I can’t remember names now, and faces are becoming a problem.

There’s that one dude with a sweater vest who looks like an evil college dean from some eighties comedy or some shit.

Oh yeah, there he is! He’s laughing so fucking hard, and so is…Sheila? I think?

They’re laughing, holding hands, and drinking champagne out of glass champagne flutes. They’re married or something.

I shake my plastic cup in front of them.

“Oh, you’re too good for one of these? Can’t drink out of plastic like commoners?”

I wait for a laugh that doesn’t come.

“We’re just feeling like champagne at the moment.”

The dean looks at Sheila, and she looks back lovingly, saccharinely sweet. Please. Ugh.

“That’s what you guys bond over? Ch-champagne?” I start swaying back and forth.

I try to steady myself. Come on, I’m not that drunk. “That’s cool. I want to bond with someone over feeling like champagne in a glass someday.”

I’m utterly serious, but the fuzzy splotch of people around me are chuckling. I’m getting laughs without even trying. Damn right I am. I rule this fucking barbecue.

I can’t focus on any one of these laughing faces. Where’s Sheila and her perm? I’m trying to find Sheila or…Miranda, is it? Who the fuck knows?

Who the hell invited me again? Oh, WineBar! Yeah, I could totally go for some wine.

I take a sip from my cup…oh, right, that’s whiskey.

I take a nice, satisfying gulp, and my cup is empty. Oh, there’s Miranda.

“Looks like you could use a refill.” Miranda’s words blow right through me.

Everything sounds like nonsense.

I start dancing in place to the quiet music. I’m moving my shoulders a touch, swaying my hips a tiny bit. So subtle that no one notices.

Hey, there’s Miranda again. Why is she trying to take my cup away? Is it my dancing?

Fine, I’ll talk to someone else. I pivot around in a graceful semicircle. It feels like I’m sashaying across the ground like a figure skater across a pristine ice surface.

Who do I recognize here? I see a pale woman in a leather top, her long red hair streaked with blond highlights and done up in kind of sloppy side bangs that still look great…wait, holy shit.

“Trixie Firecracker!” I’m almost shrieking, pointing.

“Excuse me?” She’s a dead ringer.

“From Say You’ll Be There! From the Spice Girls? You know, Geri. Ginger. Trixie Firecracker! That’s you!”

Trixie looks down at her outfit.

“Oh, I remember that video. This is not really the same. Well, that’s funny. Thanks.”

Wait, what happened to my drink?I spin around. Hey, there’s Miranda again!

I now somehow have a drink in each hand—another big shot of bourbon and a full cup of beer. Just like magic. Awesome.

“Excuse me a moment,” I tell Trixie, turning back and interrupting our important conversation.

I close my eyes and down the shot, letting the plastic cup fall to the ground. I look up at the lanterns as I start on the beer. The entire cup is gone before I know it, and now I’m over by a keg, and I’m filling people’s cups for some reason.

I finish filling a cup from the tap, and a hot stockbroker-looking guy smiles like he’s expecting me to hand it to him. Who the fuck does he think he is? I gulp it down myself instead.

“Hey, Emily!”

Hey, there’s Miranda! Now I’m standing by a table with a bunch of bottles on it, and this looks familiar. I’m still holding a half-full cup of beer. Miranda’s grinning as she hands me another shot.

“Okay, last one.”

In an instant, the shot and the beer are gone, and I drop both cups and…wait, why is there another person here now? She’s brunette, wearing a white top with black leggings, sipping a mixed drink.

“What is that?” I point at the person’s cup.

“Rum with cola,” the person responds.

“What’s your name, rummy?”

The person shrugs and takes another sip.

“Don’t worry about her name, Emily.” Shit, I forgot Miranda’s still here.

“But now she knows mine. You just told her.”

I’m still looking at the rum-swilling person, and she’s looking at me. Miranda holds a bourbon bottle in front of me.

“If you took a big swig of this, do you think you could kiss her? Then she might tell you her name.”

I push the bottle away.

“I don’t need that for that. I do need to know your name now.”

The person leans in, and I lean up a bit to reach her. We share a respectable kiss. It lasts a couple seconds.

“Can you tell me your fucking name now?”

The person just takes another sip.

Fine, I start moving back to the keg. I’m no longer just gliding, or floating. Now I’m straight-up flying.

Okay, now I’m upside down on top of the keg. Sheila and Trixie Firecracker are holding me up, with Trixie helping to keep the tap accessible so I can continue enjoying my delicious beverage.

