Keep the noise low. She doesn't wanna blowit. Shaking head to toe while your left hand does the show me around. Quickens your heartbeat. It beats me straight into the ground.
You don't recover from a night like this. A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless. A hand moves in the dark to a zipper. Hear a boy bracing tight against sheets barely whisper, This is so messed up.
Upon arrival the guests had all stared. Dripping wet and clearly depressed, he'd headed straight for the stairs. No longer cool, but a boy in a stitch, unprepared for a life full of lies and failing relationships.
(Up the stairs: the station where the act becomes the art of growing up.)