Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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Description:
They are drunk. Perhaps even DRUNK.
"No, but I'm going to one," I say.
"At 30th and Ankeny?"
"... Yes. But it must be a different party."
They're looking for this house party their friend David told them about, but they can't get David to answer his phone again, and it's at somebody else's house they don't know. Meanwhile, I'm going to a birthday party for a friend, which I imagine will be relatively sedate and not the kegger they're clearly hunting.
"Are you going to 30th *Avenue* or 30th *Place*?" I ask the tall blonde girl.
"You're not helping!" she says, reaching out to put her arm around me. She's hot, and I see what she's trying to do, so I wrap my arms around her too. She squeezes me hard, and runs her hands up and down my back, and doesn't let go for a while.
"Can't we just come with you? You seem *nice*..."
It's been over a year since I made out with someone new (apart from Does Nasty Things For Money Santa at SantaCon), and I'm suddenly painfully aware of how solitary my time in Portland has been.
(Ironically, I'd texted a friend earlier in the night who was throwing another party, and asked "Are you drunk enough to sleep with me yet?" Except in that case, I was joking. And when I ran into the college kids, I'd been walking down the street listening to "Secretariat" by Jeffrey Foucault, and loudly singing along. The chorus goes, "I need a woman!")
They end up leaving frustrated, hunting their party.
I leave frustrated too.
They didn't find the party. I know because it turned out to be the same one I was going to. Someone in their social group had somehow crashed it, and invited a dorm's worth of underclassmen to it, who were all being cleared out when I arrived. I get in a conversation with a flaming kid from Anchorage who is part Alaska Native. It pretty much ends when he asks if he can give me a blowjob,
They are drunk. Perhaps even DRUNK.
"No, but I'm going to one," I say.
"At 30th and Ankeny?"
"... Yes. But it must be a different party."
They're looking for this house party their friend David told them about, but they can't get David to answer his phone again, and it's at somebody else's house they don't know. Meanwhile, I'm going to a birthday party for a friend, which I imagine will be relatively sedate and not the kegger they're clearly hunting.
"Are you going to 30th *Avenue* or 30th *Place*?" I ask the tall blonde girl.
"You're not helping!" she says, reaching out to put her arm around me. She's hot, and I see what she's trying to do, so I wrap my arms around her too. She squeezes me hard, and runs her hands up and down my back, and doesn't let go for a while.
"Can't we just come with you? You seem *nice*..."
It's been over a year since I made out with someone new (apart from Does Nasty Things For Money Santa at SantaCon), and I'm suddenly painfully aware of how solitary my time in Portland has been.
(Ironically, I'd texted a friend earlier in the night who was throwing another party, and asked "Are you drunk enough to sleep with me yet?" Except in that case, I was joking. And when I ran into the college kids, I'd been walking down the street listening to "Secretariat" by Jeffrey Foucault, and loudly singing along. The chorus goes, "I need a woman!")
They end up leaving frustrated, hunting their party.
I leave frustrated too.
They didn't find the party. I know because it turned out to be the same one I was going to. Someone in their social group had somehow crashed it, and invited a dorm's worth of underclassmen to it, who were all being cleared out when I arrived. I get in a conversation with a flaming kid from Anchorage who is part Alaska Native. It pretty much ends when he asks if he can give me a blowjob,
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