Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Lydia Chelsea
no matter what kind it is.
Anyway, the party stopped being fun about an hour ago when Rae leaned close to me on that television room dance floor and shouted,
“I’m going to find a bathroom! I’ll be right back!”
Only she isn’t right back. I continue dancing without her for a while, but I start to feel awkward when some dude in an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt joins me. At first it’s cool, but then he gets a little too friendly, grabbing my hips and trying to draw me closer. I slip away from him and make my way through the stream of gyrating hips and rolling shoulders.
I figure maybe it’s taking so long because these parties always have too many people and too few bathrooms. Or maybe Rae found someone more fun to talk to. Or maybe, I discover while trying to find the bathroom line, myself, she’s kissing some guy, grinding on his lap in the dark dining room, oblivious to the tawdry creaking of the dining chair. That’s the unfortunate thing about Rae and parties. She has a little too much to drink and suddenly she’s giving lap dances to total strangers.
I love Rae, but sometimes her behavior makes me blush. Or maybe I am ridiculously prude. I’m not sure which. Oddly, it doesn’t really bother me to see strangers doing the same thing. I mean, it’s more than I want to witness, but when it’s someone I know, I get a little more grossed out. Is that weird?
I continue on, searching for anything that looks like a toilet line, and hope the bathroom isn’t too gross when I get my turn.
The hallway is dark and crowded. The doors are closed, with suggestive noises issuing from behind each one. Those of us in the hallway slip past each other, jostling beer and other fragrant liquids out of our red plastic cups. We don’t apologize to each other. It’s just what happens at parties this size. Elbows poke out into ribs, feet crash down on other feet, hands pop out against walls to keep their owners from face planting…you know the drill.
Further down, the L-shaped hallway is even darker. The single light fixture sports a sexy red bulb. The bathroom line is surprisingly short, snaking past only one closed bedroom door. Unfortunately, I’m forced to stand against it and all of its hollow core glory can’t stop me from hearing the impassioned, “Yeah…oh, yeah…” that issues from beyond. Heat creeps up into my face, but I don’t stick my fingers in my ears like I want to because I don’t want my prude flag flying for all to see. And anyway, it isn’t that I’m prude so much as private.
The very drunk girl ahead of me in line stage giggles, putting her finger in front of her mouth, and blurts, “Ooh! Someone’s getting down in there!”
Meanwhile, I try not to notice the “Oh, yeahs” increasing in volume and frequency. Drunk girl lets out a laugh that sounds like a donkey braying and suddenly and very forcefully vomits. The bodies cluttering up the hallway scatter like roaches, girls squealing loudly and the guys whooping with drunken laughter.
I abandon the bathroom line, knowing I probably have vomit on me, and aim for the back door off the kitchen. More bodies litter dark corners of the fenced yard, on blankets and on white plastic lawn chairs. The music is just as loud out here courtesy of a kicking outdoor sound system that must really piss off the neighbors.
Surprisingly, no one is in the pool. Then I notice the patch of vomit floating on the surface near the deep end, creating a shadow where the rest of the water is lit by phosphorescent light.
I can feel it now, a dampness near the bottom of my shirt, seeping into the fibers, alerting me to the disgusting fact that I’ve been slimed. I round the pool to the far side, away from the vomit patch where I hope the shadows are sufficient to hide what I’m about to do. I pull off my shirt, hoping no one notices me, and crouch on my knees to wash it in the pool. I scrub it between my hands a few times until the suspicious warm wetness
Anyway, the party stopped being fun about an hour ago when Rae leaned close to me on that television room dance floor and shouted,
“I’m going to find a bathroom! I’ll be right back!”
Only she isn’t right back. I continue dancing without her for a while, but I start to feel awkward when some dude in an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt joins me. At first it’s cool, but then he gets a little too friendly, grabbing my hips and trying to draw me closer. I slip away from him and make my way through the stream of gyrating hips and rolling shoulders.
I figure maybe it’s taking so long because these parties always have too many people and too few bathrooms. Or maybe Rae found someone more fun to talk to. Or maybe, I discover while trying to find the bathroom line, myself, she’s kissing some guy, grinding on his lap in the dark dining room, oblivious to the tawdry creaking of the dining chair. That’s the unfortunate thing about Rae and parties. She has a little too much to drink and suddenly she’s giving lap dances to total strangers.
I love Rae, but sometimes her behavior makes me blush. Or maybe I am ridiculously prude. I’m not sure which. Oddly, it doesn’t really bother me to see strangers doing the same thing. I mean, it’s more than I want to witness, but when it’s someone I know, I get a little more grossed out. Is that weird?
I continue on, searching for anything that looks like a toilet line, and hope the bathroom isn’t too gross when I get my turn.
The hallway is dark and crowded. The doors are closed, with suggestive noises issuing from behind each one. Those of us in the hallway slip past each other, jostling beer and other fragrant liquids out of our red plastic cups. We don’t apologize to each other. It’s just what happens at parties this size. Elbows poke out into ribs, feet crash down on other feet, hands pop out against walls to keep their owners from face planting…you know the drill.
Further down, the L-shaped hallway is even darker. The single light fixture sports a sexy red bulb. The bathroom line is surprisingly short, snaking past only one closed bedroom door. Unfortunately, I’m forced to stand against it and all of its hollow core glory can’t stop me from hearing the impassioned, “Yeah…oh, yeah…” that issues from beyond. Heat creeps up into my face, but I don’t stick my fingers in my ears like I want to because I don’t want my prude flag flying for all to see. And anyway, it isn’t that I’m prude so much as private.
The very drunk girl ahead of me in line stage giggles, putting her finger in front of her mouth, and blurts, “Ooh! Someone’s getting down in there!”
Meanwhile, I try not to notice the “Oh, yeahs” increasing in volume and frequency. Drunk girl lets out a laugh that sounds like a donkey braying and suddenly and very forcefully vomits. The bodies cluttering up the hallway scatter like roaches, girls squealing loudly and the guys whooping with drunken laughter.
I abandon the bathroom line, knowing I probably have vomit on me, and aim for the back door off the kitchen. More bodies litter dark corners of the fenced yard, on blankets and on white plastic lawn chairs. The music is just as loud out here courtesy of a kicking outdoor sound system that must really piss off the neighbors.
Surprisingly, no one is in the pool. Then I notice the patch of vomit floating on the surface near the deep end, creating a shadow where the rest of the water is lit by phosphorescent light.
I can feel it now, a dampness near the bottom of my shirt, seeping into the fibers, alerting me to the disgusting fact that I’ve been slimed. I round the pool to the far side, away from the vomit patch where I hope the shadows are sufficient to hide what I’m about to do. I pull off my shirt, hoping no one notices me, and crouch on my knees to wash it in the pool. I scrub it between my hands a few times until the suspicious warm wetness
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