Mary

You show me how he kissed you.
You show me again.
You show me again.

Car

There's four of us in the backseat; our thighs are pressed against each other; there's someone in my lap. My hands are buzzing softly; they remind me of cable without a signal, whirling gray static on the screen; I imagine them humming like bees. I reach out, search for physical contact, something to press my hands against and calm the incessant vibrations of my fingers. I find someone's neck, massage lightly, rest my cheek against her shoulder. She's kissing someone, a boy- I know that he likes me and the knowledge tickles in my chest and makes laughter bubble slowly out of me like a creek tumbling over stones. She looks back, smiles, grabs my head and pulls me towards her.
And we're all kissing now. It's a mess of lips and tongues and spit and none of us know exactly where to lay our attention. The car's swerving a little; I grab onto a knee for support, open my eyes to try to see past the hair that's tangled on my face and pushing up my nose. Headlights pass us and I can see our faces, blurry in the window. I watch myself for awhile and try to wipe the fog from my mind as a car can clear its windshield.

Dave

"Kiss him," someone says, and I do because he looks at me with a bright smile and expectation in his eyes.
It's wet and sloppy and nothing but a formality, really. We kiss because it fits the mood of the room, because we can, because we're both drunk enough for it not to mean anything.
Sometimes I go to his house. We watch movies, sip our drinks, make more. We complain, talk about dreams, raise our voices louder and louder against the buzzing whir that tipsiness sings in our heads. I don't usually remember falling asleep, but I remember his hand on my knee, the redness of his cheeks.
It was never anything but a formality.

Ralph

"You wouldn't even kiss me last year," I mutter, my mouth pressed to his cheeks. His hands fumble with the snaps to my shirt, rip them off. "I had bigger boobs then, too"
"Yeah, but you didn't have this last year," he says, gesturing to my stomach. I giggle, and his mouth hits mine again, hard. My arms are tingling; I don't remember drinking that much.
"Let's go my room," he murmurs, lips sliding down my neck, and I nod, trace his back with my fingernails. We stumble past the door, hit the wall, fall onto the bed. He moves onto me, touches my breasts, my thighs. It's too dark to see.
"Blow me," he says, and I shake my head in response.
"Come on," he eggs, kissing quickly down my chest. I say no again, memory dripping between the cracks of my foggy mind like water through a leaky ceiling.
"You have a girlfriend," I say, and the words punctuate the sickness growing in my belly.
"Don't worry about her," he says, tries to push my head down.
"You have a girlfriend."

"No, no. Let me lead."
She's hesitant, glances around the room, nods.
It's light kisses with a flick of the tongue and her hands move from her sides to my face.
"There," I mutter, leaning back against the wall. "That's how you do it."

Mike

I spend the night at him dorm. We're not drunk; we fell asleep to wooziness produced by new friends, new atmospheres, kisses on the lips because we can, heads on stomachs, legs entangled, freedom, heat. I awaken to his breath on my face, his roommate leaving, the door closing.
My eyes stay shut and so do his, but his nose hits mine, traces circles. Our knees bump. I struggle to control my shaking.
He leans forward, brushing his lips against mine, testing my response. I exhale as steadily as I can before he moves forward again, a little less slowly, his body following his actions. He kisses like a wave, moving forward and back, forward and back, his thigh pushing in between my legs and mimicking the pulse. Neither of us open our eyes.
Suddenly his tongue lunges forward, positioning itself firmly into my mouth, not moving. I struggle to breathe, pull back, shift uncomfortably. I allow myself to look at his face and my face reddens slightly.
It's a long walk back to my room. My mouth tastes like stale spit.

Typical

We've been on the bus for hours; the sun is long past set and many are sleeping, their heads against windows, their mouths open and breaths loud against the soft buzz of wheels hitting road. I remain awake in the darkness, examine faces, count headlights, rub my arms in a weak defense against the cold.
"You're still up?" The voice startles me; my heart pounds solidly against my chest before retreating into its cage.
"Yeah," I manage, groan playfully. "Sucks."
"Me too," says someone else, out of my sight.
"What?"
Soon we have a group, face each other through the aisle, grateful to have relief from the stillness that had plagued us.
"We should play truth or dare," someone suggests. The girls giggle devilishly in response; the boys feign disinterest.
Tongues in throats, fingers in mouths, shirts off, hands roaming.