Drinking whisky from the naked bodies of strangers…

A tale of hard spirits and soft body parts.

Lottie Coltman
Aug 22, 2017 · 9 min read

Valentine’s Day: a time for petrol station flowers, knock-off Michael Kors bags and heartfelt Instagram captions of “the boy done good” (which, FYI, we all know roughly translates to “you’ve earned anal”).

I mock, but I too have had my fair share of “romantic” Hallmark holidays. Yet, I have always felt that the traditional Valentine’s day wasn’t for me — probably because I’m normally left competing with drunken City Boys at the Boots fragrance counter or, when I can’t even be bothered to do that, making homemade sex coupons in the hope that an on-demand blow job will do the trick*.

*FYI — generally, it does.

So when Valentine’s Day rolled around and I found myself single, I saw it as an opportunity to do exactly what I wanted. And what I wanted was to lick whisky from the naked bodies of strangers.

Judge away, but let’s face it, most people end February 14th by consuming liquids from other people’s bodies — at least mine wouldn’t need a screening to be deemed fit for human consumption.

Still, being a somewhat “alternative” way to spend the day, I figured it would be an activity I would be partaking in alone. Well, not completely alone… the naked strangers would be there too, of course. But, luckily for me, Valentine’s Day has a funny effect on people — predominantly a desperate and all-encompassing urge not to spend the evening alone, furiously wanking. And so finding a willing victim was much easier than I had expected.

Valentine’s Day has a funny effect on people — predominantly a desperate and all-encompassing urge not to spend the evening alone, furiously wanking.

The event, which I should probably mention was a whisky tasting and not just an orgy with hosts too cheap to buy glasses, kicked-off in the best possible way — that is to say, with an open bar. And so we set about consuming lukewarm Sauvignon Blanc at the same speed with which you would gobble up antibiotics after a questionable one night stand. It was just getting to the stage when someone was going to lose their phone, keys, or dignity, when we were handed a bag….

I was hoping it would be full of sexy goodies, but unless dinner lady has overtaken sexy nurse as the bedroom fantasy of choice, I don’t think that was the intention — seeing as all it contained was a flimsy paper apron and a hairnet. Had this been a real date, I would have been concerned about the effect these items might have on my chances of getting laid, but luckily my friend was gay and so my having a vagina was enough to turn him off completely.

Bellies full of booze and hygiene paraphernalia on, we were lead into a dark, candle-lit room — the sort that of place that conjures up images of soft porn and human sacrifices (not together, of course — that would be weird). Thankfully, rather than slicing us into pieces or asking us to 69, they handed us our first whisky — which we would drink from a glass, just as non-perverts would do at a normal tasting.

Thankfully, rather than slicing us into pieces or asking us to 69, they handed us our first whisky.

But there was no ignoring the elephant in the room (perhaps the wrong turn of phrase considering that the elephant was actually an attractive and svelte young woman). She stood in the corner, wearing an ominously flat bathrobe and eyeing us all with what seemed to be both suspicion and slight arousal.

While I tried to concentrate on reigniting my fading alcoholic buzz with the whisky in hand, the host, a smart-looking man in his forties, explained what was to come (handy, considering I booked at the first notion of strangers genitalia and failed to do any other proper research) and why we were doing it.

The premise, basically, was that we would be drinking five rare whiskies from around the world. Once, as we were doing now, from a traditional glass. The second time, however, we would sip, suck and slurp the liquid from the various orifices of a naked person. BUT only after listening to them deliver a short performance piece about their lives. I felt like I’d been duped. Like when you’re offered a freebie on the street but actually you have to listen to 10 minutes of marketing spiel before then being forced to fill in a questionnaire. I came here for naked kinky things and not, you know… culture.

While I looked for an exit, he continued. Apparently each person had been selected, in part, because they were the same age as the whisky we were consuming. But, before your imaginations get carried away, the youngest whisky (and hence the youngest person) was twenty-five. No twelve-year old malts or sexual misdemeanors with minors here, thank you very much.

This was meant to encourage us to really ponder the amount of time these liquids had taken to develop, so that we would view them as he probably did — substances with as much depth and complexity as a human life. Rather than just something to throw up after a KFC.

Now, while my knowledge on the finer notes of whisky may be lacking, I am an expert when it comes to alternative events, and, in every “quirky” thing I go to, there is a moment where the magnitude / general fucked-upness of what is about to happen hits the crowd — a fight or flight moment, where the temptation is to fuck off down the pub where the drinks are served as God intended (that is, in grubby pint glasses that you’ll try to steal once you’re pissed).

