven’t ever touched the stuff, but I can appreciate the appeal. The beer bong, pass-out-in-less-than-five-minutes approach to responsible drinking? Not so much. I am no one’s mother, but I’ll just keep my eye on that chick over there whose chest is barely rising and falling. Maybe I should call 911. Maybe not. How do I know if she’s dangerously drunk? I didn’t hand her plastic cups of
fun. And frankly, do I want to be the-chick-who-called-911-on-the-sober-sleeping-girl? I’d never live that down.

Where’s Maggie? She promised to come. Where’s Clarice? She thought she might come. Where’s my bestest friend, Adam? He is at home smooching his honey and I’m here trying not to get vomit on my sexy bare toes. I’m fairly certain I have someone’s Cheetos and Cuervo as nail polish on my left foot.

Oh, I see Stephen. Relief abounds. He’s talking to a bunch of guys I don’t really know. Relief is replaced with panic.

“Hey, Gert!” Stephen yells, waving at me. He wants me to come over. I can tell this from my fabulous powers of deduction. “Get over here so I can introduce you.”

Or perhaps he just thinks I’m stupid and don’t know what the waving means.

“Hi.” I do a girly simper and three-finger twiddle.

Stephen puts his arms around me from behind and smashes his chin against my very complicated and now flat hairstyle. “This is Gert. My girl.”

Your girl? Are you an ape now?
But I manage to keep my cool and simply smile pithily in the general direction of the rest of the silverbacks.

“You in high school?”

Nope, just graduated med school. I’m a neurosurgeon; can I drill into your skull right now?
“Sophomore.”

A rather cute dark swarthy type asks, “You play football?”

Do I look like I play football?
Diet Coke, here I come.

Stephen laughs at my expression. “Ricardo is from Colombia. He means soccer.”

That explains the funky, though slightly erotic accent. “No.” Soccer? Me?

Stephen tries to whisper in my ear. “You want another drink?” But it comes out sounding like a loud demand.

The fumes on his breath alone could kill roaches.

“No, I’m good.”
And I won’t be driving anywhere with you tonight
.

He wiggles against my butt. Oh my God, he actually rubs an erection against me. What am I, Aunt Irene’s ottoman? Are you a shih tzu on Viagra?

“Be right back.”

“Take your time.” The crowd of he-men thins. I’m stuck staring at Mr. Exchange Student. At least he’s an attractive diversion.

“You like it here?” I ask.

“Party is good.” He nods.

Where is he from again? “You like the U.S.?”

“Party is good.”

Okay then. I can adjust the conversation. “Good party, huh?”

“Yes. You know football?” he asks.

I know nothing about football, but dear God don’t make me mingle anymore. “It’s a great sport.” I try to appear interested and, more importantly, interesting.

“I like.” The relief on his face is blinding and frankly, I’m not sure if he’s saying he likes me or that he likes soccer, but I’m in party hell, so I’ll take either one.

“Who do you like to watch play?” I smile encouragement.

He lets out a torrent of Spanish (I think). Could be Portuguese, or Russian. It’s unclear.

Nodding and smiling seems to do the trick to keep him going. I throw in a few “
Sí, sí
’s,” which about sums up my
Sesame Street
bilinguality. At least I can ask for
agua
if I get desperate. Foreign languages aren’t my thing.

I tune back in to the conversation, hoping I haven’t missed
anything I can understand. Ricardo seems to be waiting for me to respond. I try widening my eyes. No dice. Who was he talking about? Who, who, who? I dive in. “Jaime is a good player.”

Ricardo bristles. He even starts to turn a daring shade of red. I’ve said something wrong. I thought we were talking about how good Jaime is. Obviously not. I laugh and wave my hands around like I’ve made a big joke. “Sometimes. But mostly Jaime is a bad player.” I wrinkle my brow and put my hands around my own throat like I’m choking myself. Maybe overkill, but his face lightens back up.

Better. Much better. I should be a UN ambassador. This multicultural stuff is easy.

Crapping buttocks, I know that look. Ricardo is waiting for me to take over the conversation. Now he thinks I have as much to say as he does. I grab at any foreign-sounding name with the hope he might think I’m mispronouncing something familiar. “Personally, I really like Sephora. This side of heaven. Really.”

He gives me the confused you-stupid-American look. I guess Sephora doesn’t come from wherever he’s from. I try to broaden our discussion. Other popular names … think, think, think. “Jesus?”

He smiles, a quick show of teeth; then he’s off to the races again. “Jesus.” Another torrent of fast coolness I completely don’t understand.

I nod and smile. I answer a question. “Yes, Jesus made a big impression on history, didn’t he? All blessings and healings and stuff.” I don’t think we’re discussing the same guy.

“Gert. It’s almost midnight.” Stephen grabs my waist and leans into me. Thank the Holy-Mother-of-Boyfriends, there are no bulging parts this time. I don’t really know what to do with those yet.

“Sorry.” I give Ricardo my best apology face. The one I’ve practiced in the mirror in case a cute cop pulls me over for speeding.

“This is the best party,” Stephen gushes while pulling me down a long hallway.
Sure, drunk boy, whatever you say
.

“Yeah.” Here’s the deal, I didn’t think lying was part of the whole dating thing. Aren’t we supposed to be completely, totally honest with each other? Isn’t that what a healthy relationship is? Holy-Mother-of-the-Self-Help-Section, am I sabotaging this relationship? Do I want to end up alone, wearing housedresses and talking to parakeets? Must fix. I open my mouth to tell the truth when I hear—

“Jenny is so cool. Great chick.” Stephen doesn’t even turn around while delivering this info.

Okay, we’ll start the honesty stuff tomorrow.

