In college, my girl friends and I had a tailgating ritual for warm-weather football games: we’d curl our hair, put on our best sundresses and cowboy boots, then walk tailgate-to-tailgate to see who’d let us drink for free.
One night game, we sauntered past a group of townies. It was a nice mix of guys and girls, with ages all over the place. They lured us in with fireball shots and drunk jenga.
After about an hour, we were plastered. One of the younger guys, Trevor, had me on his lap. He was pure country goodness: big, cocky, with huge, rough hands that were all over my body. We were making out hard.
“You taste like cinnamon,” he growled.
“Well you taste like cheap beer.” I giggled. “I wonder what the rest of you tastes like…”
He smacked my ass and gripped it hard. “Want to find out?”
I laughed again. “I’m not gonna blow you right here, baby.” We were in the center of the tailgate, right next to a group playing flip cup.