warning, sex
Oh, God, you're so drunk you can barely walk straight. You feel like you might puke, but you're good at holding your liquor, so you think you'll make it ok. And it would be really awkward to puke right then, because he's sprawled on the couch like the only thing you ever wanted for Christmas, and you think you might actually be fucked up enough to let yourself unwrap him.
As you look at him, you think the desire to puke might actually be nerves, and not the obscenely expensive bottle you've been handing back and forth since this fucked up dance begun. You want to ask if he's into you, but he's so much older, and that feels like such a stupidly little girl thing to say.
Do you like me?
And that kind of thing has never mattered before, and it's picked a really crap time to start, because he's not exactly the expressive type, and you're not the kind to put yourself out there. So, you do what you know how to do instead. Sex. The dirty kind. You're wearing his pants, and your hand slips inside them when you climb on his lap, and you know you have him the moment his eyes go unfocused.
Fuck, yeah, and his fingers on yours, inside you, are more fucking intimate than anything you've ever done in the bathroom of a bar, and you're pretty sure this is going to ruin you. But just then, you don't give a shit.