Educating Becca 2: Frat Party

Oh! Hi there! This is the second installment of my weird fictional college experiences! You should start with the first one. There's gonna be like twentyish of these, depending on how the editing goes, and I shall try to release about one a week. This one has Very Limited Smut, as opposed to the Almost Zero Smut from last time. But I promise things get way way hornier, for which either I apologize of you're welcome. In either case it's not really MY fault. These things have to, you know. Grow. Organically and whatnot. Ugh, just read the thing?

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If there's a hell, I'm pretty sure it looks a lot like the foyer of Kappa Kappa Omega at midnight on a Saturday.

The first thing that hits me is the wall of sound--a pounding, hydraulic bass, the shriek of a hundred voices, a dozen different flashing lights fighting for dominance from the ceiling. The air tastes like aresolized tequila and sweat. I clutch my jacket tighter around myself as Lily, my roommate and social sherpa, steers us through a crowd that is soaked in hormones.

We don't even make it three steps before some guy with a man-bun and a toga yells "TOGA TUESDAY!" and tries to high-five me with a hand covered in what I hope is whipped cream. He's the only one wearing a toga. It's not Tuesday. I do not grant him a high five. Lily ducks it with the grace of a seasoned veteran, grabbing my arm. "Head on a swivel, Becca. They can smell newbies," she stage-whispers.

"Don't these parties have, like, themes? Popular culture led me to believe that there's supposed to be a theme." I mutter, side-stepping a spilled Jell-O shot on the threshold. "Isn't this just... chaos? Why exactly did I agree to come here?"

Lily beams. Her lipstick is somehow still perfect, despite the humidity and the fact that she's already been hit with two different drink spritzes in the last five minutes. "Chaos is the theme, babe. Let's live a little."

I try to smile, but my face isn't cooperating and it feels brittle. False. I feel about as comfortable here as spotting your highschool english teacher at a rave. The last time I was in a crowd this size, it was an comic book convention and Hiddleston was doing a panel, and at least there everyone agreed to shower first. I mean, most of them didn't, but the social contract was presumably there. These people... half of them look like models and the other half like they mugged the models and stole their clothes hoping they'd grow into them. My thrift-store cardigan and knee-length skirt mark me instantly as Not From Around Here, a lost transfer student who took a wrong turn at the chili fest and ended up in an 80s frat movie remake. This was the land of popped collars and spray tan.

Lily pulls us into the kitchen, which is somehow even louder than the rest of the house. Probably the tile flooring is to blame. A guy in a wrestling singlet and a Viking helmet is chugging from a blender pitcher. Two girls in matching cat ears are doing body shots off one another on a table that's lost a leg and is being propped up by a stack of pizza boxes. I spot a cabinet with a glass door and, inside, what looks like a rare bottle of scotch, and I have the sudden urge to liberate it and drink in a closet, quietly.

But then a red solo cup is shoved into my hand.

"Drink. Trust me," says Lily. She's got her own, already half-gone. She toasts me, then downs the rest in one go. I swallow down my nerves, and then swallow down a sip. The taste is sugar and red food coloring.

I look at the cup, then at her, then at the cup again. I'm pretty sure my last blood alcohol content was measured in homeopathic doses. But tonight is about doing the opposite of what I'd usually do, because I agreed before hand that if I was going with Lily, I'd try to party like Lily, so I knock back a heroic gulp.

It burns, but only for a second. Then there's this wave of heat, totally seperate from the burning sensation, and a dull, pleasant buzz that starts in my stomach and radiates outward. The taste is somewhere between grape soda and cough syrup, but it's not the worst thing I've ever had in my mouth.

That's what she said.

Ahem.

"That's the spirit," Lily says, ruffling my hair. She's already scanning the crowd as I frantically slap her hand from my hair, eyes flicking from face to face, searching for someone. Possibly she's just taking inventory. "Let's go find the fun people."

We wade deeper into the party, my hand in hers. Someone has turned the living room into a makeshift dance floor, with colored strobe lights flashing patterns onto a carpet of mist from one of those little machines that sprays a fog so thick you can't see your own feet. The couch is missing all its cushions and is currently pressed all the way up against one wall and has a sign stapled to it proclaiming that I was incorrect. It is in fact a coat rack. On the wall, a hand-lettered banner reads "WELCOME FRESH MEAT." I try not to take it personally.

