Once, at the behest of his little sister, Dan Humphrey threw a party.
And it was there, at that very party, in his very own apartment (Cedric hidden safely under his bed along with his Moleskine notebooks full of poetry), that he met Serena van der Woodsen. It was, generally, an unforgettable night. Serena was the only person who even approached him to say anything about being there. Even though she just said, "Cool music!" (most definitely not his dad's) and then asked where the bathroom was, it was his party and it was the best he'd ever been to. Not that he was a big partier.
Actually, that night, a lot of people were asking about the bathroom, because there was only the one, and that was where they'd put the keg, right in the bathtub. Everybody in Dan's year came, and people he didn't even know, and everybody got drunk -- or, like Dan, pretended to get drunk -- and the bathroom was in high demand all night for a variety of reasons. Girls went together in clusters, people barged in on others randomly and shouted, "Sorry! Dude. She's totally on the toilet!" Some people locked themselves in, making others bang on the door and yell.
It was fucking crazy. There were people all over the floor, giggling stupidly, drawing on each other with markers, bump-and-grinding with Jenny's dress-making dummy, making out, laughing their asses off at his dad's vinyl collection. Dan, decidedly not drunk, remembered it all very well. Because he spent most of the night watching Serena.
And also because of this... thing. This thing that happened with Blair Waldorf. He can't forget that either. In fact, sometimes, he can't stop thinking about it, especially when he's jacking off. Always fucking jacks off to the memory of it, actually. And he really doesn't even fucking like Blair Waldorf.
That was when Dan chain-smoked all the time -- nervously, coolly, desperately. He felt like it calmed him, separated him from the group somehow, even though pretty much everybody smoked. But they postured and bummed, smoked socially. Dan hoarded packs in his pockets, went through them like candy, just couldn't stop. He was addicted to coffee, too. And ink-well pens. He would've preferred coffee and a pen to the cup of beer he held in his hand all night.
He watched Serena toss back cup after cup. People just kept handing them to her, and she would get louder and louder, gigglier, happier. She glowed. She was wasted and sexy, with her long legs sprawled and her oversized button-up sliding off her shoulders. He kept wanting to go up to her, talk to her, but there was some drinking game going on, and he wasn't included. It was all too much to stand. He finally banished himself from his own party to go have a smoke on his own, to clear his head, to think wistfully of the way she'd complimented his choice in music.
Out in the hallway of his apartment complex, the air was significantly cooler, and it smelled more like an old musty building, more familiar than the overwhelming smell of other people crowding his space. An uncovered light bulb dimly lit the hallway, but it was somehow still dark and harsh when he shut his apartment door behind him. It took him a second to notice her across from him, standing in the very corner of the hall.
Or rather, leaning. Blair Waldorf. He didn't even know her, really. Just by name and reputation. She was a straight-A student at Constance and chairperson of all sorts of meaningless committees and on the honor roll and all that. Still, he thought she was kind of a bitch, or at least she hung around with bitchy girls and wore expensive, bitchy clothes. Right then was wearing stuff his little sister, Jenny, would probably kill for: some kind of slinky, metallic purple dress, way too short, but that was supposedly okay since she was wearing a little pair of gray pleated shorts beneath it. Okay, so maybe it was a top. But it looked like a dress to him. Under the shorts she was wearing a pair of tights, thin but silvery. Her heels, probably also stupidly expensive and in a dark crushed velvet plum color, didn't make her remotely tall.
"Oh," said Dan, "I didn't --"
"Go away," she interrupted, and glared with her little face totally red.
"Uh... it's my place," said Dan. "I live here. This hallway... it's my home away from home."
It was a joke -- kind of a crappy one -- and she obviously didn't get it. She just stared at him as if unable to process his continued presence, then dropped her chin till her dark hair, sort of an elegant mess, covered her face. She had two pearly pins holding back the curls on the other side, so he could still see her flushed profile, delicate nose, dropped lashes. Dan thought, for a second, that she was going to start crying.
"I said, leave me alone," she gritted out instead, cold and clenched.
Never mind, on that crying thing. Ice queens obviously couldn't cry. (Later, Dan would write a short story on this theme, but The New Yorker would reject it.)
