The Pool Party and the Body Shot

short stories about drinking

Short Story


It was a hot summer day, around four o’clock in the afternoon. Slick called me and told me to come to the pool. He sounded drunk. He said there was a kegger going on and that it was awesome. The pool was in a nearby apartment complex. I got there in about five minutes. When I showed up I was immediately aware of how sober I was. Big Mike and Slick were fucking hammered. I knew them and their drinking well, and from what I could gather they were about fifteen deep. I asked Slick what was going on. Apparently the keg party was in celebration of a guy’s birthday we’d seen around the pool before but didn’t know. He was turning forty, but he looked and acted much younger. Good for him. There were maybe ten people including us three celebrating with Birthday Boy. Four of them were women, probably over forty, and I could tell they’d been around. Rough-looking gals. One was Birthday Boy’s wife. One was her sister. They were both blonde and somewhat attractive, if you’re into leathery ladies with beer bellies. Maybe five of Birthday Boy’s buddies were there. Fat, white losers. Real train wrecks. Everybody was drunk as hell and I was determined to catch up.

Big Mike and Slick excitedly pulled me aside to tell me what I had missed. What they told me was disgusting and great. They’d gotten blowjobs from two of the rough-looking gals. In the pool. Slick said he had worn a child’s life jacket to keep his cock above water. He said it hadn’t been a good fit, but it got the job done. He said the two ladies had been sucking him off when Mike swam over and offered his cock to one of them. It’s important that the reader is able to picture Mike swimming. Big Mike swims like a swamp monster, with his arms and legs directly beneath him and only his head above water. He glides. Professional-level doggy paddle. It’s oddly impressive. So Mike swims up and offers his cock to the two cocksuckers. Slick said Mike did this in a manner not unlike offering a stranger a stick of gum. Want one? I cannot fathom the reasoning behind her baffling decision, but one of the ladies stopped sucking Slick’s cock and started sucking Big Mike’s. Slick is far more attractive than Mike and has a much nicer, bigger cock. Slick is possibly the best looking guy I know, Mike being undoubtedly the worst. I guess she was tired of sharing. I might not have mentioned this yet, but there were families and small children at the pool. This was a public place on a nice, sunny day. Not a dark, sad basement at a swinger’s party.

Somebody suggested we do keg stands. Slick was an absolute maniac by now. He had been shotgunning Keystones and flirting at ludicrous levels with Birthday Boy’s wife, so of course he agreed. He ran right up to the keg and screamed, “You two fuckers, get the fuck over here and pick me up,” as he pointed at two of the older gentleman. They did as he commanded, and before they could get a hold of him he leaped up with his hands on the keg and they caught his legs right before he teetered past a handstand. “Put that fucking thing in my mouth!” One of them obeyed. As he chugged the cheap beer upside down, Slick put on an impromptu exercise exhibition, doing handstand push-ups on top of the keg. One, two, three, four, all the while destroying his liver. I was inspired. Seven, eight, nine, ten. He wasn’t even slowing down. The beer had blessed him with incredible abilities. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. He was a goddamn alcoholic superhuman! Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. He did twenty-five handstand push-ups while chugging roughly four beers. What a guy.

Big Mike wasn’t impressed. “That’s nothing,” he said, somehow feeling cocky. He staggered over to the keg and looked at the two guys that had lifted Slick, expecting them to do the same for him. They were understandably apprehensive. Mike’s a big boy. Six foot four and three hundred pounds of bile. The two guys didn’t want to be rude and overestimated their strength, so they decided to give it a go. Mike placed his hands on the rim of the keg and the guys each grabbed one of his legs. Where Slick had been cooperative, and had done a sort of jump maneuver in an attempt to help the guys invert his body, Mike just stood there, and expected them to make him not standing anymore. They awkwardly heaved him up to a horizontal position and stopped. He wasn’t getting higher than that. One of them put the nozzle in Mike’s mouth and the challenge was commenced. Then, in an incredible turn of events none of us could have foreseen, Mike actually completed one push-up. On the way up his elbows were shaking like Bambi’s legs taking their first steps. As he tried to control his weight and lower himself slowly for a second rep, he didn’t, and instead smashed his face on the top of the keg. However, as he bled from his face and rested on the keg, he did not wince or say “ow” or acknowledge in any way the pain he was surely experiencing. He just laid on top of the keg, and continued to drink, not with great fervor, but nursing on the brew like a sick runt clinging to life with every drop of its mother’s milk.

A few hours passed and I had done it. I was drunk. But I was nowhere near as inebriated as Big Mike and Slick. I could see nothing happening behind their eyes. They were no longer people. Zombified. Sloppy beyond belief. They had both consumed upwards of fifty beers. I was amazed they could stand. Rarely in life do you catch even a glimpse of true greatness, but what these two drunks had done that day transcended mere debauchery and departed into the realm of legend. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I was moved.

