Tequila Slammers

Before starting college, I worked in a Manor House Hotel called, Redmond Hall. It was a spectacular building. A half mile of private road ran through rolling hills and woods. Ancient trees towered over all who approached, reinforcing the status of those who lived in such splendour. Once it was the seat of a warlord, who butchered and plundered. Now it was a retreat for the rich and famous.

The road circled each side of a cascading tiered lawn before joining again at the entrance. The main building was three stories high, crowned with parapets and a majestic dome. At each end, a two-story annex extended in welcoming embrace. The rear of the building boasted more gardens, and a terrace, perched above a meandering river, 60 steps below. The main door of the hotel did a lot to describe the place; it was perpetually closed. Entry was a privilege, not a right. There were only a small number of bedrooms but they were all palatial. Prices were not displayed or discussed.

The staff quarters were a different story entirely. Mothers nightmares were made of this place. Dozens of hot-blooded teenagers and early twenties all living on top of each other. It was fantastic! Drinking, parties, fights and sex; the four pillars of youth. I’ve loads of stories from this place.

Once, at Christmas, we had a group of rich couples check in for the holidays. They were VIP's, nothing was out of bounds. Before dinner, the champagne was flowing. Toasts were made and the halls rang with high spirited laughter. They dined like kings, finishing the meal with vintage ports and cigars. Later, they settled themselves around the marble fireplace in the library. Even though they all had drinks they asked me to bring them a bottle of Tequila, lemonade, and some tall glasses.

"Squiddie," giggled Mrs Ryan, as I put the bottle in the middle of the table. She grabbed me from behind and pulled me into her lap. Mrs Ryan was a stunning woman, so I was not all that upset, but the fact her husband was sitting right across the table was weird, to say the least.

"You get the first one Squiddie," she cooed into my ear, while splashing tequila into a glass. I was still only seventeen and the warmth of her bosoms was giving me an expanding issue, if you know what I mean.

"I would love one, but the boss will kill me," I said, trying to free myself from her encircling arms.

"It's a tradition," her husband said, shoving the glass closer. "We always get the bar man drunk. Last year, poor Sean got so plastered he went arse over-head, all the way down to the river."

"I can't. I just can't," I pleaded, noticing the owner appear in the doorway. I looked beseechingly in her direction, but all she did was shrug her shoulders.

Mrs Ryan was persuasive but I remained resolute. It was at this point one of the other women at the table decided to lend a hand, in this case literally. Mrs McLaughlin leaned forward laying her fingers high up on my thigh. She was in her late twenties, while her husband was forty-five if he was a day. He was a big name in men's clothing, apparently, and not short of a few quid by the look of the diamond on her finger.

"It's Christmas Squiddie, everyone deserves a little fun. Have one for me," Mrs McLaughlin said. Her long red nails making gentle strokes on the inside of my leg, moving fractionally up each time. This was not helping at all. Soon things were going to get really embarrassing. I looked at the boss again who nodded her head saying, go on.

"Alright so. But just the one,"  

"Wahay," they coursed, and Mr McLaughlin filled the rest of the glasses.

The third couple at the table were Alison Wiseman and her husband Ben. I liked them the best. She was in her thirty's, slim, with a radiant smile. She had long auburn hair that hung in gentle waves on her shoulders.

"Have you ever had a Slammer before Squiddie?" asked Mrs Wiseman from her position on the couch next to Mrs Ryan. As I was currently sitting on Mrs Ryan, she was technically sitting next to me as well. For a moment I was lost in her deep brown eyes. She looked searchingly into mine and the air about my head crackled with electricity. Mrs Wiseman was more intoxicating than any drink. It might have only been a second but to me it seemed much longer. I felt my cheeks go red when I said “No.”

"Here is how you do it," she said, taking a glass from the table. "One measure of Tequila and about the same amount of lemonade. You need a tall glass because it will fizz up. Put a couple of beer mats over the top of the glass and give it a good, sharp, thump, then drink it all down in one go. Just like this." Mrs Wiseman covered her glass with a beer mat and put her hand over the top. She lifted the glass about a foot off the table. SLAM! The glass hit the timber a fair wallop. I thought it was going to smash. Inside, the liquid exploded into a mass of white foam. She downed the lot in one go, throwing her head way back. A little of the foam escaped and ran down the silky skin of her throat. When the glass was empty, she drew the back of her hand across her lips, wiping away the spilled liquid. Her deep brown eyes played across my face intimately, and for longer than was polite, in front of a husband.

