But Bunny. She'd had, in short succession, a Screaming Orgasm, a Panty Dropper, and enough of a French Kiss to be legally binding. It had been hot, watching her down those drinks like she meant business. It had also been hot, on a deeper level, watching her inhibitions (and if he was being honest, some of her wits) fade away as the neon alcohol flooded into her system. But now, as with all bar experiences, they had to pay the tab.

The two of them glanced around the bar. People were still carrying on, drinking and dancing. The Redheaded Slut was in the corner still, working the zipper of one man's acid-washed jeans and being a distraction Wesley actively had to work to ignore. But they could both sense the peoples' collective attention starting to drift their way, as if he and Bunny were having an increasingly audible argument and they all wanted to eavesdrop. And he sensed that the more they garnered attention, the more displeased the narrative would become. The more displeased the narrative became, the less power they would have.

He glanced down at his modest but defined muscles. At Bunny's rapidly swelling curves. They couldn't give up their power. Not now. He had to do something.

He put a controlling hand on her alcohol-flushed face. The contrast of his tanned white fingers on her light brown cheeks made something twitch alive inside of his black briefs. "Let's settle up, babe."

And then, at last, he leaned down to kiss her.

He'd planned to game out how to make this work in the narrative later. They were flirting, but later they would theoretically be able to get into a disagreement because one of them would be able to say that this kiss didn't count and the other would take offense. Or, if they were setting themselves up for a triangle with Missy, this would be fair payback after he'd made out with her last night in order to start his own personal Hero's Journey. It left them with a lot of potential options moving forward.

But he would be lying if he said he was actually thinking about that. What he was thinking about was the feeling of lightning coursing through his whole body, charged wherever Bunny's fingers roamed across it. He was closing his eyes, shutting out every detail of the bar around them and giving himself over only to the warmth and softness of her lips and the needful probing of her tongue.

He returned the tongue, savoring the phantom flavor of her drinks that lingered on her palate. They were sweet and fruity and sharp and they mingled with the scent of girl that filled his nostrils. It was that scent that drove his heart to race, his breaths to sharpen, his manhood to turn to steel. Her large, soft breasts pressed up against his muscles, her pointed nipples grazing alluringly against his skin.

He wanted to take her right there. He knew she would let him. He knew no one in the bar would care at all if he bent her over the barstool she was sitting on, exposing her tight and exotic snatch so he could unknot himself after she'd got him so twisted up. She would love the feeling of his hand on her back, shoving her down against the flat wooden surface to keep her steady so he could go as deep as he wanted for as long as either of them could hang on. And he was starting to paw at her hips, starting to naturally thrust his own against her body as their tongues continued to intertwine in the bridge formed by their locked lips.

And then he was back in the moment. No. He couldn't take Emily here. He wanted to. And he knew she wanted it. But to just fuck her with raw, primal abandon? That was the kind of thing that the guys native to this movie did. And he was still Wesley, just like she was still Emily.

They separated, a thin tendril of saliva stretching between the two of them. They stared straight into each other's eyes with excitement and unfulfilled desire, while all around them everyone in the bar had started cheering and holding up their drinks in salute.

One of the server girls, a Joan Jett type with black teased-out hair, tattooed arms, and a black one-piece with a plunging navel neckline, clanked a large empty beer glass on the counter. "That's one down! Two to go!"

Emily had changed out of her swim trunks before she had entered the bar.  She just happened to have a spare in her purse for some reason and of course it was designed to be daring and alluring, every detail carefully crafted to highlight her body with an effortless sensuality. She wore a white crop top, the fabric thin enough to cling to her curves without hiding much of anything beneath. The top had a low, scooped neckline, dipping dangerously to reveal the gentle swell of her cleavage, and the hem cut just above her midriff, leaving her stomach bare and showing off her toned amber skin that seemed to glow under the bar’s lights. The crop top was snug, fitted to show off her frame, and every move she made seemed to make it shift slightly, adding to the tension, as though one wrong step might reveal even more.

Her shorts were equally mesmerizing—ultra-short, denim cutoffs that hugged her hips and sat low, skimming her thighs and leaving little to the imagination. The frayed edges of the shorts brushed against her upper thighs, accentuating the smooth lines of her legs and drawing the eye with every step she took. The shorts were just tight enough to highlight the curve of her backside, fitted perfectly to make her look long-legged and effortlessly sultry. The waistband sat so low on her hips that it left a sliver of her black lace panties peeking out, a small, tantalizing glimpse that hinted at something more daring beneath.