Dan lit his cigarette, annoyed, and stood there across from her. It was, after all, his hallway. A plume of smoke blurred and grayed his vision for a moment, but then he saw through it, saw that she was rocking herself back and forth, one hand clutched to the other's arm. She wasn't crying, he didn't think. Maybe she was just really, really drunk. Or on E. Or just crazy.
"Need me to call you a cab or something?" he asked.
"No, I'm waiting for someone," Blair said in a rush, a shut-the-fuck-up jumble.
"Okay," said Dan, huffing. He didn't know why he was even talking to her anyway. It was just that no one else (no one but that unearthly goddess girl) had talked to him all night, even though it was his party. He was the host, giving them endless beer and letting them use his couch for grope sessions and introducing them to The Smiths, even if no one seemed to realize any of that. And he was kind of curious as to whether or not he should feel sorry for her. Maybe her boyfriend had dumped her. He took a drag off his cigarette, then looked at her once again as he exhaled. "It's just," he started, "you seem kind of upset..."
"Will you shut up," she moaned, and yeah, she was kind of slurring. "Yes. Yes, I am upset. I'm upset, okay! Leave me alone, weird kid whose gross rat hole apartment doesn't have any fucking bathrooms!"
"Well, excuse the fuck out of me for caring," said Dan, bewildered. "And we have a bathroom. I bathe. Regularly. In my bathroom."
"Shut up. Shut up!" cried Blair Waldorf, and put her face into the dark corner where she was standing awkwardly. "Just -- stop talking to me," she added against the wall, voice squeaking.
She looked like she was trying to smash herself into that corner, into the darkness of it, out of existence. Dan felt like that pretty much every day. He made himself stare and frown at the wall for a minute. If she didn't want his help, she didn't want his help, fine. But it was so weird, her just standing there in the corner, squirming, muscles heavy and loose with the alcohol but obviously in a throe of misery. Misery, Dan found, was pretty fucking interesting.
"What's wrong?" he asked under his breath, barely audible under the music and laughter filtering, muffled, from his apartment.
"I hate your party," Blair moaned at him, high-pitched.
"It's my party, and you'll cry if you want to," Dan offered, but it went ignored.
"I really -- can't -- I can't --" she stuttered. She pulled her face briefly from the wall and looked at Dan, hardly seeming to actually see him. Her eyes were glazed, kind of vacant, her face dangerously hot-looking, like she was going to pass out.
"Look, I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about," Dan said, and drifted closer to her. Not too close, just a couple of slow steps. He didn't want to be within reach in case she decided that if she told him, she'd have to kill him.
But closing in even that much was all he really needed to instantly see what was wrong, what she was trying to hide, half-smushed into the corner like she was. Her shorts, her tights, were wet. But not all over, just a little, snug and dark at the V of her legs, a bit down her thighs between her knees. She obviously hadn't had a drink spilled on her or something, or she wouldn't be acting like this, hiding like this. Jesus fucking Christ, Blair Waldorf had wet her pants.
Suddenly, Dan felt awful, like his heart bungee jumped down into his guts from his chest, then leapt back up into it, pounding hard like he was frightened at his ribs. He felt embarrassed, and even more embarrassed for her, and immediately looked away. Down the hall. Anywhere but at Blair Waldorf. But Jesus, she'd --
He hazarded another look in her direction, and it was the most perverted thing he'd ever done, and that was including repeat viewings of certain porn flicks and the time (okay, times, it was plural) he'd jerked off in the bathroom at school. He wasn't even thinking about it, really. He just -- he had to see it to believe it, or just... just had to see it. Again.
She was wet, all down between her legs, and she was mortified, miserable, and it was making Dan's guts, his dick, do weird things. Holy fuck, he had no idea what to say, but he was talking anyway, rambling: "Hey. Hey. It's okay. God! Uh, Jenny... Jenny, my little sister -- she's got clothes. I mean, you could borrow --"
Through clenched teeth, Blair got out, "I am not going back in there. I don't --"
"You don't have to. Oh my God, no, you don't have to --"
"I don't want Nate to see me," she squeaked, and finally, she cracked open in front of him, tears spilling down her face, her little body bending at the waist as she tripped into the well within her.
It was bizarre. Unexplainable. Blair wasn't beautiful, not at all sexy and mysterious and golden like Serena, not ethereal and delicious and perfect. But seeing her scrunch up and cry was strange and beautiful. Her shame made his heart tug, Dan had the urge, first, to write a poem about the gentle red of her face and then, second, to reach out and hug her awkwardly. He didn't ever do that first thing, but he did the second, one-armed.
