Party Like Rock Stars

That night, Tom invited me downtown to meet up with some friends of his. We’d been dating for only a few weeks, but I was falling for him so intensely it made me nervous. He was older than me and seemed more self-assured, and he ran with a svelte and polished group of well to-do party boys. It seemed dangerous to like him as much as I did, given our differences. 

When I arrived, two problems arose immediately. First off, everyone was much too drunk for eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. Second, I’m competitive by nature, so I had no choice but to try and catch up. This created a positive-feedback loop of sorts — my rapid drinking accelerated the group, which in turn, accelerated mine. Less scientifically, the drunk was leading the drunk. 

By the time we staggered out of the first bar, I’d learned this much: Tom was old friends with Stephen, a beautiful kid who was surprisingly nice. It seemed like he and and Tom might have dated at a point, but I wasn't sure. Now Stephen was dating Nick, a well-intentioned wreck with no job, a substance abuse problem, and an enormous trust fund. 

He suggested we go to a second bar, and ordered a bottle of tequila “for the table." Bottle service. I felt like a farmhand on his first airplane ride. Everyone — barring Nick — had to work the next day. Halfway through the bottle, Nick leaned to the group and stage whispered, “So, is everyone set to have a really wretched, disgusting night? Wretched like fucking rock-stars?” He said the words with relish. I paused, unsure if “wretched” was supposed to sound promising. But when I looked over, Tom and Stephen were nodding vigorously. 

This is what he meant: take three quick shots a piece to finish the bottle, slap hands with the ski-capped white guy standing outside to get an 8-ball, and then stagger back to his unbelievably lavish apartment to do lines off the glass-coffee table while the stereo pounds. Neighbors, like alarm clocks, aren’t for rock-stars. 

Nick lounged on the floor, deep in his long-haired white carpet, which, in my stupor, I kept accidentally calling “that polar bear.” Stephen came out of the bathroom, dropped down to lie on Nick’s thigh, and said, “Hey, would you guys fuck for us?”  

It was new territory for us — at least as a couple, but we found ourselves nodding. Like a rock star. It wasn't a night for over-thinking. Tom rolled onto the couch, I climbed on top of him, and we progressed as usual. I couldn’t say which was stranger, the two smiling barons, watching us from the nearby pelt, or the beautiful view from the giant windows. Clothes came off. Nick slid up, still fully dressed, and handed me a small glass bottle. “Here, use this.”

Then, I committed something of a party foul. Assuming it was lube, I poured out the contents liberally. If I only I got down like it was 1984 more often, spent more time doing cocaine in discotheques, I would have recognized it for what it actually was, amyl nitrate. Known as poppers, it’s inhaled before sex for it’s brief, heady and relaxing high. 

When someone pours it on your dick, it also burns like hell. 

Tom leaped up to run to the bathroom. As he did, he knocked me off, into the coffee table, which I knocked onto the rug. Stephen was hit by a barrage of coffee-table books and cocaine dust. 

When Tom came out of the bathroom, we gathered our clothes in silence. As we slipped out to hobble off home, Nick was standing in his rumpled party clothes, looking at the wreckage of his living room. “Absolutely wretched,” he muttered. — Kyle Rich

Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to submissions@nerve.com.