With a slow, measured exhale, Emily let her fingers drift down to the low-slung waistband of her denim cutoffs, where the frayed edges teased at her upper thighs. Her gaze never left Wesley’s, and as her fingertips hooked into the fabric, her lips parted slightly, a breathless invitation and challenge all at once. She began to slide the shorts down, the worn denim gliding over her hips, catching momentarily on the curve before slipping lower, inch by inch, revealing more and more of her toned, honey-toned skin.

Around them, the bar quieted, the hum of conversation dimming as people noticed, their gazes drawn to her. The air felt charged with anticipation, a shared tension building as eyes flicked between her and Wesley, their collective attention magnetic, inescapable. The denim slid further, exposing the tops of her thighs, the slightest edge of her black lace panties now visible—a delicate hint that made her heartbeat race, daring her, urging her to let go of any remaining inhibitions.

Wesley’s expression shifted as he watched, the playful light in his eyes giving way to something deeper, more intent. A slow smile curved his lips, one that held a promise she could feel resonating through her, his hand resting on the small of her back, grounding her while also urging her forward.

Finally, with one last, deliberate tug, the denim slipped past her thighs, falling to the floor. She stood there in her black lace panties, feeling the cool air brush against her exposed skin, every inch of her alive and aware. The delicate lace hugged her hips, its intricate patterns following the soft lines of her thighs, tapering into a slender ribbon at her waist. A tiny satin bow rested just above her hips, a sweet detail on a garment that felt both daring and powerful. The lace itself, sheer and barely-there, clung to her curves like a second skin, the fine fabric catching the neon glow from the bar’s lights, casting her skin in a warm, exotic glow.

She let her fingers trace the line of her thigh, feeling the warmth of her own skin under her touch, acknowledging the allure she had, the effect she had on those around her. Her dark, silken hair framed her face as she shifted slightly, the lace of her panties moving with her, accentuating her curves, as it slid down down her legs before coming free. 

Emily quickly put back on her short shorts and then she hesitated, a coy smile playing at the corners of her lips as she reached down to pick up her discarded panties from where they lay at her feet. Her fingers traced the soft lace almost absently, feeling the delicate fabric between her fingertips, the gentle weight of it in her hands. She glanced up at Wesley, her gaze bright and daring, as a new idea took root.

With a slow, teasing movement, she lifted the panties to her hair, gathering her long, silken black locks together. She wrapped the lace around her hair, twisting it into a loose, casual ponytail. The delicate black lace contrasted against the dark gloss of her hair, the bow at the front of the panties settling just above the nape of her neck.

Her smile grew as she adjusted it, the lace barely holding her hair back in a way that was both playful and undeniably bold. She tilted her head, catching Wesley's eye with a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation, as if daring him to react.

"So… what do you think, Blaine?" she murmured, her voice low, husky, and laced with a laughter she could barely contain. "It’s just… practical, right?" She shot him a flirtatious smile, tugging lightly on the makeshift ponytail, her cheeks flushed with a mix of mischief and exhilaration.

At that exact moment, the waiter slid up to the table where Emily and Wesley were sitting, a bright orange cocktail in his hand that practically sparkled under the neon lights. He offered it to Emily with a grin, his voice smooth and cheerful. “Here you go, sweetheart. It’s on the house.”

Emily gave a quick squeak.  She was already feeling SUPER tipsy and who knows what that drink would do?   “Um… I don’t really need another one,” she replied, her voice already a bit slurred.

“Oh, come on,” the waiter pressed with a smile, sliding it closer. “Special just for you. We call it the … Exposition Dump.”

She shot Wesley a look, she wasn’t so drunk that she couldn’t recognize a bright neon sign flashing in red two inches from her face.  Deciding to play along she shrugged, reaching for the glass. “Well… if it’s free,” she mumbled, lifting it to her lips. The drink was tangy, a burst of tropical flavors that hit her tongue with a rush of sweetness, then left her with a warm buzz that spread down to her fingertips.

Before she even set the glass down, words started tumbling out, as if the cocktail itself had loosened her mind. “Wesley, okay, so… hear me out,” she began, her eyes bright, her speech rushing forward. “I’ve been thinking about… well, everything. I mean, like, how we’re here, and it’s all, you know, perfect 80s beach town—like we’re stuck in some kinda wild movie that just won’t quit.” She laughed, then shook her head, her thoughts spilling out faster than she could keep up.

“I mean, all the scenes, right? Like, this… this whole surf contest thing with Rad? And how everything we do gets us closer to… to something, like, some… I dunno, plot twist or climax or whatever they call it.” She waved her hands as if to illustrate, her movements loose and a little too enthusiastic causing her oh so tight crop top to jiggle in all the right ways.  