There must be dozens of people watching, and they’re all cheering, screaming. Hell yeah. I’m a fucking rock star.

“Nice thong!” I think that’s the stockbroker guy yelling. It’s hard to tell since I’m upside down and there seems to be two of everything.

I let out a healthy belch as Trixie and Sheila turn me right side up and set me on the ground.

“Thanks, Sheila. I love your perm.”

“My name’s Macy, and I never had a perm. But thanks.”

My stomach makes a massive gurgling sound, and without warning, the smell of barbecue ribs is everywhere. I almost collapse, catching myself before landing splat on the ground.

“Are you okay?” Macy helps me stand back up.

“Oh yeah…I’m just starving. I need food.”

“Okay, but you also broke a heel.”

I look down and close one eye to focus. There’s a green spike on the ground, orphaned from my left shoe.

I start laughing. That has to be the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen in my life. I look up, but Macy isn’t sharing my amusement.

I slip off both shoes and make it a few steps before nearly tumbling to the ground. Two hands catch me, and I drop softly into a toned, muscular chest. I fix my open eye straight up toward the heavens, and it is indeed a heavenly vision gazing back.

“You know that’s my cousin you kissed, right?”

WineBar says this quietly, and I have no clue what he’s talking about. I ignore it.

“WineBar! How are ya! You’re just in time!”

I open both eyes to see both WineBars. Two of them? Oh fuck yes.

The ground spins slowly as he—they?—holds me.

“I’m glad you’re having fun, Em, but you might want to switch to water soon. Like, now. You can thank me tomorrow.”

Whatever he’s saying sounds like gibberish. I just want some food. Some…meat.

WineBar’s trying to help me stand up straight, but his chest feels so good. I lean into him and grab his ass tightly with both hands.

“Oh no, I’m having such trouble staying upright. I guess you’ll need to hold on really tight, and maybe also fuck me silly with your big cock. Yeah, that would also be most helpful.”

I keep my left hand firmly gripping WineBar’s ass while I start slowly moving my right hand around to open his fly. I’m getting ready to plant some soft kisses on his neck—and then maybe his cock—when WineBar extracts himself and walks backward until he’s arm’s length from me. He’s still holding me up.

“You must not be feeling well, Emily. I think you should go inside and lie down in the guest bedroom.”

WineBar lets go, and I slump a little. I smell those ribs again. Wait, why is WineBar looking at me like that?

I keep forgetting what’s happening. I must be pretty buzzed.

WineBar’s still glaring at me. Well, if he wants to see them…I pull my dress down really fast to give him a nice eyeful of my big, beautiful tits…

Oh! I see the ribs now, and there’s still some left.

And now I’m sitting on the grass somewhere and devouring a rack of ribs with my bare hands. Is this the side of the building?

However I got here, I’m glad I have napkins with me…and now blackness. Huh. Did I fall asleep?

I hear someone throwing up…oh shit, that’s me. I’m kneeling on a metal surface and puking my guts out.

Now I feel much better.

Why am I outside? Where was I puking? Is that a doghouse? Oh. Sorry, dog.

Hey, I’m back at the barbecue! “Stop” by the Spice Girls is playing. Isn’t one of them here? Emma, maybe? I’m dancing my ass off, but everyone’s ignoring me. Lame.

Oh, there’s WineBar, carrying stuff inside. That feels nice to watch. I stop dancing.

And now blackness…and now I’m looking at my handiwork: my panties are elegantly laid out on top of the grill. Some guy in a sweater vest walks up next to me.

“Hey, you look like the evil college dean from an eighties comedy.”

“Why did you put your underwear on the grill?”

“They were a bit wet. You know how it gets. They can dry on the grill.”

I feel the material of the dean’s sweater vest.

“What is this, mostly polyester?”

The dean looks down at my hand.

“Not polyester at all.”

“That’s good. Hey, how many inches are ya packin’? Is it twelve? That’s always what I like to hear.”

And now more blackness, and now I’m standing about an inch in front of a handsome, salt-and-pepper haired older dude. WineBar is standing right next to him.

“Okay, I don’t need to ask WineBar over there this question. We’re way past that point, but inquiring minds want to know, sir. How many inches are you packing? Now, before you answer, I need to tell you that the only acceptable answer is twelve.”

And then more blackness, and then the calming hum of a car engine.