"Ew, no, get off me," Blair sobbed, but her petite hands clung at Dan's hoodie and she put her face in his chest, and Dan dropped his cigarette, half-smoked, to the unfriendly cement floor, and touched her arm uncertainly.
"It's okay," he whispered, which only made her cry harder, but he repeated it anyway, trying his hardest to get her to stop. "It's okay. It's okay. You know what? No one's even gonna remember this party. They're all so drunk. I mean -- I mean, I'm totally drunk too. Just so you know."
"Drunk?" Blair repeated, like she didn't understand. Jesus. Dan's heart was pounding beneath her face. He could smell her like this, up close, under his arm. And she smelled so, like, offensively good, except he usually hated perfume, and he thought he could smell something warm and salty on her, too, just -- God, piss. Fucking piss. Hers. It didn't smell like the slimy stench of alleyways between buildings or public restrooms or any of that. It just smelled like, God, something private. So intensely private, actually, that it kind of freaked him out and turned him on at the same time, like internet porn and disgusting Sharpied graffiti on the bathroom stalls at St. Jude's.
"You can say I spilled my drink on you," he muttered. He didn't know how she wasn't feeling his heartbeat throbbing under his hoodie.
"Why don't you have a bathroom?" she wailed, bouncing on her feet a little.
"Jeez, you -- you still need to go?" Dan asked grimly, knowing she did. "I could ask the guy next door --"
"Don't! Don't," she begged.
"Okay, okay, it's fine! I won't."
"I'm not going to. No guy next door. I swear."
"No one can see, got it?"
"I won't," Dan repeated soothingly, desperate to comfort her, now. She was a strange creature to him, beautiful and ugly at the same time, and under his care. It was his party, after all. "I'm not going to. I won't tell anybody. I'm not gonna let anybody see you, okay?"
He paused, then, as she nodded, all miserably reluctant, into his chest, realizing with a hard thud of his heart that she was totally pressed up against him now. She was probably too drunk to realize she was leaning heavily into him, and apparently not thinking about the fact that her damp little crotch was pressed against his thigh. It was --
It was pretty gross. Right? Some part of him distantly knew it. But the rest of him just felt overheated, confused, horny. This private thing, and he was witnessing it, touching it. He wasn't drunk, but he felt so fucked up, and so close to her, and he wanted... closer, wanted to...
"Hey," he whispered roughly. "Just go."
The sniffling against his chest hitched to a halt. So did Dan's heart.
"What," she said, low and deadly and practically sideways, she was so plastered.
"Just go," repeated Dan. He looked down at her, but she was staring at his chest, staring right through it. Her mascara was a little smudged. She'd gotten a delicate smear of lip gloss on his t-shirt; his heart started thundering again, just seeing it, knowing her lips had touched his chest just like her hips and that little damp spot at her crotch were up against him. He pressed on, words just tumbling out of him like they always did. "Just -- who fucking cares? I don't care. Just... y'know, go, right here, and, I don't know, I'll -- and I'll, I'll stand right here, I'll keep watch... or -- I'll find Jenny, or... I'll give you my hoodie, you can, uh, tie it around your waist..."
He almost expected some kind of remark like "Ugh, that's so tacky," from her, but instead, she inhaled deeply, her chest swelling against his.
"I mean, God, just get it over with, y'know?" Dan murmured, backing her into the corner and pressing her there, pinning her skinny hipbones to the wall with his own. "Do it," he urged her lowly. "No one's out here. No one'll see. No one'll even -- they'll just see me. You're totally hidden. I promise."
He didn't even know whether he expected her to cooperate or not, but she mumbled back, "Okay... okay..."
(Note: Blair Waldorf doesn't remember any of this now, or she sure doesn't fucking seem to, with the way she unabashedly glares at him and treats Jenny like a slave and steps around him with such cool distaste. But then, nobody ever remembers Dan's party, or, you know... Dan. But for that one instant, Lonely Boy's soul twisted and became weirder, dirtier, and more scandalous than anything posted on Gossip Girl to date.)
