This is how parties always end, with your last girlfriend throwing up in one bathroom and your next girlfriend throwing up in the other.
They end with Mental Jiants checking with Zombie Lizards to see if Zombie Lizard can drive Jules home, and Mental Jiant going off with Leonard Mastin and Hong Yang Gao. Probably to Denny’s. Who knows. Maybe back to Leonard Mastin’s mansion to have a threesome or just some intellectual conversation.
They end with Brickman and Karen passed out in Ashley’s bed. Not in the guest bed. Not on the craft couch. Upstairs, in Ashley’s bedroom, in Ashley’s bed, underneath the covers.
They end with Janel leaving early and going back to her house, alone, without saying goodbye, not wanting to call her boyfriend, and me never seeing her again.
They end with Constance Page, who I fucked in the photography hallway at school, just that once, standing naked—completely naked—at Ashley’s sink, downstairs, bending over, drinking from the faucet. And Worst Mistake upstairs in the blacklight room pulling up his pants. At work on Monday Constance Page won’t have a name. She’ll be “that naked girl”.
Ultimately they end with Ashley sleeping on the couch, using a broken styrofoam packing shape as a pillow, all the lights on, strobe light still going, everyone’s cars gone, and me and Chad sitting in the orgy room, each holding a bottle.
“Does confetti vacuum?”
“I don’t know.” I’m drinking Absolut.
Chad is drinking wine. “I bet it does.”
“Did you do a shot with me?”
“No.”
“I did a shot with all my friends,” I say. “But not with you.”
Chad puts down his wine, carefully, on the carpet.
I put the Absolut bottle to his mouth and pour.
He chugs it, crazy-sharp Adam’s apple bobbing.
“So where’d she go?”
“She left with that bloody bra girl, remember?”
“I didn’t see her go. Who? With Zombie?”
“The babydoll.”
“That’s Zombie.”
“You’ve got some freaky friends,” Chad says. “I like that.”
“You’re my friend,” I say.
“I know.” And Chad gives me some pill—it’s some prescription pill he’s taking, I don’t even know what it is—and after about twenty minutes Chad’s dick is in my mouth. And he cums. And I taste his cum. And I swallow it, like a little girl, looking up at him with probably a pretty cute face. Water bra and all, drunk, my ass in the air, high on whatever prescription pill. Then Chad has his hand down my panties, and he’s thumbing my dick. But it won’t get hard. So I put his hand on my nipples, and then he uses both of them, and I sit against the wall and take up my bottle of Absolut, drinking, while my dick gets hard.
That’s pretty much how parties end, at least at Ashley’s house.
It’s not a party unless someone gets divorced (that would be Karen).
It’s not a party until someone throws up.
It’s not a party without someone getting pissed.
It’s definitely not a party without a Mead VP.
It can never be a party without MJ.
It could really never be a party without Ashley passing out.
It’s probably not a party if jello shots are left over.
It helps a party when you break into someone’s house.
It hurts a party when the murderous babydoll leaves early.
It helps a party when you get your dick sucked—by anybody. It helps if it’s a girl, it’s alright if it’s a guy..if it’s Chad. It’s pretty much always a party if it’s the first time somebody’s swallowed cum, and felt hot for being a little bitch to your guy friend. That’s definitely a party. In the sense of something being broken.
Confetti does vacuum just fine. Firewater stains do not come out of carpet easily. Especially beige carpet. And waking up to your girlfriend screaming, while you were just about to doze off to the sunlight coming through venetian blinds into what was (before the sunrise) a blacklight room..to hear Ashley screaming about “how am I gonna get this out!!?” while you’re checking to make sure your zipper’s zipped and giving knowing looks to your best guy friend..all of that is a sucky way to sober up. But that’s what has to happen.
I threw those Frederick’s of Hollywood panties in the upstairs bathroom. Ash must have cleaned them up later.