Foam and Shame
An SPH Experience by partygrlphi.
I’d grabbed a tall boy from the cooler—some cheap shit that tasted like carbonated regret—and cracked it open on the dance floor. The thing practically erupted. Foam came gushing out the top like a geyser, spilling over my knuckles and dripping onto the floor. In my gloriously drunken state, my brain connected the dots in the stupidest way possible.
I held the can out in front of me, gripped low like a handle, and tilted it toward my face.
“Oh my God, it’s so big!” I announced to no one in particular, letting the foam splatter across my chin and drip down my neck.
A few of my friends nearby caught it immediately. Carly was the first to react—she threw her head back laughing, grabbed Jess’s arm, and pointed. “She’s jerking off the beer!”
That was all the encouragement I needed.
I wrapped my fingers around the can and started stroking it, slow and deliberate, maintaining eye contact with nobody and everybody at the same time. The foam kept coming, and I kept letting it hit my face, mouth open, tongue out, blinking through the suds that splashed across my cheeks. The crowd around me grew. Someone—pretty sure it was Tommy—started a slow clap. Carly was doubled over. Jess had her phone out.
“Come on, get into it!” someone yelled.
So I did. I dropped to my knees on the sticky floor, one hand working the can in a ridiculous parody of a handjob, the other bracing against my thigh. I tilted my head back and poured, letting the beer foam over my lips and cascade down the sides of my face. I was laughing too hard to keep a straight face, but I kept going—stroking, pouring, letting it spill down my chin and onto my chest. My top was getting soaked. I did not care even a little.
“Work it, work it!” Carly screamed over the music.
I pumped the can faster, making these exaggerated moaning sounds that had the whole group in stitches. More people were watching now. Some girl I didn’t know was recording on her phone. I was committed. There was no going back. I was the beer-can blowjob girl of this party, and I had accepted my role with pride.
That’s when I noticed him.
He was standing just off the edge of the dance floor, near the hallway that led to the kitchen. Tall-ish, kind of lanky, with dark hair that flopped over his forehead. He was holding a red Solo cup against his chest like a shield, and he was watching me with this expression I recognized immediately—the look of a guy who was definitely into what he was seeing but was trying really, really hard not to show it.
His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were locked on me. And there was a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
I grinned.
In my drunk brain, this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. This poor guy was standing there getting hot and bothered over a girl simulating a handjob on a Miller Lite, and he looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole but also like he physically could not look away.
I decided to make it worse for him.
I stayed on my knees and started shuffling in his direction, still working the can, still letting foam drip down my face. My friends lost it even harder.
“Oh shit, she’s going after him!” Tommy howled.
I locked eyes with the guy as I got closer. His expression shifted—still that mix of aroused and mortified, but now with an added layer of “oh no, this is happening to me.” He didn’t move. Didn’t walk away. Just stood there like a deer in headlights while a beer-soaked girl on her knees crawled toward him pretending to jerk off a tall boy.
I got right up in front of him. Close enough that my forehead almost touched his thigh. I looked up at him from my knees, still stroking the can, and gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent look.
“You like this?” I asked, loud enough for the people nearby to hear.
His face went red. Like, really red. And that’s when I saw it.
His jeans. Right at the crotch. A tent. Small, but unmistakable. The poor guy was pitching a boner standing in the middle of a party while a drunk girl pretended to give a beer can a handjob in front of him.
And it was… small. Like, noticeably small. The outline of it was pushing against the denim, but it wasn’t pushing very far. It was like the fabric barely had to stretch. I could see the shape of it—short, narrow, barely making an impression even fully hard.
My drunk brain went from “this is funny” to “this is hilarious” in about half a second.
I held the beer can up next to his crotch. The comparison was devastating. The tall boy was longer, thicker, and frankly more impressive in every dimension. And the foam still bubbling out of the top? That was bigger than what he was working with too.
“Oh. Oh,” I said, loud enough that Carly and Jess could hear. “Oh, honey.”
He made a sound—something between a gulp and a whimper. His eyes went wide. He knew I saw. He knew I knew.
I pushed my hand against his crotch—not grabbing, just pressing the back of my hand against the little tent like I was swatting it aside. It barely registered against my knuckles. I pushed it to the side and it just… shifted. There wasn’t much to resist.
“Move over, little guy,” I said, and I don’t know if I meant him or his dick. Maybe both.
Then I went crazy on the can. I held it right in front of his crotch, stroking it fast and hard, tilting it so the beer foamed out in massive waves. I opened my mouth and let it pour in, but mostly I let it spill—splashing down my chin, my neck, soaking through my shirt. I was practically gargling with the stuff. Foam was running down my face in rivers. I was making a complete and absolute mess of myself, and I was doing it all while holding this beer can like it was the most magnificent cock I’d ever seen—right in front of this guy’s barely-there boner.
“God, this is such a big one,” I moaned, pumping the can, letting foam splatter across my cheeks. “So thick. So long. I can barely get my hand around it.”
The contrast was the whole joke, and everyone around me got it. Carly was wheezing. Jess had tears streaming down her face. Tommy was slapping his own knee. A small crowd had formed, and people were losing their minds.
The guy just stood there. Frozen. His face was the color of a tomato. His little tent was still there—somehow even more pronounced now, like his body was betraying him in the worst possible way. He couldn’t look away from me. He couldn’t walk away. He was stuck in place while I made a spectacle of myself and, by extension, a spectacle of him.
I leaned in close, my beer-soaked face inches from his crotch, and looked up at him with the can pressed against my lips.
“Sorry,” I whispered, but I was grinning. “This is just so much more fun.”
Then I tilted the can back and chugged what was left—foam and all—letting it overflow and pour down my chin and onto his shoes. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, still on my knees, still looking up at him.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.
I stood up, wobbling slightly, and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re cute,” I said. Then I glanced down at his crotch one more time, then back up at his face, and gave him a little shrug. “You know, proportionally.”
Carly screamed.
I turned and walked back to my friends, leaving him standing there in a puddle of spilled beer with a hard-on the size of a AA battery and a memory that would haunt him for the rest of his natural life.
Jess threw her arm around my shoulders. “What the fuck was that?”
I looked back over my shoulder. He was still standing there. Still frozen. Still red. Still tented.
I shrugged again and took a bow.
“That,” I said, “was public service.”
—
I think about it sometimes—usually at two in the morning when I’m trying to sleep and my brain decides to replay every questionable decision I’ve ever made. I wonder if he thinks about it too. I wonder if he was at that party with friends who saw the whole thing. I wonder if someone later said, “Hey, remember that girl who gave a beer can a blowjob and then roasted your dick in front of thirty people?”
I hope so. I hope it keeps him up at night.
I hope he never looks at a tall boy the same way again.
The End.
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