Wesley tried to interject, but Emily was on a roll, her voice bubbling with a mixture of excitement and bafflement. “And the girls! Did you notice how they’re, like, all the same? Tan, blonde, just super… you know, beach babes.  But have you, like, noticed I’m the only… Asian girl here?"

She laughed softly, almost as if the observation was some kind of inside joke she was just now understanding. “I mean, this whole, like, beach town? It’s packed with totally hot people, but… no other Asians. Just… me.” She poked a finger at her chest as though she were making a big revelation, her eyes wide and slightly glassy as she held onto the idea.

“I dunno, isn’t that, like… kind of wrong? Like, all these movies from back then,” she rambled, gesturing vaguely around her, “they didn’t have good… um, rep-re-sent-a-tion, right? Of, like, minorities and stuff.” She shook her head, though the thought didn’t seem to bother her too much in her tipsy state. “I’m the only one here! Which means…” Her eyes widened, a gleam of excitement breaking through her tipsy rambling. “That means… maybe I’m, like, super important?”

She giggled again, her fingers tracing idle circles on the bar as she continued, her thoughts drifting somewhere between serious contemplation and drunken curiosity. “Maybe they need me here, right? ‘Cause, like… I make it, um… diverse. And that makes me… special?” Her voice grew softer, as if this realization was something she hadn’t quite acknowledged until now, but one that felt suddenly significant.

Her lips curled into a mischievous smile as she turned her gaze up at Wesley. “I wonder… do you think they’re gonna, like, use my… Asian-ness?” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if she were sharing some great secret. “I mean, all these movies always have these, like, super-exotic characters, right? Maybe they’ll give me, like, some mysterious, seductive storyline, where I’m, like, the temptress, or… or the one everyone’s, like, fascinated with ‘cause I’m different.” She grinned, the idea clearly amusing her.

“Or maybe…” she continued, her voice growing even softer, almost dreamlike, “maybe they’ll make me the one who, like, teaches everyone else about, you know… new things. ‘Cause, like, I’m exotic, right? So maybe I’m supposed to be… the one everyone’s secretly obsessed with.” She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the lace panties tied in her hair swaying with the movement.

She sighed, a dreamy smile on her lips as she leaned against Wesley, her gaze growing unfocused as she looked out over the bar, lost in her own tipsy musings. “It’s kind of funny… that I’m the only one, but… it also makes me feel… kinda… special. Like I’m… valuable to the plot, or… something.” She trailed off, her words slurring as she nestled her head against his shoulder, her hand absently tracing little patterns on his arm.

“And Wesley…” she began, her voice slurred but affectionate. She reached out and poked his chest with one delicate finger, as if reminding him—and herself—of who he really was. “Or should I say… Blaine,” she added with a laugh, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous name.

She paused, considering her words. “But… you’re not really ‘Blaine,’ right? I mean, we know that, right?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, conspiratorial and soft. “You’re Wesley. You’re not this… this ‘Blaine’ guy,” she continued, shaking her head as if the thought itself was too funny to take seriously.

“Like, ‘Blaine’ is the guy who would…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely, searching for words and finding only the laughter drunken bubbliness coming up within her. “He’d just, like… waltz up to a girl and act all… possessive, like he owns her.” She laughed again, rolling her eyes, though there was a warmth in her tone, a glimmer of something appreciative.

She sighed, her gaze softening as she looked up at him. “But Wesley… that’s different. You’re… you’re you. Right?” She put her hand on his chest and tilted her head, a shy, almost vulnerable smile tugging at her lips as she studied him, as though trying to ground herself in the reality she knew they shared.  For a moment, her hand lingered against his chest, her touch light but meaningful, as if trying to hold onto the real Wesley beneath all the neon lights and beachy bravado. 

“Blaine,” she began, her voice rising slightly as she tried to keep her balance, leaning against the Wesley for support. “I mean Wesley.  This… this whole panty dropping thing. It’s… like, totally sexist, you know? Like, the idea that just ‘cause I ordered some, um… some dumb cocktail, I’m supposed to… just go along with this… this…” she searched for the word, her brow furrowing in thought. “Like, game or whatever. Just ‘cause some sign said so. It’s, like… totally wrong…”

She trailed off, realizing she was still pressed up close to him, the warmth of his body feeling comforting, almost grounding her. Her protests felt shaky, especially with how he was looking down at her with that infuriatingly confident smile, his hand resting easily on her lower back, grounding her in this wild world that had her spinning, just a little.

