It Burns

It burns.

It feels like fire all over the skin of my throat, all heat and fast moving and indescribable, and I nearly wretch, but then I realize I can't. No, not that I can't, but that I won't. My eyes are clamped closed so tightly that I'm seeing stars of cerulean and neon green. Bright swatches of color swim behind my eyelids. The noises that surround me are amplified and reverberate in my head thanks to the cloak of blackness that my closed eyes assure me, and then I jerk my head downward, my chin pressing into my chest, and she shouts.

"Hell fucking yes, Jennifer! That's how you do it, baby girl!"

Michelle is standing near me in some joke of a bar and I eye the empty double shot glass in my hand as I suck on the lime that had previously been wedged onto its rim. Her Southern accent is magnified thanks to her semi-inebriated state, and after I throw my decimated lime onto the bar, I look at her and grin. "I am so glad you approve, bitch," I say, and waggle my fingers at the bartender. "Another one, please."

He nods, and Michelle and I begin to chatter. It's been too long; we have plenty to catch up on.

I'm visiting her in New Orleans for ten glorious days. We met when we both went to the University of Massachusetts; she was my assigned dorm mate Freshman year, and it was a match made in heaven. Physically, we couldn't be more opposite. I have nearly black hair, and she's a natural blonde. I'm only 5'4" and she's 5'10". But in every other way, we complemented each other, and as a result, we were inseparable from the start.

She partied and hated Math and loved boys. I loved Literature and writing and dancing. We shared everything, knew all of each other's secrets, and were truly the best of friends. So, when graduation came, and she moved back to her hometown of New Orleans while I stayed in my native Boston, I had immediately promised her that I'd pay her a visit.

Now, six months later, I'm following through on my promise, and getting wasted to boot. It's hotter than sin here in New Orleans, Louisiana, even though it's fucking March, and a Hurricane sounds like exactly what I need to cool off, so I toss a bill at the bar, despite the fact that the bartender never did give me that second round of shots. I don't even check to confirm whether it is a ten or a twenty, because, frankly, I kind of don't care, and I yank Michelle out to the street, where a slight breeze twists its way between the masses of people on the street, making a marked difference in my skin's temperature.

I pull my hair up and hold it in place with my hand as I look at Michelle. "Where are we going next?" I ask, and she shrugs in response. I begin to laugh, "Jesus, you could have done a little planning for my visit. Whore!"

Michelle lifts her perfectly arched brows at me and, suddenly, I'm being pulled down the street so quickly that I can scarcely keep up, thanks to her Glamazon legs. My heels are clicking loudly on the sidewalk even as the music and general noise of debauchery spills from the doors of the clubs around us. I know better than to question where we're going - Michelle wouldn't take me anywhere terrible. When we step into the entrance of Pat O'Brien's - home of the Hurricane - and the waves of cold air, thanks to the amazing invention of air conditioning, caress my skin, I almost weep with gratitude.

"Let's go, J," she says, smiling at the door man like she knows him. I know she doesn't, but still, he gets all twitterpated and stupid and just lets us walk past him and into the actual bar without carding us.

I giggle as we near the bar and a tall blond approaches us. I'm certain he wants to talk to Michelle, but it's me he stands next to, his dark blue eyes focused on my face. "Hey there," he says, a slight twang behind his words. It's barely noticeable, probably thanks in part to my semi-drunken state, but I still manage to act like an idiot in response.

As I titter at him, I fucking bat my eyelashes and get all dumb and girly. "Hey yourself," I respond, like the genius I clearly am.

Michelle smirks at me and conveniently makes herself busy as the Blond begins to talk to me. "I'm Kevin," he says, his eyelids dropping down as he focuses on the beer in his hand instead of my face. "What's your name?"

"Jennifer," I manage, and I still look like an idiot, because I can't seem to wipe the grin off of my face. It's like every filter I've ever had has disappeared, so I'm standing here in front of Señor Sexypants grinning like I've never fucking talked to a boy before.

