The One About the Prom.
Ahem. Let us begin.
It was the eve of Hotelie Prom, which, essentially, can be explained most succinctly as the culmination of a hospitality student’s academic career. It was the night on which all four years of the expensive academic journey we’d jokingly referred to as High School 2.0 were validated. A significant milestone in our lives, college graduation, was marked by a booze-soaked conga line straight into restaurant-general-manager obscurity (for some, more of a stagger-y waltz all the way to a shackled, pasty and haggard existence in a Wall Street cube), slugging back Barton’s alongside the folks with whom we’d learned the differences between Merlot and Cab Sauvignon. Magical.
A prom. Prom king & queen, superlatives and the whole bit. After approximately 6 Vodka Sodas and being named “Most Likely to Have Sex in Statler” (what a motherfucking surprise; hotelies, you so crazy), I found myself making out with a dude in a gezeebo somewhere on the facility grounds. In hindsight, I should have fucked that guy — because I actually ran into him on the street the other day and it seems his steady diet of cocaine and Jersey Girls had hottened him significantly. Fuck. That’s what I get. Anyway, we went back inside to get more to drink when I saw Sc— no, fuck real names, let’s call him Skeeze — and led him outside.
No shit when I say this: no words were exchanged. It was like we were extras in a college porno (actually, add an exponential for-realsies because my dress was shiny and leopard-print) and someone had just informed us that some Pahlinuik-type shit would go down if we didn’t just do it already. He knew, I knew. I yanked down my panties and stepped out of them; he undid his pants.
We’d had sex a couple times before; the first being my 21st birthday, a most-memorable hookup that resulted in a glorious snapshot-worthy aftermath of torn curtains, a broken lamp and a morning-after consulting presentation in Strategic Management class delivered in a single steady stream of tequila-breath. It was about a restaurant chain’s international expansion, and I could have forgone the Powerpoint presentation altogether by pointing to the fucking map of hickeys all over my neck. My mascara was flaking off my lashes, a metaphor for my crumbling moral fiber and significantly weakened set of standards in place for my sexual partners. My legs, voice and cosmetics were teetering on 24-hour marathon performances and were fading fast.
Much like my will to live during that prom sex session. That shit was X-treme. Moving back outside now, I’d go so far as to say that this particular episode was the X Games of sexual endeavors. We were outside of the ballroom, and my ass was on top of some external part of the PTAC unit. Do you know how hard it is to have sex outdoors, standing up, half-clothed with some dude who is exactly your height? I’ll tell you: I was all but convinced that the corner of the PTAC unit I was up against was going to do serious damage to the back of my body and possibly extend my asscrack 3-5 more inches further when….
“Alright, kids. Pull up your pants.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