He felt her do it, go against his leg in this fierce hot blossom that wet through her shorts and tights and through his jeans to touch his leg and crawl down it in a warm trickle. And he should've been seriously grossed out, and offended and all that crap, but it was the hottest thing he'd ever done, ever thought of, ever smelled, even, that mesh of lush perfume and pee, all girlish and sexual. It reminded him of jerking off in the boys' room, but hotter, dirtier, because it was Blair Waldorf, prim and trendy, rich and uptight, and she was peeing right there in front of him, against him -- the nastiest fucking thing, he couldn't have even imagined it up. He'd never been with a girl, ever, never touched one like this, never jammed his leg between someone else's like this. Let alone jammed it there so he could feel her wetting herself, wetting him.
Her hands clutched at him tightly, like she was afraid he was going to step away from her, but that just seemed so stupid, he wasn't going to, not when -- this was actually fucking happening. Dan held her just as tightly, pinned her there, rubbed his thigh against the wet heat of her shorts. Her wet tights were like silk, but slid in a filthy way across her skin, the rough material of his jeans making it rub against her.
"Jesus," he mouthed into her hair, shutting his eyes until his world was black and confined to it -- the feel of her piss bleeding quick through the denim of his jeans, it rushing out of her right against his thigh, it trickling down his skinny calf and catching on his slouched socks -- then jerking them open again to dare to glance down between them. None of it had even hit the floor; between the two them mashed together there in the corner, they'd soaked it all up, or at least, he had... the leg of his jeans was drenched, the faded black denim dark like midnight.
"Oh, God," Blair mumbled, and huffed through her nose briefly.
"Better?" Dan tried to say, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and tried again until Blair heard him. She nodded, then finally looked up at him, eyes big. They were uncertain for a moment, then she abruptly looked kind of sick.
"I gotta go," she blurted, then, and gave him a shove. "I mean, leave. I gotta leave. Right now. I don't even know you. Oh, God. I mean. I'm --"
"Here," said Dan, backing off guiltily and unzipping his hoodie with a quick, noisy jerk. The entire right leg of his jeans felt tellingly, horribly wet; the denim was sticking to him, cooling and dirty, just so fucking unreal. He ripped it off his arms and shoved it in Blair's direction. "Take it."
"That's... great, thanks," she muttered, making a face.
"Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, no problem. Keep it."
She didn't answer him; she was clumsily tying it around her small waist by its too long, too-rough, over-washed sleeves. The bulky black cotton, complete with an Interpol patch he'd sewn on himself on its left pocket, didn't look right on her at all. But somehow, the wet stains on her tights did, and just watching her, Dan was so hard in his jeans, prick massive and aching and awkwardly sitting. He fucking needed to jerk off right then and there. Or at least light up another cigarette. He took a few more wobbly steps backwards, retreating, coming into himself again and trying to cover his hard on with one of his pale, skinny arms, clutching at his own wrist. Blair was frowning and zipping the hoodie around her legs like a makeshift skirt, covering the wet stains on her tights. Mostly.
"You know, I'm -- really drunk," she suddenly said, like it had just occurred to her.
"Uh, yeah. I can tell," said Dan, then shook his head wildly. "I mean. Me too. I'm... so fucking drunk right now, I can't even... Beer... bad."
At that, Blair actually laughed under her breath, like a relieved puff escaped her without her consent, but then she caught herself and swayed on her feet, hand briefly touching the naked brick of the hallway. A little ring glinted on one of her fingers.
She steadied herself, then said, "I'm going now," very decisively.
"Weren't you waiting for someone?" Dan asked.
"No," snapped Blair. "No. She's busy. Why do you ask so many questions? It's weird." She paused and cocked a perfect brow at him. "And why don't you have a bathroom?"
Dan slumped back against the brick wall as she stumbled past him quickly, managing in her heels but still looking too flushed, too drunk. He wondered if she'd be able to operate the elevator on her own.
She didn't look back at him once -- she'd probably rather die, or something, he thought -- but he watched her go. He watched her until she turned the corner and was officially gone, leaving nothing behind except... well. He glanced down at his own leg, jeans sticking to him closely, wet through, then leaned his head back and sighed. Fuck, she'd walked off with his cigarettes and lighter in the pockets of that hoodie, and -- fuck. He was blindsided. Horny as hell. And confused.
"Sooo fucking drunk," he muttered senselessly.
But then, everybody at that party was. Like, no one remembers it, even, except for Dan.