Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [1]
Later, I find myself in the sauna with the groomsmen. It had been my mom’s idea, that all the “young people” from the wedding should sauna and swim, but somehow it got down to just two guys and me. By this point, I know that I’m way more than mildly intoxicated, but since technically I’m on vacation, aren’t I supposed to be? If I were this drunk in L.A., someone would probably bring out the coke and I’d thus be able to alleviate my alcohol buzz a bit, but parties at Mom’s house tend to be pretty short on drugs—at least non-SSRI ones. And since in some ways there’s no better high than having two men vying for your attention, I figure it’s just as well that I’m not holding.
“I’m going to be graduating in May,” Mitch says, as he offers me a sip of his warm Amstel Light. “Medical school has been a bitch.”
“Oh, but now you’re going to have to do your residency,” Mitch’s alleged best friend Chris interjects, while interjecting his body into the minuscule space that exists between Mitch and me. “You’ll be working, like, ninety-hour weeks for no money.”
“Which is so much worse than ‘doing your residency’ at Paramount for a salary just above the poverty line?” Mitch lobs back, looking at me.
I swear I never get tired of the attention of boys. But I prefer direct attention, rather than transparent male dick-swinging contests. Do they honestly think that the one who gets the last dig in will win my affection? Don’t they know that being an assistant and a student, even a medical student, aren’t exactly lady-killer positions to be in, and that they should perhaps be digging into their personal arsenals for more compelling things to compete over?
I stand up and they’re silenced. “Last one in has to do a shot,” I say and before I’ve even finished the sentence, they’re pushing each other aside in their zeal to jump into the pool. I stand at the sauna door, cold air rushing in, their wet towels at my feet. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that the two of them just wanted to have sex with each other.
Okay, we’re going to sleep now,” I instruct them, as I try to get as comfortable as I can while lodged between these two guys in a double bed. “Sleep.”
I honestly think we’re going to bed. Was anyone ever that naive? I can’t even sleep on two Ambien by myself, but the birds are dangerously close to chirping—a horrifyingly depressing time to still be partying, as I’ve recently learned—this is the only bed left in the house, and neither of these guys are in any condition to drive. I turn toward Chris, who’s facing the wall. Mitch is on the other side, facing the other wall.
A few minutes pass and I hear Mitch breathing heavily in that way that means he could be asleep. I sigh and feel more relaxed. My insomnia always seems embarrassing, and I’m all too relieved to be able to suffer through it without witnesses. Miraculously, I drift off for a moment or two.
And am awakened by lips on mine—specifically, lips belonging to Chris. My eyes swing open just in time for me to realize that Chris’s kissing skills aren’t half bad. Some people pride themselves on their gaydars. I pride myself on my kissdar because I can usually tell on sight if a guy is going to be one of those drench-your-face-with-saliva kissers, too-tentative pecking kissers, or a possessor of one of those lizardlike tongues that darts into places it’s not wanted. Most guys, unfortunately, fit into one of these categories. It’s the ones that don’t that drive us mad, in all the good ways. Unfortunately, their kissing skills always seem to accompany a tendency for unemployment, a lack of an IQ, or just a general asshole-ishness. If they could kiss well and also possess qualities that actually made them good boyfriend material, women would probably maim and kill one another to have them. I had assumed that Chris would be some combination of too-tentative