I drain my cup slowly, to prevent anyone from asking questions I have to answer. A cute guy with a backwards cap bumps into me and says "Sorry, gorgeous!" without looking back. Another cup materializes in my hand, this one blue. I don't question it, though maybe I should I know better than to drink like this around total strangers, but my nerves have me frazzled, and the booze is helping sooth them. Sure enough, after another couple sips, the noise stops feeling like a personal attack and starts feeling more like a soundtrack I could dance to if I really really wanted.

We make it to the backyard, where the air is a blessed ten degrees cooler and the lights are more fairy twinkle and less flashbang grenade. There's a firepit and a circle of people listening to one guy with a guitar, passing around a bottle of wine and singing something that could be Mumford & Sons if you were feeling generous.

"See, this isn't so bad," Lily says, tipping her head back to look at the stars. "You just gotta let the current take you."

I lean against the patio railing and try to blend into the scenery. It sort of works; people are less aggressive out here, more interested in their own drama. The louder couples all seem to be in the process of breaking up but I also catch snippets of gossip, hookups under negotiation, declarations of lifelong friendship that will almost certainly evaporate by Monday morning.

But even out here, I feel like a tourist. I'm still holding my second cup, but I'm drinking slower now. The first cup's warmth is receding, leaving behind a buzzy nervousness. I glance at the window, where my own reflection looks shell-shocked and vaguely funereal, making me flinch. I look out of place and miserable, I think, and realize I've said it out loud.

Lily laughs, grabbing me by the elbow and steering me toward a group of people near the firepit. "You're not miserable though, you're at a party. Willingly! C'mon. We're here to meet people, remember?"

Before I can protest, she drags me over to a few KKOs having a private conversation, and suddenly I'm face-to-face with a guy in a soccer jersey and an easy, dimpled smile. His hair is soft brown and cut in a way that makes it look permanently tousled. "Tyler." He says, extending a hand, "One of Lily's friends? You look like you could use a refill, or maybe an exfil?"

I shake his hand. It's warm and dry, with a grip that's confident but not gross. "Trying to stick it out, at least till the ravening hordes inside die down," I joke.

"Come on," he says, gesturing toward the keg. "I'll show you the secret of surviving these things. Step one: Never drink anything blue." I immediately glance down at the definately blue cup in my hand, and carefully set it down.

We walk over. The grass is patchy and summer scents are in the air, mixed with unfinished basement. Rain on concrete and something else--maybe night-blooming flowers, maybe spilled beer. Probably beer. Tyler fills my cup with something pale yellow and fizzy. He waits for me to try it before saying anything.

I sip. It tastes like lemonade and barely any alcohol at all.

"See? Way better," he grins, watching my reaction. "Also, you don't have to chug it. Nobody's keeping score."

He's taller than me, obviously, but not in an intimidating way. He more makes me think of a golden retriever standing upright. His eyes are green, flecked with gold, and I realize I'm staring.

"Thanks," I say, and mean it. "I'm Becca, by the way. Friend of Lily."

He laughs. "I'm Tyler. That's my actual name, but if it makes you feel better, you can call me 'Token Frat Boy #4'."

I smile, surprised at how easy he is to talk to. "What's your major, number four? That's the usual opening conversational gambit."

"Mechanical engineering. You?"

I hesitate. "Comp sci. But also, like, a minor in theater. Don't ask."

"Wow, wouldn't have guessed. There's like half a dozen girls in comp sci at this school from what I've heard. You are a stealth nerd."

He doesn't say it like it's an insult, and for once I don't feel defensive. I just laugh, "Guilty."

We talk for a few more minutes, mostly about nothing--movies, the weather, whether or not it's possible to actually die from drinking from the punch boal here (yes). I'm halfway through my lemonade and realize I've stopped counting the seconds until it's polite to leave.

When Lily finally tracks me down, she's got a lipstick smudge on her chin and a glow that only comes from being the center of attention. "I see you found someone to talk to!" she says, eyes flicking between me and Tyler.

"Just making friends," I say, but my voice goes a little wobbly at the end.

She leans in and whispers, "I knew you'd have fun if you just chilled out." Then, to Tyler, "Take care of her, yeah?"

He gives a little salute, and Lily disappears back into the crowd, leaving me alone with the cute engineer and the first genuine smile I've worn all night. I take another sip, and the warmth settles deeper.