He keeps dragging me along the world’s longest hallway. “They’ve got five big screens set up in here to watch the new year come in all over the world.”

It’s a technology shrine. I am doomed.

To add to the technological haze, the only lighting comes from the sets themselves. Which is probably more light than you’d think, but still not enough to sober anybody up. I need a spotlight to shine in Stephen’s pupils.

Stephen’s had a few too many. I can tell because the fumes are overpowering the cologne he got for Christmas. The combination could be a WMD, as it’s making my eyes burn.

He’s nuzzling my neck like I’m his favorite pillow.

Bodies are intertwined all throughout the room, and I’m busy trying to figure out how Jacquie is able to hold that position. Doesn’t she have a neck cramp or something? I catch a glimpse of flesh as she sits up. Was that a—Holy-Mother-of-the-Cartoon-Network, is that a penis?

I slap at Stephen’s hands and turn my face back toward his. I’m
not done here. Dude’s all zipped up now. Jacquie is downing a beer like she’s been in the Sahara for weeks. Interesting. Must file this info.

But Stephen’s hands are everywhere.

Everywhere. Good God, he’s grown more hands. I swear there are four distinct palms groping. None of which has heard the term “tender love.”

Stephen breathes across my face. “It’s almost midnight, Gert. You know what that means?”

I gulp air and try to shove myself over toward the wall as more people pile into the room. “It’s a new year?” This has to be against fire codes.

“Ten!” everyone but me screams.

Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Stopwatches, we have to count down now? The house actually reverberates. “Nine!”

Stephen looks really happy as he finds my butt cheeks with the palms of his hands.

“Eight!” I’m too stunned to move.

Decidedly, deliriously happy as he squeezes like he’s found a new toy.

“Seven!”

Goofy, but at least he has let go of my butt; it can breathe now. Where are his hands going? Tell me he’s not going to grab my boobs. Please don’t grab, please don’t grab.

His hands keep moving up, past my breasts. “Six!” he yells like he’s howling at the moon.

He gazes back at me while cupping the cheeks on my face. Why is he bracketing my face like I’m in trouble? Like Aunt CiCi used to do when she babysat and I swiped a cookie.

“Five!” He is so strong.

Eye contact. We have eye contact.

I anticipate the next number. “Four!”

Thank God, he lets go of my face. That’s my butt. Again.

“Three.”

He smashes his face against my ear. “You have the best butt. I am so into you.”

“Two.” The crowd keeps pressing around us. What do you say to that?

“I’m into—” I start to say.

Stephen smooshes his face against mine. He has super-tongue, all big and strong, pushing past my lips. The shock makes my jaw drop. Big mistake.

His tongue is in my mouth. If I had tonsils, he’d be fondling them.

Is this it? French kissing? This isn’t romantic; it’s revolting.

Swallow. I have to swallow spit or I’m going to drown. I so don’t like the taste of beer, which is why I didn’t drink any. I had no idea I’d have to taste it anyway.

I can’t retract my tongue any farther. I’m trying to stay out of his way, but I feel like someone’s got a tongue depressor in my mouth fit for an elephant.

Where’s the sound track? Where are the gooey feelings? Where’s the liking this?

He pulls back. His hands are still on my butt. Squeezing like I’m taffy.

“Wow. Happy New Year!” Stephen smiles at me. He appears to think that was a fine first French. Was it?

I think my first French kiss just sucked. Does it get better? Or, oh my God, am I gay?

“You’re not gay.” Clarice shakes her head. I can hear her shaking her head, even over the phone at two a.m.

“How do you know?” Now I’m panicked. I thought I was supposed to know from birth or something. Shouldn’t I be really into home improvement stores and rugby?

Maggie, always the voice of reason in three-way calls, says, “Gert, instead of Stephen, picture a really hot chick doing that slobbering-conquering-choke-with-tongue thing.”

Hot chick? Who’s my type? “Who?”

Maggie hmphs. “Jennifer.”

“Which one?” There’s Aniston, Garner, Lopez, Love Hewitt—how do I know which is my type?

Clarice doesn’t let me waffle long. “Pick one.”

They don’t have to sound so exasperated. This could be a defining moment in my life. “Just asking.” I’m visualizing. Yuck. Still feels like I’m the beaches of Normandy being stormed by Enormo-tongue. I must gag out loud because Maggie and Clarice both jump in and break my visualization.

“So?” Clarice asks. “Do anything for you?”

“No.” Not really. Short of wondering how Jennifer gets her hair to stay like that, it sucked.

“Sucked?” Maggie clarifies.

“Still,” I add. Sucked once, sucked twice. I think it’s safe to say it’s not a gay thing.

“Then it’s simply a bad kiss.” Clarice sounds so confident.

“You think?” I’m still not convinced. Do bad kisses exist? All kisses are good kisses, or aren’t they? I’m stuck just a little on the gay thing. I like looking at the Victoria’s Secret catalog. I even sticky-note pages for exercise motivation. Seriously, what’s the diff between wanting to be that body and wanting to do that body?

“Have plans tomorrow night?” Maggie asks.

“No.” Both Clarice and I answer.

“Come over. I’ll rent all the best-kiss movies and we’ll figure it out,” Maggie says.

Exhale. “I’ll bring junk food.” Screw the waifish models with SUV headlights on their chests, this calls for Reese’s Cups and Twizzlers.

“I’ll bring tunes and gossip mags.” Clarice hangs up.

“Don’t worry, Gert. He’s just a really bad kisser.” Maggie sounds so sure. I wonder if she’s ever kissed him. I hear a click.

“Happy New Year,” I say to dead air. Happy Freakin’ New Year.