Virgin.

My very first taste of alcohol was on the floor of the sitting room. I can’t remember what age I was, but my grandmother was still alive. She slipped me the can of guinness from her chair with a sly grin and a wink, and I handed it back with a coy smirk. I despised the taste but was thrilled at having had drunk.

And so it went.

Age fourteen, H-Bo’s parents were away for the evening. Free house. Teenagers. Sobs had a bottle of vodka. It got passed around. I slugged and slugged by the neck until she grabbed the bottle from my clamped lips, spilling a good couple of shots over my face. Shrugging it off, I headed back into the kitchen.
About four minutes later, it hit. One second normal, the next the haze. The swirl. The whirl of it. The fuzz of it. My head in it. Swimming in it. The buzz of it.
Fuck, was I excited. I had figured intoxication crept on slow like a darkening room at dusk, but this flew through the kitchen air, into my ear and right into my skull without warning. It was more like a room suddenly illuminated with a thousand watt bulb than twilight descending.
Was this really it? Yes, this was drunkenness. And, oh how wonderful. I hadn’t felt like this for at least five years. I was a child again. Innocent and wide-eyed, excited, thrilled and full of the gobble-gobble-blabber-de-guck wavy wavy kitchen flying lovely lights “hallo mister I am drunk” haha a child again weeee…. weeee… zum zum zoom!
I flopped on to the sofa and wonkily surveyed my blurry surroundings. It was underwater. The streaked lights pulsated slightly along to the dampened music in the water in my ears, that 40% liquid running through my veins into my head and all around, but the words were crystal. The Bealtes and the Stones.

How does it feel, Mr. Rolling Stone? To be drunk and rolling, rolling home… home…
Home!
I peered up into Stan’s big mother fucker of a face. He probably didn’t ask me how it felt but I told him anyway that I was drunk and it was fucking great-crazy-fucking mad! That I was ever-so-drunk-never so DRUNK! but fuck, man, I had to get home to my father. I had to sober up.
Movies and tv had taught me just the thing. “Slap me Stan! Slap me in the face!” WHAM! “Again, man, again!” WHAM! – Harder that time.
Now, into the kitchen and black coffee to burn the  tongue out of my mouth.
And another cup.

I got back alright – the first of many a teenage night, leaning through the crack of the sitting room door, telling my father I was tired and going straight up to bed. Bleary eyed and red faced, alcohol just beginning to waft through the air.

If he knew, he never did let on – any of those times.

I lay on my bed and sighed deep and happy. Closed my eyes. And probably slept like a baby in nurturing motherly arms.

And so it was. I’d got drunk at last. It had felt good.
Good enough to do it again.