Michael the Mess

My flat was quickly becoming filled by the entire third floor of halls at the mention of a shot roulette board and vodka jelly, including Michael; the gentleman from a previous post. Don’t worry dear reader; this probably isn’t going to end up with me getting off.

“I could so beat you at shot roulette”, I raised an eyebrow at his statement,

“I don’t think there really is a winner in shot roulette…”

“Oh” he lifted his hand up to his head and ruffled his hair like you would a dog, “I guess we’re just going to have to get shit-faced then” I smiled, perched my lips, and raised my glass of Passoa, letting it roll down my throat in one swift gulp.

That newly-empty wine glass of Passoa soon turned into over 20 shots of Bailey’s, Cognac and Stella. Gotta love shot roulette.

“Meet me in my room in 5” my fingers lunged at my phone with drunken potency, after several minutes of eyeing each other from opposite ends of the room had become boring.

Oh jeez I’m cringing at the thought of this. I strutted off to my room, feeling the liquid confidence run through me. I clicked send on the text message as I pulled the door open and stumbled over bottles and heels towards the mirror. Eyeliner smudged and lipstick seeping into the little tiny cracks so it looks just that little bit too crap to go out in public with. I hastily reapplied the eyeliner and wipe off the lipstick; thinking it’s probably going to come off anyway.

(Oh God, as I’m typing this out I just got a text from Michael; Do you wanna come down to our flat at like 9.30 and we can watch a film or something.. x HELP, it will become clearer why I have just rejected this offer in a few paragraphs)

He opened the door and stared at me nervously, obviously still quite unsure where he stood with me. I stretched out my hand to offer him some of the black vodka, which had become my drink of choice after being banned from participating in shot roulette. He reached out for the poison and downed a shot worthy amount; he hissed at the bitter taste and flopped down on the desk chair with a lazy thud. I promptly jumped on top of him.

During the travel time between said desk chair and my bed, Michael had managed to go from being fully clothed down to just his boxers. I’m still not entirely sure how this happened but it’s more than likely I was part of this.

We fell onto my bed; I remember being so drunk that I literally fell on top of him, too inebriated to hold myself up over him properly. I laughed as he flipped me off the top of him and onto the bed; kissing my neck as I wondered where all his clothes had gone. He jolted upright.

“I’ll be right back” a look of panic had washed over his face; he jumped up and ran out of my view. What the fuck is he doing? I sat up on the bed and called out his name, he replied with a sound incredibly similar to vomiting. Something along the lines of ‘BLEUUURRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHAAAAHHHHH’. Sexy.

At this point I realised I had become an agent of my own demise. My plan was desperate and involved getting him drunk enough to not realise I was in pain during sex. In hindsight I didn’t think that the outcome of this plan would be me; sneaking out of my own flat, leaving Michael cowering on my bathroom floor, his arms wrapped around my toilet, filled with regurgitated black vodka.

Cest la vie

Alura x