A/N: This is a new project I'm starting to celebrate my eighteenth birthday, which is sort of today. And it's kind of how I feel about it.

If you don't read the website Texts From Last Night, you definitely should. Unless of course, you want to live in ignorance of the general American teenage living. The plot line for this thing was inspired by that website.

. . .

Wasted.

by QueenofPascalities

. . .

"Jesus, what the-... Aw, come on. Don't be a bitch..."

Those are the glorious drunk words I just whispered to the zipper of my dress while trying to stay balanced on the stilts I'm wearing for shoes. Just by those words, anyone can tell I'm a lady at the epitome of class and good behaviour.

Right?

And it's even more evident by the spectacle that my head offers, with smudged makeup, a pallid, almost vacant expression, dishevelled hair and deep dark circles under my eyes. Plus, there's the fact that I'm completely shitfaced at my college's Winter Formal, and trying to take my dress off in a public bathroom because it feels too tight around my torso and makes it sort of hard to breathe, and heck, I feel like it.

Do I need to mention I'm not wearing any underwear?

As it is my second Winter Formal in this school, I feel like I have a right to go commando, especially today, where there is absolutely no chance of me getting my period, which I think is brilliant timing on the teachers' and administration's part. Earlier this evening, I even saw a guy I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up riding by the end of the night, so it's all good. He's all tall and dark and older-looking. Probably a guest, or an old student. I don't really care, because after tonight I'm officially on Christmas holiday and I won't be seeing anyone from school for a loooong time.

"ARGH!"

Still, that goddamn zipper? Can't pull it down. It's probably stuck to a piece of thread that I can reach, at least without falling on my ass, and even then, it's not guaranteed I'll get it. Falling from that high would mean having huge bruises on my butt, and very possibly knocking my head on the floor, cracking my skull open and bleeding to death because no one drinks enough to go to the bathroom on Winter Formals.

It's worth a shot.

I reach as far as I can up my back to catch my zipper again, then fold my other arm over my shoulder to get the hem of my dress. I fumble for the loose thread and lean backwards to get a better grip. I can feel the muscles in my legs straining to keep me on my feet. The position is really uncomfortable, but all I can focus on is getting that zipper down.

When I can finally feel the thread under my fingertips, I grab it and give a forceful tug, effectively unblocking the zipper and throwing myself off balance. I crash on the floor with a yell and a loud thud. Fortunately, I don't hit my head. The last thing I need is a concussion and a run at the hospital, which would definitely make it impossible to erase any evidence of what is transpiring tonight.

Sleeping away from home is fine, because I can call my parents and tell them I'm crashing at a friend's house. But sleeping at a place where they will call my parents to tell them I got wasted and cracked my head open is not the best way to end the night. I'd much rather sleep in a trash bin. That's the good thing about the "Don't ask, don't tell" relationship I have with my parents. Plus, I'm not being entirely irresponsible. I almost always find a place to stay for the night (guys can't resist drunk girls who don't cry, don't puke and are willing to put out) and I've been doing this only since I was eighteen, which is the age of majority in my country, so, really, there's no underage drinking, no child abuse, and I make sure never to get arrested.

Okay, so I turned eighteen two months ago. I'm still considered an adult. And my ex-boyfriend (that douche) was my age, so any foreplay we did, it was legal then too. We never got around to actual sex and (probably because of that) he broke up with me a week before my birthday. I moped for five days, hit everything in sight for the remaining two, and as soon as I turned eighteen, I went to a club, got drunk and ended up spread-eagled on some random dude's backseat.

Majority is truly the best thing that's ever happened to me. The most awesome part is, I'm not even doing it to make my ex jealous. I just really, really enjoy not being tied down to anyone. Well, right now, anyway. I'll probably change my mind someday, but it's not going to happen soon. No way, José.

I kick my pumps off, freeing my aching feet, and awkwardly pull myself up by gripping the sink counter, still lacking a lot of balance. Once I'm steady, I reach behind my back again and successfully pull my zipper down. My dress falls to the ground, pooling around my ankles, and I take a deep breath.

Man, this feels good.

The light, fresh breeze of the A/C on my skin and in my no longer constricted lungs, the feel of my long hair, that I just untied, brushing against the small of my back and over my breasts. The pressure in my chest now gone, I feel liberated, light as a feather, and an urge to twirl around like a little girl swarms over me.

I reach over to my purse and pull out my iPod and a bottle of vodka. I turn the little music device on, put it on shuffle, not even bothering to read what the title of the first song is, pull the earplugs out and put it back down on the counter, transferring my attention to the bottle of clear liquid in my hand. I twist the cap off and take a long swig.

It tastes terrible and burns my throat, but the rest of my body feels all warm and fuzzy and that's pretty much all that counts now. I proceed on dancing and twirling to the music, my brain too mushy to process what the song is. The bathroom walls and stall doors are all a messy grey and blue blur, and every time I catch a glimpse of someone in one of the mirrors, I stop dancing, panicked, and then it takes me three or four seconds to realise it's only me, after which I resume my unbalanced dancing.

