The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

"That's a nice turd neck."

     I squint. Not only because I'm not entirely sure what he said but also because I think some of his spit flew directly into my eye. "A what?"

     "A turd neck." The random guy at the bar gestures towards my neck as if it's obvious, but the way his body continues to sway like one of those large, faceless balloon people outside of car dealerships makes the statement less so.

     "Turtle?" I offer, albeit pointlessly, but I'm always in need of an excuse to use the word "albeit," even if it's just in my head. It makes me feel regal.

     "Yeah, turd." He nods while his glassy eyes seem to drift to a place farther than the dimly lit club. "I have to take a turd."

     I halfheartedly salute his retreating form with a laugh before turning back around to face the bar. I stop recording on my phone but end up sending the voice memo to my sister with the time stamp because it's the perfect thing to top the twenty-one messages she sent me throughout the day. I can't stop chuckling to myself as my fingers curl around the thermal, albeit mock, "turd" neck of my shirt. I'm stealing that phrase now and forever.

     "Shot! Shot! Shot!" a group of people cheer as two guys race to lift the small glass cups up and slam them back down against the wood. A bunch of people come trampling towards the bar to join in the shouts. The caramel color of the liquid means it's most likely tequila that's dribbling down their faces.

I glare directly at the guy that elbows my boob, but I don't know whether it's sweat or saliva that hits my skin through the ripped holes in my jeans. Even though the bartender happily poured the drinks, he now also doesn't look very pleased as his fingers curl around the towel draped over his shoulder.

     Most of the crowd trickles away once all the shenanigans are over. The bartender wipes, and the two guys pretend their throats aren't on fire with pursed lips and red faces.

     My rings feel cool against my skin as I tug at my black "turd" neck again. The throat fire is something I sometimes relish in, but today I opted for rosé that's barely brushed my lips. It doesn't help that it's usually always hot in here to begin with.

     I guess it worked though, albeit painfully, as two girls slide up next to the two guys. I suppose I'll never know if that was their intention, but then again, with the way a grin slides up the side of the one guy's shadowy face, I suppose it was. The other guy, albeit thrilled, looks more queasy.

    Okay, I'll stop. I'm cringing at myself.

     I'M CACKLING. My sister follows the text with a series of laughing emojis, and my lips quiver again. I send a few laughing emojis of my own as someone slides up next to me. The guy is a few inches away from being too close for comfort, but that's because of the club's Saturday night sprawl. The sleeves of his navy-blue thermal are rolled up to his forearms. His dark arm hair matches the dark eyebrow that tips up when he passes me a sideways glance.

     "Did that hurt?"  he asks.

     I wait for the rest of the catch phrase, something about heaven, all the while trying to remember the something about hell comeback. But the guy just shifts his lazy stance, still not picking his forearms off the edge of the bar countertop. I'm sure that as soon as he curls back up to his full height, I'd match him, even without the little heel on the bottom of my boot.

     "That's cartilage, right?" the guy nods in my general direction, and the gears in my brain finally click back into place.

     "Oh, yeah—no." I lightly touch the silver stud resting in the top of my right ear. "But this one"—I turn to the right and tuck my hair behind my ear to reveal my tragus piercing—"hurt like a b*tch." The guy grimaces a little, so I continue, "but it's nothing compared to my sister. She has five going up one ear." I draw the line up with my finger.

    "My sister once dragged me to one of those astrology piercers." The guy cracks a smile but it quickly transforms to a wince. "I think I'm more of a tattoo guy."

     I laugh. "I think I'm the opposite, but where's your tattoo?" I lean forward a little.
The guy tugs his already half rolled up sleeve a little higher. There's a small black outline of a lotus flower resting just outside the crook of his right elbow with three dots trickling out the bottom.

     "That's pretty," I hum.

     He shifts his shirt back down a little, but keeps his body angled towards me. "Not as pretty as that." He gestures towards my head.

     My body stills before I breathe out a laugh.  "Oh."

     "Birthday princess, huh?"

     "Yeah." I sigh as I reach up and rip the plastic tiara out of my hair. I forgot it was there along with the red velvet cupcake wrappers my friend and I left scattered on the bar in front of me. I quickly snatch them up in my fist before the bartender can unleash his potential wrath on me. Even though these cupcakes and silly tiara were Taryne's idea. She's around here somewhere, probably making friends.

     "Are you from around here?" the guy asks. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as my brain reminds me of yet another cheesy pick up line. As in Tennessee, 'cause you're the only ten I see. Even though we're closer to Malibu than Nashville.

     "Shot! Shot! Shot!" Another round ensues with the pair of girls this time, but the guy beside me is the one that gets elbowed instead of me. Now he's definitely too close for comfort, but he flashes me a quick smile in attempt to hide his wince.

     "I'm Jack by the way."

     "Lois Lane," I say with a curt smile before ripping at some of the hot pink feathers on the silver tiara.

     "Lame?" His brows furrow.

     "Lane," I repeat but my heart thumps a little too hard against my chest because the lie is way closer to the truth than it usually is. Yesterday I was Princess Peach. The day before I was Sandy because this one guy said his name was Danny. And turd neck guy was even told, "Amy."

     "Well"—Jack leans back into his own personal space, or at least tries to—"I was going to say you were being a little too hard on yourself because I think that'd be a way cooler disguise for superman than some dingy pair of glasses."

     I breathe out a laugh through my nose and rip out another hot pink feather, scattering them on the bar. I'll blame the bachelorette party on the other side of the room with their feather boas. The music continues to pound around, pulsing through the place like a heartbeat. The bars on either side under the second floor platforms are like the ribs caging it all in.

     Just when I finish making the tiara feather free, Jack rips it from my hand and digs it into his mass of dark hair.

     "How does it look?"

     The blue and purple lights strobe across his chest, but I hear nothing regarding the beat they're matching. The grin on his face shines in his eyes, and my teeth sink into my lower lip, but it's no use. The smile stretches across my lips before I can help it.