"Now you," Mrs Wiseman said, her voice husky with the burn of the Tequila.

Slam went my glass. I chugged down the foaming drink, the bite of Tequila making my eyes water, but I got it all down. My nose tickled from the foam and my stomach burned with the heat of alcohol. That’s when the coughing started, and kept coming, until a little foam came out my nose. They laughed as I half choked. All the time, Mrs Ryan was massaging my back, discretely. Mrs Wiseman put her glass on the table and leaned very close to me, until we were eye to eye, her hands cupped my face, her thumb wiped away the flecks of foam from my lips.

"See," she said, "that wasn't so bad." She kissed me slowly, on the left cheek, the corner of her mouth played across mine, which left me breathless.

"Another, another," chanted Ben Wiseman.

"Nope that's it," I said, finally releasing myself from Mrs Ryan's grasp.

"Not so fast young lad," said Mr McLaughlin. "Once the bottle open, you have to finish it."

"I can't drink a whole bottle of Tequila," I said in dismay.

"Well if you don't then the girls get to take advantage of you," he said.

"Feck off, yea messer. I got to get back or I'll get the sack," I said picking up a few glasses. At last I managed to make my escape.

***

For the rest of that night, the bottle of Tequila stayed on the table. Every time I took a round of drinks over, they made me sit on one of the women and do another slammer. I managed about five before I felt them kicking in with a vengeance. By this time, most of the residents were in bed, and the lights were dimmed all over the hotel. The glow of the fire sent shadows dancing around the room, while Mr Ryan strummed a guitar. I wobbled over to their table with a fresh bottle of champagne. Yet again, they tried to make me have another slammer.

"No way lads," I said. "I can't drink anymore." By now, they were all well drunk themselves.

"Is that your final word on it Squiddie?" said Mr Ryan while he strummed a chord.

"Afraid so," I said, full of alcohol powered confidence.

"He's all yours, girls," Mr Ryan said to the delight of the group. The three women jumped to their feet, surrounding me, rubbing my hair, stroking my shoulders and chest.

"Ha, very funny," I said.

"I don't think they’re joking," said Mr McLaughlin. "You better be able for all three of them, or they will be upset."

The girls started to drag me away towards the door. I decided to play along with the joke, and give the lads a laugh. I made a play of looking over my shoulder and calling back to the men. "See you in an hour or so."

Once out in the hall I stopped walking, but the women had other ideas. I tried planting my feet but they just pulled harder. I was holding my own up to the point Alison Wiseman tripped me. The other two grabbed my legs and pulled me along the hall, into the lady’s toilet. Once inside, Mrs Wiseman sat on my chest, her knees and hands holding my arms to the floor. She was laughing; loving every minute.

"Ah come on now, Mrs Wiseman, enough is enough," I said, half laughing but getting a bit nervous. What exactly was going on? More to the point how much did they think was coming off. Okay, all men might think that having three lovely women drag you into the toilets would be a dream come true. If I was a man, it might well be, but to a teenager, it was majorly unnerving.

"Relax," she said. "It's only a bit of fun." I was still hoping she meant a joke on the boys. As Alison Wiseman's lovely brown, but slightly bloodshot, eyes stared into mine, Mrs Ryan and Mrs McLaughlin stripped my shoes and sox. Mrs Ryan then moved up and kneeled above my head. She took off my bow-tie and began unbuttoning my shirt. With each button she got closer and closer to the area I was having difficulty distracting myself from. No not that area, but Alison's crotch. She had to lift herself off my chest to allow Mrs Ryan's hand move lower, for more buttons.

Seizing the opportunity, I bucked and sent Mrs Wiseman toppling off me. I jumped to my feet and made for the door. They tried to stop me but I had too much of a head start. I pulled open the door and came face to face with the owners fifteen-year-old daughter. She’d been in the kitchen, making a midnight snack, when she heard all the commotion. Finding a shoeless, soxless and nearly shirtless, bar man coming out of the women's loo with three drunken women right behind him could only seem bad. No way was I staying there to explain. I just pushed past saying, "It's not what it looks like."

Everyone had a great laugh at my experience. The men couldn’t care less how far the women had managed to get. When I had a chance to get myself pulled together, I went in search of my shoes and sox, but they were on the missing list. Shoes or no shoes, I had to finish out the shift. For rest of the night I was serving drinks barefoot, but at least they didn't try to make me drink any more slammers, or sleep with anyone's wife.

The next day my shoes were found hanging from the Christmas tree in the lobby. I often wonder what could have happened in that toilet had I only struggled just that little bit less.