“Ya Ever Play Strip Blackjack?”
“Hit me”
“Hit me”
“...Hit me”
“Shit” “Strip!”
We were chasing vodka shots with
lemon juice
because someone found it in the fridge
and it was too cold
we were too
drunk to get anything else.
Our lips curled at the alcohol
puckered at the juice
and we shook from head to spine
passing the bottle on.
Socks scattered the floor like confetti, a celebration
of naked spontaneity.
Button-downs mingled with
sweatpants – Target thongs and
boxer briefs made unlikely friends
in the corner near the golden glowing lamps.
Our bare asses touched the matted-down blue carpet
that had probably had a thousand other asses on it,
but it felt less like a toilet seat of debauchery
and more like a sacred site –
a pilgrimage of hundreds of 20-year-olds seeing
just how raucous and ridiculous we could get
before the three knocks of the RA
pounded the door like our hearts
on our ribcages.
But it felt brand new to us at 3 AM
my brain rattling inside the Skul
bottle that bounced just shy of the recycle bin.
Whitney Bain is a stereotypical, Subaru driving, mountain climbing gal from Colorado, but she is currently attending school in Vermont because the brochures were nice. She’s about to graduate with a Professional Writing degree. She’s hoping to find something in the “real world” that ignites her passion and creativity, but for now, she’s willing to settle for something that pays the bills. Her interests include dancing in the kitchen and eagerly waiting for movie theaters to open again. You can follow her sometimes profound but mostly chaotic musings on Twitter @WRBain02.