Maybe this party won't be hell after all.

The thing they never tell you about drinking is how it sneaks up on you. Or maybe your parents did tell you, I don't know. Mine didn't. One minute you're nursing your second cup, no wait third cup, and making polite small talk, and the next your skin feels like it's vibrating and every song is your favorite song. I'm not drunk, exactly, but my head is fuzzy around the edges and my cheeks are glowing. Wait, shit, yeah, that is exactly drunk.

I'm mid-sentence with Tyler, something about the plot holes in Inception, when Lily emerges from the shadows with a girl on each arm and a lipstick smile that says she's having the time of her life. She spots me, does a little finger-gun, and mouths, "Go for it!" before being swept away into the glittery riptide of the crowd.

Tyler watches her go, then leans a little closer, voice pitched to cut through the chaos. "Your roommate's kind of a legend."

I nod. "She's not afraid of anything." I try to sound proud, but the words come out more wistful than I intend. I am, in fact, afraid of many things; most especially in this moment the way Tyler is looking at me, all intent and easy confidence.

The music surges, and he grins, crooked and sweet. "Wanna see the rest of the house? There's a dance floor in the basement. The real one, not the living room mosh pit."

I look at my drink (still half full)(metaphorically, I really need to not have any more cups), then at him, then at my drink again. "Sure," I say, "but if you try to murder me in a boiler room, I'll haunt you forever."

"Deal," he says, and takes my hand.

His grip is firm, callused from something extra fratty probably. Rowing, maybe, or wrenching open stubborn keg handles. He doesn't yank or squeeze my hand though, just holds on, threading us through the narrow passage of bodies and noise. We slip through a den stacked with empty cans and ancient video game cartridges from frat brothers long passed, then a hallway where two people are making out so fiercely they look like they're about to start banging right then and there. Down the stairs, the air cools and the volume spikes, the bass so thick it rearranges my internal organs.

The basement is a fever dream: blacklights and neon paint, furniture again shoved to the walls, a hundred pairs of shoes scuffing up a storm on the warped wood floor. There's a disco ball made out of beer cans and a table where someone is DJing off their phone. Everywhere I look, bodies are moving--wild, messy, uncoordinated, but all having way more fun than anyone at your standard prom.

Tyler leads me to the edge of the crowd, then turns and faces me, his eyes bright in the shifting light. "You dance?" he asks, not with words but with a suggestive tilt of his head towards the mass of people.

"I...uh..." I'm about to try for 'no' but then I remember the whole point of tonight is to not be me for a while. "Sure. I guess. Yes." Then I see the amusement on his face. He can't hear me. It's too loud. I just nod.

He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me with him into the throng. It's like flipping a switch. Every nerve in my body lights up. I'm hyper-aware of everything...his hands, the heat of the room, the fact that my heart is hammering so loud I can hear it over the music.

At first, I do the standard freshman shuffle, side to side, arms locked in "don't touch me" mode. Tyler doesn't push or laugh; he just starts moving in time with the beat, gentle and steady, hands guiding me without force. When I finally loolen up a little and let go of my inhibitions, he pulls me closer, the world narrows to the little circle of space we occupy.

He leans in and shouts over the bass, "You're actually pretty good!"

I snort, because I know I look like a malfunctioning Roomba. "You don't have to lie."

He shakes his head. "Swear to God. You're on beat, you're just overthinking."

He's right, and I hate how much I like that he's right. I let my body fall in sync with his, matching the way he shifts his weight, the way he nudges me gently with his hip to change directions. Every time his hands move, a little firmer here, a guiding touch there, I feel a jolt of excitement.

As the song changes, he spins me (badly), and I laugh, almost stumbling. I'm aware that I'm blushing, probably all the way down to my knees, but at this point embarrassment feels more like a flavor than an emotion.

I realize, somewhere in the middle of the third song, that I don't want him to let go. His hands are warm and certain, and every time they find my waist again, or slide up to the small of my back, it's a reminder that I'm here, in my body, and not stuck on the sidelines watching life through a frosted window.

The room is hot and the air is thick with hormones and possibility. For a second, I close my eyes and let the noise and color wash over me. I lose myself in the pulse of it, and when I open my eyes, Tyler is watching me, his gaze so focused it makes my breath catch.

"You okay?" he says, voice suddenly soft.

