Last year I started a tradition of staying in on New Year’s Eve, drinking a bottle of cheap champagne by myself, and writing whatever struck my fancy. The 2014 product was a good one: a substantive and lush little story called “Charlie and Reece” about intimacy and dating after leaving an abusive relationship. This year’s product is a little less… thought-provoking, but that might have something to do with me drinking Veuve Clicquot instead of a $6 bottle of André.
My goal was to write a story for the prompt “Fuck of the year,” aka one of the losing options from Exhibit A’s hilarious Google search term challenge. The poor soul got stuck writing about “lust fish,” and somehow managed to absolutely kill it despite the absurdity of the prompt. Major kudos to Exhibit A.
@brosandprose Given your subsequent tweets, I’m now REALLY looking forward to seeing how this one turns out…
— Exhibit A (@EA_unadorned) January 1, 2015
Inspiration was a little lacking for most of the evening, so I watched St. Elmo’s Fire with my mother and live-tweeted the entire night.
blog posts to write in 2015: the honest and the bullshit moments of St. Elmo’s Fire re: post-grad life I am a little drunk. — Ella Dawson (@brosandprose) January 1, 2015
Then around 1:15am I decided what I really needed was food, and I moved my drunk ass into the kitchen to scrounge for snacks. I narrated this process to my friend on Facebook chat, making me the trash princess of New Year’s Eve:
Finally I sat down with a bowl of white rice and butter—anything more sophisticated than microwavable leftovers was beyond me—and stared transfixed at footage of Times Square on CNN. And then… boom. A spark. Here’s what I came up with, edited only for typos (and there were typos. I spelled skyscrapers “skypscrakers,” utterly baffling autocorrect. Enjoy, and happy new year!
(first) fuck of the year
They make it back to the hotel by 12:50 AM. It requires battling through several hordes of tourists (she knows they are tourists because no actual New Yorker would go to Times Square to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve, and clearly she doesn’t count as a tourist because she works in New York City and just lives in Connecticut so fuck off) and by the time they enter the hotel lobby they are pawing at each other like teenagers. To be fair they’ve only not been teenagers for two years, give or take a few months, she actually isn’t sure when his birthday is. They’re dating but he is not her boyfriend so she doesn’t need to know these things. She vaguely remembers him having a summer birthday but maybe that’s not true? It doesn’t matter.
He gives her this searing look in the elevator where thank god they are finally alone and then his hand is up her skirt, yanking it up her hips. In another instant (her sense of the present is starting to flicker off every other second like a black light but she knows—all she knows—is that she wants him) his thick fingers are in her underwear and she is soaking. She bites his lower lip and he groans and shoves her against the wall, pins her with his entire weight. He is much stronger than she is, very solid, and that’s part of the appeal. She is a strong person but this is not the time for a battle of wits. She wants him for how he threatens to crush. And then the elevator doors open and there is a moment of terror until she sees it is their floor and the doors are opening for them. Thank god. Thank god. Prosecco doesn’t drown out all decency.
The hallway looks like it’s tilting but that is the Prosecco. She clings to his hand as he marches ahead of her, tugging her along behind him and fishing the keycard out of his back pocket, and his ass is gorgeous encased in so much expensive black corduroy. And then he stops because this is their room, and he flicks open the door and then it’s wallpaper, the lights aren’t on, she doesn’t care, she is shoved up against the wall again and laughs something devilish. She doesn’t recognize them in 2015. The light through the window is blue and pink and it dances across his face: he has such a beautiful mouth. And then that mouth is on her shoulder. She wants more. She wants him now, wants to taste right now on his lips, champagne and flecks of glitter and they are young and it’s the first new year not changed at some shitty high school party but she is young enough for this not to matter. He is gorgeous and it’s a midtown hotel room and he needs to fuck her, here, now.
He yanks her thigh-highs down, the delicate fabric tearing at her knees. Her strappy heels are a problem and it takes some unbalanced concentration to get them off in order to get the stockings off and then he weaves his hands through her hair and pulls her back up almost too hard, smothers her muffled complaints with his lips and she likes that it hurts, that it makes her see fireworks behind her eyelids because they couldn’t see the fireworks beyond the skyscrapers. And then her ass is against the wall and her hands are battling with his belt, slipping, but at least the button fly is easy to negotiate. Another yank, fabric shoved away, his cock is hard and she is ready and then fuck, 2015. She tastes blood and alcohol and desperation to let this last. To enjoy this. To feel this. She hasn’t had a thought since 2014 other than now. He is about now. This is about now.