Something about a strip club was said, and soon the three of us were in my car on the way to one. Mike quickly fell asleep so we made an unscheduled stop at his house, where we were unable to wake him. I parked in his lawn and we pushed him out of my car into the comfy grass. We were then back on track, on our way to see some titties.

We walked in the front door of the strip club and were informed by a nice man in a suit too big for him that Slick was underdressed. Slick was wearing a wife-beater, board shorts, and flip flops, all three of which were against the dress code. We told the man we really wanted to see some titties. He then commented on how good-looking Slick was, and said he thought the girls would like him. He let us in and we took seats right in front of the stage. A stripper came over and I ordered us two whiskeys. The girl on stage was in the middle of a gymnastic pole routine, and had climbed all the way up and was hanging from the ceiling showing us the goods. She was doing a hell of a job.

We went to a backroom with two of the girls and I bought us some lap dances. While this blonde was rubbing her pussy on my thighs I looked over and saw that Slick had fallen asleep. The girl dancing on him had also noticed. She looked embarrassed and hurt. Not only could the poor girl not coax a boner out of him, she couldn’t even keep him awake. I felt sorry for her. I wanted to give her a hug, maybe grab her ass.

The next day I woke up to my cellphone ringing. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning. It was Big Mike. He said he wanted to go to this new breastaurant in our part of town called Bikini Bar-B-Q. He said there would be chicks in bikinis and food and it would be awesome. I told him it was early and I didn’t feel well at all. He told me he didn’t care. Somehow he convinced me to go so I picked him up and we went up there.

We pulled up and the sign said “Bikini Bar.” The building had tinted windows, the kind I had seen the night before. I turned to him and said, “Where’s the B-Q? There’s no B-Q. This is just Bikini Bar. We’re at a strip club, Mike.” Eventually we came to agree that, yes, the place was not a breastaurant, but a full-fledged strip club, that it was quite early in the day to go to a strip club, and that we were really very hungover. I told Mike, “I’m not the type of guy that hits two strip clubs in less than twenty-four hours, man. Let’s not do this. I need to eat.”

Somehow he convinced me they probably had sandwiches in there and we should at least see what the place was about. We went inside. I checked the clock. It was eleven. An hour to noon. I was extremely hungover and being inside Bikini Bar didn’t make me feel any better. The place was really small and not dark enough. Sunlight was creeping in. It was too real. I felt awful. We sat at the bar and ordered some beers. It was one of those shady places that wants to charge your card 100 bucks right off the bat and refund you the balance later. I think they even asked for my Social Security number. Obviously we just paid cash. The only stripper in the place walked up to us, and asked us if we wanted to do some body shots. This really bummed me out. I said no, but Mike replied, “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I could have given him a list of reasons not to do it – her stretch marks, the time of day, the sign on the wall letting customers know that body shots were priced at twenty dollars – but I didn’t, figuring his question was rhetorical.

She went behind the bar to gather supplies and asked Mike what he wanted to shoot. He said, “Tequila. Top shelf.” She let him know that would be an extra five bucks. He said that was fine. I’m all for depravity, but this I couldn’t support. Twenty-five dollars to lick an unappealing stripper and take one shot of tequila. There was no sense in it.

She got up on top of the bar and prepared herself. She laid down, with a slice of lime in her mouth, a line of salt between her tits, and a shot glass full of tequila wedged between her legs in her crotch.

I have never claimed to be an expert on the art of body shots. Frankly, I don’t really get it. But even with what little knowledge on the subject I do have, I knew right away that what Big Mike did to that stripper was not the right thing to do. Using his hand, he took the lime out of her mouth, and squeezed the juice from it onto her tits. Then he hungrily licked the salt and juice off of her chest. Again using his hand he retrieved the shot glass from her crotch and poured the tequila into her belly button. Before she could stop him he started slurping the liquor from her stomach. She had been quiet the whole time, letting Mike go about his business, but the belly button thing was too much, so she tapped him on the head and asked him just what in the fuck he was doing. He said he was doing a body shot. She told him he was supposed to grab the shot glass from between her legs with his mouth and take the shot without using his hands. He must not have listened, because that is not what he chose to do next. Instead, he went down there and got his lips on the shot glass, which was a good start, but instead of picking it up with his mouth, he stayed down there and was attempting to suck the tequila out of the glass right there by her pussy. His lips and tongue fighting gravity for the tequila made a wet, upsetting noise.

I imagine tequila is not the easiest liquid to lap up, because Mike had been “taking the shot” in her crotch for twenty seconds before he finished. When he stood up the look on my face let him know that his suspicions were correct, in that, yes, he was indeed a retarded dog child. He owed her twenty-five bucks for the enlightening experience, but he didn’t even pay. We left and she didn’t try to stop us. I think everyone involved silently agreed to just go their separate ways and cut their losses.

Bikini Bar has since been closed due to prostitution.


more by S. P. REILLY

photograph by Ryan McGuire


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S. P. Reilly

A drunk stationed in Houston, Texas. I write short stories and make tasteless rap music.

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