Page 59 of Intoxicated
“I dunno. What time is SpongeBob usually on these… holy shit, I love this episode. I wanna have a rave in a pineapple under the sea.”
Drew unearths his phone from the coffee table in front of us. “How is it seven already? We got home an hour ago!”
“Did we? I thought we got home at four?” Home! Listen to me, acting like this ismyhome, when I’ve only been here for a day! “When did we start smoking? Hey, wanna make some brownies?”
Good thing Drew is done with his pot. I think he’s entering the paranoid phase of his high. See, Itoldyou guys he didn’t have the really good stuff. I had an ex who used the same strain for his depression. Every time I tried it, I thought someone was about to push me off a train platform. Go figure.
“I’m getting something to drink. Something that’s not Fanta.” Drew stumbles into the kitchen. After a fit of hacking and a hearty sniff, he opens his cupboard and pulls out a huge bottle of something. He soon takes a swig right from the source.
Oh, good! We’re totally doing this! Drunkandhigh!
You’d think we were college kids from how quickly we devolve into a mini-party just for us. One minute we’re watching SpongeBob, and the next he’s found old music videos on some forgotten channel. Or maybe he’s switched to YouTube and playing his old favorites. Some of these videos are so grainy that they might as well have been uploaded in 2008. Is that Pearl Jam?
“Gimme some of that.” I grab the wine bottle out of his hand and take a chug. Ugh. Tastes like fermented piss. Am I sure this isn’t beer? Whatever.
“You know.” Drew hangs over the back of the couch, his peach fuzz practically rubbing against my cheek. Oh. I think it might be. I don’t have a great feel for reality at the moment. “I had spent this whole day thinking I was gonna stick it in your brown.”
I take another swig of this beer-wine. “You like slamming the D into the A, huh?”
“I hearsomewomen like it. Especially if you loo… lube them up real good… first.”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Like this swill in this bottle.
“I was gonna fuck you in the ass and come all up in it.”
“Bet you were.”
“Does that turn you on?”
I wash the taste of this gunk out of my mouth. With Orange Fanta, yes. “Not really. Can’t say I’m super wet from the thought of you going at my butthole.”
“Bet most of your boyfriends love doing that. Men are sick, you know. Always sticking it in weird places…”
“Does that make you sick, too?”
“Girl, you fucking know it.”
I laugh. Drew is so pleased with himself, that he must think I’m laughing at his joke. Yeah, right. I’m laughing at how pathetic he is when he’s drinkingandtoking. This is the kind of shit we can only get away with at this age. I imagine us ten, twenty years from, still behaving like idiots.
Because what else should I be doing in my inebriated state besides thinking about what it would be like to grow old with this asshole?
I wash those thoughts away with whatever swill this is. The more I think about afuturewith Drew Benton, the more I want to die a little. In some alternate universe where we’re actually compatible, let alone capable of a healthy relationship, things can only end with me becoming the permanent trophy-wife arm candy of the only Benton boy. I’ll have to put up with his mother’s inane ranting and his father’s preposterous ideas about wifery. His older sister, the true heir of his family’s fortunes, will probably have nothing but disdain once she got a look at me and read anything about my personal history.
Sounds like I deserve it, doesn’t it? That should be everything I’ve ever wanted. A rich, handsome husband who jokes about fucking my ass when he’s high out of his mind.
He’d probably be one of the few that makes it feel good…
“You know what we should do?” Drew slams back down onto the couch, his sweaty T-shirt clinging to his muscles in ways that instantly attract my attention. Oh, good. I’m forgetting about that mushy shit that almost made me puke. I’d much rather drunkenly stare at his hot body and get lost in heavy thoughts offuck-fuck-fucking.“We should go into the matchmaking business together.”
Whelp. So much for that.”
“Hear me out.” Drew steadies himself with his hand on my arm. More sweat. God. He’s asweaterwhen he’s drunk. My luck. Good thing I don’t have any plans to hop on his dick now. He ensured that by bringing up such a cheesy thing. “When you think about it,” he continues, although I certainly did not ask him to, “it makes a lot of sense. I know the guys who want to find young, hot wives who will pretend to love them in exchange for money. You know what it takes to be that kind of woman. You know, a professional sugar baby.”
He’s got me there.
“With our powers combined, we could be thehottestmillion-dollar matchmaking service in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll gather up the sorry losers here and in Portland. You help me review the women applying to be future trophy wives. It’s perfect! You could like… tutor them! Prep those powerful pussies for a lifetime of sucking dollar bills out of old, hairy balls.”
“Drew,” I mutter, head hitting the back of the couch. “I’m too fucked up on this shit for you to make imagery like that.” We won’t discuss how many hairy balls I’ve seen in my life. Every guy, old and young, is so damn proud of his own pair, too. I don’t get it. I don’t have to get it. I only have to show up, put out, and get paid.