He's tall - really tall - and lean. His hair is messy and dirty blond, and his eyes are a beautiful clear blue. His mouth is just pouty enough that I can't help but stare at it, and he is wearing a shirt that is just fitted enough to showcase that his waist is narrow and trim. I surprise myself by thinking that I'd like to pull him to me and straddle his waist just to see what happens, audience be damned.

He interrupts my completely innocent train of thought.

"Well, Jennifer, order a drink on me, will you?"

"Are you trying to get me drunk? Because I'm already well on my way..." I blurt out, much to my chagrin. In response, and he grins as his eyes shift from me to Michelle and then back to me.

"You could have fooled me, sugar," he says lightly, and although I know he's teasing me, he is also staring into my eyes for the first time and fuck me running, I can't even manage a response. My heart is beating so loudly, I can hear its rhythm in my ears, and my stomach is churning in knots so that I kind of want to make a quick exit and run to the ladies' room to vomit up everything I've imbibed tonight. However, if I do that, I won't be staring into his eyes anymore, feeling sort of like he can see straight through me and down into my soul, so instead of reacting, I continue to meet his gaze.

He takes a half step toward me. Before I know what I'm doing, my hands are clamped around the back of his neck, and he's only inches from my face.

I hear the bartender ask us if we need anything, but I am focused on the way his body feels so close to mine, and speech isn't necessarily possible. He simply stares down at me, and I hear Michelle order some stupid girlie drink for the two of us.

He's so close that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, and suddenly, his lips break into a smile, and the effect on his face is simply amazing. "Where are you from, Jennifer?"

"Boston," I reply, and he is visibly disappointed. "I'm here visiting my best friend. Michelle, this is Kevin. Kevin, Michelle," I say, not even bothering to look in Michelle's direction as I "introduce" the two of them.

We spend an inordinate amount of time at that bar. By the time we leave - about an hour before closing - Kevin has done a body shot off of my collar bone, another from between my breasts and, toward the end of the night, I even manage to position his hand on my hip so that it slips beneath my shirt. The feeling of his warm fingertips on my bare skin is enough to make me moan aloud, and he chuckles in my ear. "Slow down, sweet thing," he says.

"What if I don't want to?" I respond, my voice only slightly slurred.

He says nothing at first and slides his hand into my back pocket. As he pulls my cell phone out of my pocket, I look at him curiously, wondering what the fuck he wants with my phone. "I'm going to put my number in, Jennifer. You're here for a few more days. Why don't you call me? Then maybe...uh...somethin' can be arranged."

It strikes me, as he is typing his digits into my phone, that he is alone and has been all night. "Hey, where are your friends?" I ask, and Michelle laughs loudly at me.

"You're just now realizing that?" She is laughing so hard that she's about a second away from falling off of her bar stool, and I wonder if I shouldn't just surreptitiously kick the leg of her seat so that she gets knocked on her ass. At least then, I'd have a reason to laugh.

Then, I realize that my doing anything surreptitiously while I am three-fourths intoxicated is unlikely, so I decide against it.

"They're over there, actually," Kevin answers, and turns to his right. I follow the direction of his gaze, and there are two guys and a girl standing there, grinning at us. "They know I rarely approach women at a bar, but when I saw you two come in..." He pauses and sighs, running a hand through his hair, which only serves as a reminder that I want to feel it between my fingers. "But, we've gotta get going, beautiful. You gonna call me while you're here?"

I smile at him as he hands my phone back to me. "Yeah, I think so, baby," I say.

After giving me a slow smile, Kevin leaves with his friends, and Michelle decides we need a new scene, so we walk out of Pat O'Brien's in search of a less trendy bar, something more local than touristy.

I decide not to focus on the fact that I kind of want to follow Kevin as he walks down the street just so that once he's home, I can ravage him. There's always later in the trip for that, I think to myself, and Michelle and I turn left on a whim.