A Date With The Incomparable Ms. Z. Drew

Part Two Continued...

Wine, beer and many additional lesbians later, the party was loud and the drinking games were many.  Half-ravaged plates representing most continents and some islands littered every surface and these usually professional, well-kempt women were trying to figure out how to down shots of creamy liquor without using their hands.  Needless to say, things were getting messy.

Having learned the lesson many years before that shots treat my stomach as a trampoline, I found myself in the unusual state of being the most sober person in the room.  While last place in the drunk race was not my desired position, it did afford me the best view of the floor show that was to unfold.

The flow of the conversation had turned to a raucous game of one-upwomanship called 'lowest price'.  The winner of the game was the person who would accept the least amount to do whatever dare was proposed by the sozzled group.  I didn't know it at the time but this was one of Zy's favourite games, doubtless because she always won.  No matter what the challenge, no matter how squirm-worthy, she would always do it for less than the next person.  None of us had noticed her clever manipulation of the conversation on to this topic but, once she'd planted the seed, the group ran with it.

The perfect drinking game!  With inhibitions lowered and all in the same awkward boat, rapid fire suggestions criss-crossed the table.

'How much to stand in the backyard naked?'  

'How much to run down the street naked?'  

As nudity didn't bother me that day (not my own anyway), I assured them that I'd do it for nothing but taking money for it would make me feel like a whore.  Somehow this response didn't fit into the spirit of the game, so the focus shifted from me to the instigator of all of this, with our slurring hostess cackling 'Zy, how much to pash The Artist?'

It was an unlikely pairing and the laughter at the image was cacophonous; from all except the owl-eyed beauty across the table from me.  Suddenly all business, she proceeded to negotiate terms, division of labour, rates of pay and meal breaks while The Artist dissolved into uncontrollable spasms of hilarity.

As a struggling student who needed all of her money for beer, my change purse was spared the ransacking of the seagulls, who finally scraped a sizable collection of coins together, dumping it in a pile before the cool, calm Zy and the still giggling Artist.  The reality of what they had requested had now hit the group and their respective levels of discomfort manifested in fidgeting, cackling and inappropriate outbursts.  My fascination was my only focus so, hidden behind the safety of the role of 'official timekeeper', I could absorb every nuance of the softest, most sensual kiss I'd ever seen play out before me.  And all I could think was 'I wish I'd gone to art school'.

To Be Continued..