I stuffed a bladder of boxed wine against my sweaty cock and balls. Gutter-priced rosé procured from a dented-can grocery store. Even with the air pressed out it bulged in the crotch like a fat man’s jeans. With this I stepped in line to see security for a one-day fest on the waterfront. Across the river rose downtown. Past the gates came crowds and music. The din of a good day’s promise.
I thought of all the times I’d done this. Swilled booze on a budget behind ticketed walls. No $10 beers for me. There was the time I hid a can of wine in each shoe. Another where I lobbed a Four Loko over the fence then retrieved it once inside. The hours spent prepping water bottles. Boiling them to slide off their tops with seals intact. Filling these with vodka or schnapps. Pressing the cap back on. This trick performed at Bonnaroo, at Outside Lands, at fests long forgotten in cities dotted across the map. I had a high success rate which is how I found myself with a half-gallon of swill pressed against my dick.
Now with each step in dust and dirt I felt the bladder shift, worried it might shoot out my shorts like pink placenta. I walked stiff and slow, the tendrils of wine sucked down en route shooting through me. Bright sun baked this booze even deeper to my brain. At security I emptied pockets, opened my bag, and raised my arms. Clean as a whistle. They scanned my ticket then waved me through.
I stepped to a porta with piss and tp laden floors. The bowl sat full of ejected material. The heat of day made it stink of boiled catfish fried in fetid dung. An artist I liked was on stage. In minutes I’d make camp and dance. For now I slid the bladder out my boxers. Put lips to nozzle. Squeezed pinkened-piss wine to throat. It blasted down smooth. The reek and grease of crotch cut against hastened notes of fermentation. I fisted another hit then tucked the bladder to my bag, no need to store it once more against sweaty cock and balls.
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