I nod, too fast. "Yeah. Just... this is a lot." My head swims a little with the movement.

He smiles, and this time there's something different about it. Something gentler, almost protective. He slows our rhythm, hands steady, and we just sway in place, the storm of the party swirling around us but not touching us.

"You don't have to keep dancing if you don't want," he says. "We can go back up, or...whatever."

I surprise myself. "No. I want to."

He tilts his head, as if reading between the lines. Then he leans in, his lips close to my ear. "Just follow my lead."

And I do.

He turns me with a little pressure on my hip, then draws me in, hand slipping to my ass, cupping my cheek. Our bodies brushing together at every point. I surrender control, stepping into the river and letting the current take me. For the next few songs, I'm not Becca the bookworm, or Becca the anxious mess. I'm just Becca, and I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Eventually, my legs start to ache, and I lean into Tyler for support. He doesn't let me fall; his arms are a wall, strong and solid. I'm barely conscious of the other dancers, the music, even my own voice. All I can focus on is the way he feels, the weight of his hands, the thrum of his heartbeat through his shirt.

At some point, he leans in closer, his nose brushing mine, and for a second I think he's going to kiss me. My stomach flips, and I almost hope he does. But he doesn't. He just rests his forehead against mine and breathes my air, and I breathe his, as if we're letting the moment stretch to forever.

The song changes, and we're still standing there, caught in the space between two beats. I feel dizzy, but in a good way.

He whispers, "You're kind of incredible, you know that?"

I want to tell him he's wrong, but the words won't come. Instead, I just smile, and let myself exist in the moment, unburdened.

For once, I'm not worrying about what comes next.

But I'm starting to hope it might be something good.

After what feels like an hour and a heartbeat on the makeshift dance floor, I finally tap out, my legs burning and my hair damp against my neck with swear. Tyler must sense I'm close to calling it, because he guides me gently away from the thrumming, spinning crowd and up the stairs. The air gets cooler, the noise only slightly less overwhelming, but for a second we're suspended in this little pocket of calm, just the two of us leaning into each other in the shadowed hallway.

He stops outside a door at the end of the corridor. Someone has duct-taped a hand-drawn "VIP LOUNGE" sign to the wood, the I replaced with a crude sketch of a penis. Tyler's face lights up with a lopsided grin, and he knocks three times, fast and rhythmic. No answer. He opens it with a flourish and bows me in, exaggeratedly polite.

I step inside. It's not a lounge, unless you count a single ratty futon, a lava lamp, and a glass-topped coffee table covered in an even mix of Solo cups and D&D miniatures. There's a heavy, musty smell. Incense and body spray, maybe a hint of weed. On the futon, a couple is already making out, their bodies welded together at the mouth. They don't even look up as we enter.

Tyler closes the door behind us, the click of the latch suddenly deafening. It's not complete silence, but the party is now just a vibration underfoot, a pulse in the drywall. The light is weird and soft. I feel like I'm underwater.

He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his chest through my cardigan. There's a long pause where I think maybe he's going to say something. Instead, he lifts my hair off my neck and lets it fall, a slow-motion move that makes every tiny nerve ending along my scalp sit up and take notes.

"Can I kiss you?" he says, his voice low and not at all like the corny frat boy patter I'd braced for.

I nod, and I think I say "yes," but it's possible it's just a squeak. Either way, Tyler's hand finds the small of my back, and he turns me to face him.

He's not tentative. He doesn't swoop in or crash into me. It's more like he's inviting me into a secret, and I step in, and his mouth is already there, soft but insistent. His lips taste like citrus, his tongue slow and exploratory as I open for him, my tongue sliding along his, moaning onto it happily. For a second, my whole body is just mouth and hands and heartbeat.

He guides us toward the futon, and my knees find the edge and my butt drops onto it, Tyler following, leaning into me, arms caging me but never pinning, never pushing. The couple on the other end is still at it, oblivious or maybe just polite enough to pretend we don't exist. I wonder if I'm supposed to care, but Tyler's mouth on my neck distracts me from having to decide.

He runs his fingers up my arm, tracing the edge of my sleeve, then slips his hand down, under the hem, then gliding up my bare back, lifting my shirt and squeezing my shoulder. I'm hyperaware of the shape of my body, the heat flooding my face and chest. He pulls back, just enough to look me in the eyes.