“I mean… who does that?” she continued, though her voice had softened, a trace of laughter threading through it. “Some guy just tells a girl to drop her panties, and—poof—she’s supposed to just, like… do it?” She laughed, almost incredulous, though her tone was less certain, her resolve slipping under the warm glow of her own words. “It’s just… it’s crazy, right?”

But as the words left her lips, she felt an odd thrill creep over her, her cheeks warming further as she recalled the thrill of letting the shorts fall, of feeling the cool air on her skin, of watching Blaine’s—no, Wesley’s—eyes darken with admiration. It was bold, it was daring, and the truth was… it had been kind of fun.

“I mean…” she hesitated, looking away, then back up at him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe it’s kinda crazy, but… maybe that’s what makes it fun, right? Maybe… just once, it’s kind of exciting to, you know… let go. Not worry so much about what people are thinking, or whether it’s, like… proper.”

She giggled again, her cheeks flushing as she let herself sink into the honesty, into the newness of it all. “I bet, if I’d ever actually done this back in the real world, even once, it’d have been…” She hesitated, biting her lip, her eyes flicking back up to meet his. “I dunno. Maybe a little thrilling. To be that… that bold.” Her voice dropped, softer now, barely a whisper. “Kind of like I feel now.”

Emily shook her head, setting the empty glass down with a force that sent a little shiver down the bar. Her cheeks were flushed, her thoughts spiraling faster and faster as she spoke. “What am I saying?  The words that come out my mouth when I’m drunk … Wesley… I don’t know if you feel it, but it’s like this… pull, this insane pull trying to, like, rewrite me. Every time I give in even a little—like, the way I dress, the way I talk—it’s like the story gets stronger. And then I just feel this… tug, you know? Like it wants me to just lean in and let go and be, I dunno, some bubbly little bimbo or something.”

She glanced up at him, a worried glint in her eyes. “And you too, Wes. I mean, look at you!” Her gaze flicked over his toned arms and square jaw, the easy confidence he’d started to show in every stride. “It’s like every time you… I dunno, assert yourself, act like a big, muscly dude who doesn’t think too hard… the narrative rewards you. Makes you more of that guy, gives you more power over what happens next.”

Emily paused, her voice lowering, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to lose who I am, Wes. I don’t want to wake up one day and just… be some kind of, like, airheaded fantasy version of myself. I want to stay me. But at the same time… I feel like we have to play along. I mean, if we don’t, we’re just… trapped, with no way to change anything, no control.”

She took a shaky breath, as if steadying herself. “So… I think we have to find this, like, balance, right? We can’t totally give in and lose ourselves to this… world, to what it wants us to be. But if we push against it too hard, we might lose any power to escape, any chance to… save the beach, or whatever our role is here.”

Her fingers drifted to the lace around her ponytail, her lips quirking with a small, ironic smile. “It’s like we’re standing on a tightrope, and if we go too far in either direction, we just… fall. But maybe… maybe if we walk the line, if we’re smart about it… we can find a way.

“Whoa,” she murmured, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. “Guess that drink was, like… really something.”

—

Wesley had thought his hands were firmly on the wheel, at least as firmly as they had been planted on Bunny's tanned little ass cheeks. But as soon as the orange Exposition Dump had disappeared down her throat, the mood in the air had changed. Not for the worse; if anything, hearing her talk so much was kind of nice. Like, yeah, it was annoying that he had to sit there and listen for so long. But if she felt listened to, she was more likely to give him a good blowie later, right?

Whoa, he thought as the uncouth notion crossed his mind. That was an absolutely fucked-up thing for him to have thought. The level of entitlement it implied about her body, to say nothing of the idea that she was only worth listening to as a way of making her more sexually permissive...that was some grade-A knuckledragging, the kind that Wesley knew he was better than. It took some really messed-up, backwards thinking to look at an independent girl like Bunny and immediately imagine her kneeling subserviently before him, neon lights shimmering through her silky black hair as she bobbed her head up and down on the glistening white shaft he so generously gave her the privilege of–

stop it stop it stop it

Despite the plethora of distractions, he managed to make himself focus. As she talked about being the only Asian girl in town, he particularly felt that resonate with his more socially conscious, twenty-first century mindset. And when the conversation steered naturally towards what roles they were meant to play, how the story would develop because of that, he felt more and more of his old self surfacing. It wasn't like they were two different people--the reality castaway Wesley and the 80's beach bum that for the sake of simplicity he guessed he could think of as Blaine. But if he was currently maintaining a grip on his own consciousness, it was as if he'd just shifted that grip from his right hand to his left.

"First of all," he said at last, "wow."

They both laughed. He hadn't had anything to drink, not like Emily had, but her enthusiasm was infectious. It was impossible not to match her energy; her very presence was an invitation and a challenge.