And this was it — there was no more wine reception or health and safety prep to keep us from our fate. I could see the fear in the eyes of those around me, hear the awkward shuffle of their feet — a building panic which hit fever pitch when she, the aforementioned sexy elephant, stepped forward and let her robe fall to the ground…

I tried not to make eye contract. Or eye to nipple contract. Or worse, eye to vag contact. Basically I tried not to look, ok?! And I wasn’t the only one. People are awkward at the best of times — stick us in a room with a naked stranger, who we are collectively expected to put our mouths on, and that awkwardness reaches levels normally only achieved when a parent catches you masturbating.

But, you may argue, that is literally why we were there — so what was the big deal? I have a theory. It was all a matter of ratio. You see, normally, when there is nudity in life, it appears in a proportional way — by yourself, one on one, or, if you are a nudist or a swinger, in groups where everyone is as butt naked as one another. Even in a strip club there is more than one girl and a strict hands/mouth-off rule to mitigate the cringiness of it all. But, in these circumstances, the balance was off — it was like a scene from Planet Earth, with thirty (albeit nervous) hyenas about to launch on a wildebeest.*

*Honestly, she was hot — I don’t why I keep referring to her as various forms of obese animal.

None of this was helped by the fact that we then formed an orderly queue. I don’t know about you but whenever something has been consumed off my body (not that it ever has… please stop reading mum…) then there hasn’t been a queue to do it. It has happened naturally and with one person. Not under the watchful eye of thirty strangers. Because, you know, I am a person and not a bloody ATM machine (if I could produce money from my vagina, however, that would be quite the talent).

Now, generally us Brits are pretty good at queuing; in fact, it’s kind of our thing. But I am no fool (says the person who paid fifty quid to be in this situation): I could see the issue that lay stealthily ahead of us… you see we weren’t going to get to choose where we drank the whisky from (for reasons that are probably pretty self explanatory — there is always going to be some pervert wanting to stick straws in places they shouldn’t be).

That in itself was not an issue for me — what was more of a concern was that it meant all of us would be drinking from the same select location. Thirty sets of germy mouths all suckling at the same spot. And I’d be fucked if I was going to be at the end. I know people say you can water whisky down but I didn’t intent to do it with the saliva of others. And so, I elbowed myself to the front with all of the determination of a pensioner trying to get at the yellow sticker selection in Tesco.

I know people say you can water whisky down but I didn’t intent to do it with the saliva of others.

Of course the organisers, in their infinite wisdom, had preempted this issue. And so, as I stood at the front of the crowd looking like a sex starved animal, they informed us that the area (in this case the bellybutton) was to be disinfected between each tasting. This meant two things — firstly, that it would probably be the only time that I would ingest a liquid from somebody without the risk of infection and, secondly, that I had just volunteered myself like a human sacrifice for no bloody reason.

Since there was no turning back, I stepped forward gingerly…

But, positioned above her naked body, I realised I didn’t know the correct etiquette in this quite-unique situation. Do I make small talk? Introduce myself? Comment on the weather? I settled for an awkward hello. And then I bent over and licked the warm murky liquid from her (thankfully fluff-free) belly button — a task made a lot easier by the fact it was an inny.

Perhaps I am only used to licking people in a purely sexual manner (I mean can you blame me, I can’t think of any other reason to lick someone) because something told me I did it a bit too sensually. That something being a combination of giggling and trembling underneath my still-lingering tongue. Now, you imagine, would be a good time to run away and avoid giving the impression that her bellybutton wasn’t the only thing I wanted to lick. And you’d be right.

But, in the creepy sacrificial half-light, I could see the unmistakeable glint of remaining whisky — a lake of golden liquor stored neatly in the crevice of her stomach. The cheapskate in me did some quick math — 50 quid a ticket, ten shots of whisky in total. That meant there was approximately £2.50 worth of booze still sitting there. I could, of course, write it off, walk away and, ultimately, avoid looking even more like a sex-fiend than I already did. Or, I could get my bloody money’s worth.

I chose the latter, tenderly and tentatively going in for another, more furtive, lick — all the while applying a little gentle suction to increase my chance of success. Again, her body reacted to my touch. Perhaps, even more so than before. My mouth remained positioned above her, hot alcoholic breath tracing invisible lines upon shaking skin. I gave a quick sideways glance and sure enough, in the darkness, our eyes made uncertain contact…

I looked back down to reassess the situation. With only about 20p’s worth of whisky remaining, and the risk of it turning into an orgy increasing by the second, I decided my work was done.

And so I thanked her for her bellybutton’s time (although if her trembling was anything to go by, it should’ve been her thanking me), and beat a hasty retreat into the safety of the herd. From there I watched with satisfaction as the others took their turns, sure that she wasn’t giving them quite the same reaction as she had me.

I, however, was already thinking of the next room, my next drink and my next willing victim…

Just your standard Valentine’s Day celebration…

)

Lottie Coltman

Written by

I write stuff I hope my mum won’t read.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade