Spin the Bottle

I remember thinking, isn't this game for timid high school kids? 

I felt so adult, then. I wasn't even 21. 

And honestly, when it started, I really wasn't all that aware of you.

Someone got the empty alcohol bottle. A large circle formed around it, lying still on its side, waiting to be spun.

Maybe it was a game for timid high school kids—but even then, it wasn't a game I had encountered at any party I ever went to.

Some of those parties would've regarded spin the bottle as tame. At still other parties, it would have been far too ambitious.

Here, it unfolded naturally. Were you involved? I can't remember. 

The drinks helped. Don't they always? Makes everything much easier to say 'yes' to.

Even if it is a little silly.

Even if it is a little juvenile.

Who goes first? A hand enters the circle, reaching for the bottle, then twists it with a sudden jerk.

It glides silently around on its axis atop the soft beige carpet.

Friction slows it, it rolls and lands...

Eyes follow the line from the bottle's mouth to the person it's pointed to. 

They kiss. The first of many yet to come. Their turn. They reach forward into the circle and...

Spin. 

Round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.

Spin. Kiss. Spin. Kiss. Spin. Kiss. Spin...

When you repeat the same word over and over, it begins to sound funny.

You need to start saying it differently, in order to restore a sense of meaning to the word.

The same goes with kissing.

When undertaken again and again, in front of a group like that, the little timid pecks lose their impact.

An unspoken energy builds amid the circle with every kiss that's shared.

An ever-mounting urge to push the limits a little more each time.

It isn't just spin-and-kiss anymore. It can't be. If that's all you've got, you'll bore the onlookers around you, who will protest and demand more. 

Spin. The bottle lands on someone else, and the tension begins anew. 

The two approach, crawling on hands and knees toward each other in the center of the circle.

And then... a kiss, yes, but... 

It starts becoming more than just a kiss.

Mouths open, press together. Peeking between the curtain of lips, the hint of tongues slowly twist.

A gentle smacking sound.

A new boundary reached, their lips part, and they return to their ends of the circle. 

The next turn. 

The more the kiss gets passed around, the more variance begins to emerge. 

A progressive escalation of kisses, transferred from one mouth to another.

In a way, it's revolting.

In a way, it's anxiety-inducing, watching the bottle spin and wondering where it will land. 

In a way, it forces me at every turn to ask if I should stay until it falls on me, or leave before?

Curiosity compelled me to sit tight.

Another unspoken tremor of anticipation occurs when specific duos are aligned.

Something intuitive. Instinctive. 

A blossoming he-knows-that-she-knows-that-he-knows logic in suggestive whispers that convey more than admission could ever hope.

Some kisses mean more than others.

Not because of how they are escalating.

But because who is doing the kissing.

Even then, after the game had gone on a dozen rounds, I still was not fully aware of you.

Until it was your turn.

Spin. Watch. Hold your breath. Wait. Who's it pointing to? Draw a line from the mouth of the bottle to the mouth of the person it faces. 

You spun and the jury decided, it was pointing at me. 

That's when I finally noticed you.

I noticed you when I saw how you looked at me, when you knew the bottle had spoken and commanded we kiss.

Your crawl toward me. Already, I felt a target; the look of you hunting me on your hands and knees rendered me motionless.

And then, there you were: parting satin lips-- pink cheeks-- no makeup, all warm blood beneath the skin.

Our mouths locked. Your hand on the back of my neck. 

Suddenly, you were on top of me, both of us on the floor.

I was aware of you. You made yourself impossible to miss.

The hooting and cheers from the inebriated onlookers could've been the sound of a raucous stadium of fans.

But what I heard most was the sound of air in our nostrils as our lips fused against each other's, drinking in air while our mouths were preoccupied.

I pulled you against me. A sudden gasped hush fell over the crowd.

But you didn't stop, and neither did I. The kiss deepened. Became shameless. Unbelievably, someone in the room began to count.

"One... Two... Three..."

Others joined in, as one, they all intoned an almost rhythmic chant as our make-out seared toward some uncertain endpoint we were kissing around without naming.

"Ten! Eleven! Twelve!..."

Our bodies flattened together. Hips digging, questing, subtle but unmistakable. Your mouth seemed cool and fruity from the chilled cocktail you'd been sipping.

"Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty!"

With every new number, the crowd's surprise and excitement grew around us: a hint of caution, a hint of dare.

I don't remember at what number it ended.

It felt like we were coming up for air.

I had never in my life been kissed like that.

I hadn't been aware of you at all that night.

But you came alive to me afterwards in a way that I never forgot.

It felt like there was still more kiss in us, even as you slowly peeled yourself off me and crawled, backwards, back to your spot in the circle across from me. 

My turn. Slow motion. Spin.

I don't remember who it was after you. Maybe someone I had been aware of up to that moment.

I wasn't thinking about them anymore.