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Blue Moon 3.1

by Donna Lamb

Richard laughed, knowing that now it would more likely make Joel mad than tearful. Mad would be okay. "You are going to sleep with me if you drink much more."

She glared at him, then waved the screwdriver glass in a toast. “You bet your dinkle on it?” She tried to look fierce but managed only tear-stained defiance. Richard was not unmoved, though still confused by his feelings for this new Joel.

“Sure,” he said. He tipped his glass up, drained it and motioned her to do the same. She did and he smiled as he split the remainder of the pitcher between their empty glasses. He’d dated other skinny girls and inexperienced drinkers; each nine ounce glass of juice held about one shot of vodka. Nearly three shots would be enough to get her just past tipsy and half-way to really drunk.

He felt only a tiny bit guilty; she really needed this lesson. Even with the beer earlier and a cocktail on his aborted date, he might have too much alcohol in his body to drive legally but he would be far from drunk. Body mass, male enzymes in his stomach, and experience all tilted in his favor.

She looked up at him and burped. Then giggled.

“Oh so ladylike,” he said. Richard knew that such behavior by a woman came across as sexual aggression more often than that. He also knew that Joel had no idea how such a dynamic worked.

“I should give a shit,” she said, taking care to enunciate. “Even if I sleep with you, we ain’t having sex. ‘Cause I’m changing b-back in the m-morning.”

“Okay.”

She peered at him across the table. “Okay? Okay on me changing back or on not having sex?”

“Either. Both.”

She wagged a finger at him. “You don’t think I can do it!”

“Which? Changing back or having sex?”

“F-f-fuck sex,” she muttered and burped or hiccoughed again. “I know I’m changing b-back f-first thing in the m-m-m-mañana.”

He started on his second HotPocket. She’d forgotten hers and he didn’t remind her. The less food in her tummy, the quicker the liquor would hit her, the faster he could get her into bed. “How do you know that?”

“P-pure logic,” she said. She looked pleased that he had asked. “If this were p-permanent then it’d be unlikely that I’m the only p-p-person it ever happened to. And if it had ever hap-happened b-before then I’d have heard of it, and I haven’t. Ip-ip-hic-so factotum.”

“Ipse dixit,” he said.

She frowned. “Did you call me a tipsy ditz chick?”

“Not yet. But there’s a website out there by people who’ve had just this sort of thing happen to them.”

“You’re shitting me!”

“Nope. Several of them. Several websites, must be hundreds of people. Maybe thousands.”

“For real?”

“Maybe not. One thing these people all report is that they have a hard time convincing anyone they’re telling the truth.”

“Oh, b-b-bullwinkle! You’re just trying to scare me!”

He grinned. “Is it working?”

She nodded then giggled. “Scared the p-p-Pringles right off me.”

“Pringles?”

She closed one eye and looked at him. “I can’t say p-p-penis.”

He laughed more than that deserved and she dissolved into such helpless giggles she almost fell out of the chair. He stood up and helped her to stand. “You need to go to bed before you end up sleeping on the floor,” he told her.

“Are we going to sleep together?”

“Yes,” he said. H e steered her gently out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“B-but I don’t w-wanna!” Joel giggled and hiccoughed, trying to pull her fingers out of Richard’s grip.

“Tough,” he said. “I’m fond of my Pringles right where they are.”