Every once in a while, I sing along (read: shout out the lyrics off key and probably off beat, too), stopping to hydrate my parched throat with more alcohol (like that's going to help) and then picking up again, until I get distracted by needing to keep my balance or seeing my very scary reflection.

"I LOVE YOU BABY, AND IF IT'S QUITE ALRIGHT, I NEED YOU BABY, TO WARM THE LONELY NIGHTS, I LOVE YOU BABYYY... TRUST IN ME WHEN I SAAAAAAAAAY~..."

BANG.

"GAH!"

I stop dead in my tracks, tripping over my feet in the process and finally landing on my butt, the shock resonating through my elbows that smacked against the floor. It takes my brain a few minutes to register what just happened. When my vision finally becomes clearer, I see someone (a guy. A guy.) on the floor, a few feet away from me, holding himself up on his hands and knees, his face turned towards the ground. My eyes mimic saucers and my heart misses a beat.

Still in slow mode, I realise that he must have just crashed through the door, possibly as drunk as I am, and maybe, just maybe, he hasn't seen me yet. Unfortunately, my body feels too heavy for me to want to drag myself up on my feet, let alone put my dress back on. The only genius thing I find to do in my lazy state is to clamp my thighs shut and cross my knees, so that he does get a panoramic view up my... well, you know.

Before my still-wide eyes, the guy slowly raises his head and finally lays his eyes on me. As his eyes widen, my heart skips another beat and sinks to my stomach.

It's the dude. I mean, the dude.

The one I very openly flirted with half an hour ago. The one I have every intention of having sex with once I leave this place. Or not. Leaving's optional. But the situation seems to have taken a unfavourable turn for that plan (because no way am I having sex on a public bathroom floor, no matter how drunk I am) and he looks like he's going back on his possible decision of bringing me back to his place.

He swallows slowly, his wide eyes roaming over my body, and that's when my brain decides to leave my head and take a look at the situation from an outsider's point of you. We're both on a bathroom floor, staring each other down like scared animals, he's wearing a tux and I'm naked. If it was a picture, and you cut around each of us on Photoshop, then superimposed us, we would be in a very compromising position.

I find it much more arousing than it probably should be.

"Shit," he lets out in a breath, and scrambles to his feet.

I watch him wobble awkwardly out the door, and as soon as it closes behind him, I hurl myself at my dress. If I can put it back on quickly enough to catch him before he leaves, I might have a chance to explain why he just found me stark naked in a school bathroom. I yank the piece of clothing up past my hips and over my boobs, and try my best bring the zipper back up without catching any of my hair in it. Fortunately, it doesn't put up any resistance.

As I fumble for the clasp, the door crashes open again. Still on my knees, I look up, hoping it's my dude that just came back, by some miracle, and I find myself disappointed. It's a couple, two people from my class whose names I'm too drunk to recall. The girl has her legs up around the guy's waist, her skirt up to her hips, and he makes clumsy efforts to direct them into a bathroom stall without running her into a wall under her incessant attempts to swallow his gums.

I stay frozen until I hear the door click, then snap the clasp of my dress, gather my shoes and other belongings, and run out the door. I look around as I stuff my iPod and vodka bottle in my purse, looking for my guy, who is nowhere in sight. He probably went home, no doubt disappointed in me. I let my shoulders slump. Time to go home and drink some more. This is not how I wanted to finish the evening.

I haven't taken two steps towards the school's atrium that the men's bathroom door is abruptly swung open, revealing my dude, cellphone in hand, seemingly texting someone. He notices me and stops with a start (ha! That's a funny thought), dropping his phone in the process. We both bent down to retrieve it, and before he snatches it away, I have enough time to read the words "naked", "bathroom" and "jack off". I'm too gone to be offended that he's texting about me (and that he jacked off because of me) and instead I smirk at him. He sends me what I guess is an apologetic smile and I giggle, hopefully making him understand I don't mind.

Right when he opens his mouth to talk to me, loud moans start coming from the women's bathroom. I glance towards the door, then back at my dude. He seems every bit as shocked as me . I just giggle more.

"I'm Sasuke," he says, his voice rather steady for a drunk guy.

"Sakura," I reply, a bit sloppier with my pronunciation. He seems to understand nonetheless and addresses me a small smile, more smug than sorry this time, and shakes my head. Man, he's pretty. I mean handsome. Whatever. I'd tap that. Many, many times.

"Are you free tonight, Sakura?" He asks, and I know I have to be witty now, if I want to end up in his bed.

"Well," I pause for a split second, to gather my idea. "I thought I had a long night of naked dancing ahead of me, but it seems someone has stolen my spot."

There. That's intelligent enough, right?

"I'm sure you'll find enough space at my house to do that," he replies with a chuckle.

"You should show me your house, then." SCORE.

"Sure. Come on."

He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I can't help but giggle (IN MY HEAD) in glee.

. . .

Oh. My. God.

He lives in a mansion, in which he has his own private wing. Do you realise how much space that gives me to dance naked? And in how many rooms we can go at it like rabbits without being interrupted?

SQUEE.

. . .

A/N: I'm weird. And way too romantic. This should be more hardcore.

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