Life Of The Party

Chapter 1

I look in the mirror, at my honey brown hair sticking every which way, at the smudged lipstick, at the hickies dotting my neck and the tops of my ample breasts, at my swollen lips from giving two guys head, at the dried mascara giving me racoon eyes and oddly, expressing the deep sadness within; because no matter how much fun I had been last night into the wee hours of the morning, it will never erase the sadness that gnaws at me and threatens to drown me each and every day.

I wash my face, scrubbing my face clean of any memory of debauchery...and any inkling of sorrow, hurt or pain.

"Fuck you sadness," I whisper to myself. It is the same thing I chant every morning, as if I say it enough times, it will flee from me.

The sadness snorts its derision back at me, as it always does, "Fat chance, bitch."

I dig inside my bag and fish out my masking agents: my makeup. It not only masks the hickies on my body, but also the grating sadness. In truth, I don't need makeup. My naturally supple and tan skin, courtesy of my Mom, signifies me as a natural beauty; but, If I can't rid myself of this sadness, at least I can conceal it. The dark sadness laughs at my attempt, as it always does, and I fight bashing my fists in the mirror...as I do daily. It is a constant struggle, one I am proud to say that I have never succumbed to. So suck it, motherfucker.

I recap my lip gloss and toss it into the makeup bag, rubbing my lips together and surveying the job done. I smooth my now tamed tresses and wipe the excess gloss from the corners of my lips, I smack my lips together and wink at myself. I look pretty again. No trace of darkness. No lingering sadness. Now the final touches.

I widen my eyes, injecting as much playfulness in them as I can and plaster on a bright smile. It looks believable. I look happy. I look fun.

"Let's do this thingy," I charge myself...my spirit.

Grabbing my things, I swing the bathroom door open and step into messy room of the two frat boys I spent the night with after partying last night. They're still knocked out on the bed, snoring. I hitch my hip on the door frame and watch them.

Eh, they're cute, rough in bed, fairly good in it too. They're names have slipped me: Tad and Jimmy? Brad? Frankie? Whatever, it's past my staying time anyway. I push off of the frame and grab my oversized handbag and throw my makeup bag in. I search the room for paper and a pen and when I find it, I write the boys a nice message:

Had fun. Nice cocks. ~ E

Every guy wants to know they have nice cocks and that the person they fucked enjoyed it. I might not have enjoyed the sex immensely, but the fact that I was with two guys at the same time was enough to make me want to jump in bed with them again...but I don't repeat.

I throw the pen on the floor and pick the note up, tacking it on their door before opening it to do my walk of conquest. Some girls do walks of shame, but fuck that. If guys can fuck every woman they come in contact with and no one frowns on it, but finds the shit cute, why can't I? Because I'm a woman? I respect any woman who can walk away from being fucked two ways from Sunday with her head held high.

So, with my own head held high and a playful smirk on my glossy lips, I step out into the quiet hallway...bumping into a hard body.

"Fuckin' hell," I mutter, steadying myself as hands reach out and grab my shoulders.

When we're both on balance once more, I stare into kind, light blue eyes, made even kinder by the glasses over them. My eyes do a quick sweep of his face - very handsome, strong square jaw, short blond hair, and fuck...those small but kissable lips. What's more, this guy is shirtless and his chest is ample! The kind of chest you grab on to as you ride him into oblivion.