"Second of all," he went on, "I think you've got the right read on it. If we're not careful, this place will absolutely warp us. Instead of people like Rad and Missy being the resident beach bullies, it'll be you and me. Just two sun-bronzed hotties who don't do anything all day except strut around in swimwear and assert their dominance over everyone, just because they can." He'd meant the suggestion as a joke, but to his own surprise he felt himself growing a little aroused by the idea. He quickly pivoted. "And obviously, we don't want to become that."

He shifted his weight on his barstool, widening his stance. Automatically, without even thinking about it, he gently pulled on Emily. With almost no coaxing at all, she crossed the gap, abandoning her own stool in favor of his lap. She felt pleasingly small and light on top of him, his arms easily enveloping her slender-yet-generous curves.

"I wasn't a loser or anything back home, but I was definitely not the first guy you'd pick for baseball," he said. He felt like he knew that much about himself, though at this exact moment further details seemed hazy. "So it's kind of scary, almost, how when I'm here I can just demand something and then it gets done. I feel this confidence to do something, take something, and then I just...make it happen. And then the narrative makes me stronger, more able to do it again. And I'm not just talking about the muscles, though those are really nice..." He flashed her a winning grin. When he saw her hand sitting idly in her own lap, he casually grabbed her wrist and planted his hand on his hairless muscular chest. He liked it when she was touching him.

"I could see how that would get addictive. I could so easily jump off the slippery slope, and then the next thing I know I'll have transformed into the exact thing I was only pretending to be. And that is...scary." Or at least, he felt like he should say it was scary. Objectively speaking, he should have been scared of the idea. In reality, it was a little hard to muster up fear about the idea of becoming more athletic, more assertive, more handsome, with a libido that wouldn't quit, living in a tropical paradise surrounded by total 10/10 babes with impossible tits and stripperiffic wardrobes.

But he was sure the existential dread would sink in soon enough if he just thought about it more.

"So I'm gonna need you to trust me," he said assertively, running a possessive hand through her soft, straight black ponytail. The panties holding it back were tantalizingly soft to his touch. "I'm not gonna, like, get addicted to this world, and I'm not gonna let you, either. You're my girl, Emily. I don't let things like that happen to my girl." He was at least dimly aware of the irony of using his utterly maleconfidence to make this proclamation. But it had to be true, right? After all, he'd said it was. And now as the man, it was his job to make it so.

"And no matter how hot you get, even if the narrative transforms you into a jaw-dropping stunner that will make all the other girls here die of jealousy," he promised her, "you'll still be you. The exact you that you need to be so we can get out of here. Back to our normal lives."

"All of that said," he noted wryly, "we do still have one issue."

She smiled lazily up at him. Her almond-shaped eyes were glazed over with alcohol--not unintelligent, but with a curious sheen of emptiness behind them that he found absolutely thrilling. "What's that?"

Wesley jerked his head towards the sign: If you drink it, you have to fulfill it. No exceptions. He patted her head: friendly, flirty, and a little condescendingly. "Your liberated, independent ass still drank a Screaming Orgasm."

–

Emily gave Wesley one last look, her cheeks flushed as she took a few hesitant steps away. “Just… don’t peek, okay? This is… kinda private.”

Wesley raised his hand, trying to keep a straight face. “Bunny… Em doll, come on. I promise.” But as soon as she turned her back, he found himself craning his neck to keep an eye on her anyway, curiosity getting the better of him. Emily could practically feel his eyes on her, and she knew that promise would last about five seconds.

Finding a semi-private corner, Emily took a deep breath, trying to tune out the bar’s noise and focus on herself. She closed her eyes, feeling a gentle warmth creeping over her, building slowly as she let herself relax. She put her hands down her short shorts and was just starting to lose herself in the moment, when—

“Ho! Hot coffee!” a waiter yelled, nearly spilling a tray of steaming mugs right in front of Wesley, who stumbled backward in surprise, completely blocking his view of her.

Weley groaned, maneuvering around the waiter as he tried to catch another glimpse. “You’ve got to be kidding…”

But by the time he cleared the coffee fiasco, Emily had shifted slightly, her eyes closed, face flushed as she leaned into her own space. Wesley tried not to let the distraction ruin the moment. He edged around a neon-lit arcade machine that had “HEART-THROB” blinking in pink letters at the top, leaning over it to get a glimpse. But just as he found an angle, a disco ball dropped from the ceiling, spinning directly into his line of sight, throwing fragmented beams of light across the room and into his eyes.

“Who even installs a disco ball over a bar table?” he muttered, shielding his eyes.