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."