Urban Legend

There is a legend. It goes like this;

There was once a girl who looked a lot like me who met a boy she thought was handsome. After a couple conversations, she realized that this boy, while handsome, wouldn’t be able to hold her interest in a relationship kinda way. But she still liked him. He was funny. They shared a passion for brown liquor and football. And she was still very interested in seeing him outside of a suit (and everything else).

“So, why don’t you just sleep with him and nothing else?” asked a friend she posed her quandary to, who had an accent remarkably like my friend QQ.
“Well, I’ve never done that before,” the girl said, not even sure she could pull it off. “How does that work?”
“However the fuck you want it to.”

And so, after a couple of outings, one in particular to a dive bar that was right up this girl’s alley, more than a handful of whiskey and cokes, and a short make out session in the middle of a dark street pressed up against the side of her car, when he asked “Do you wanna go to your place or mine?” she took a deep breath and answered, “Yours.”

The legend has it she doesn’t remember much. A tornado of clothes. Laughter. Hands gripping her up just the way she liked. Something about a mirror. And multiples.

She woke up, vaguely aware of her surroundings, still a little whiskey wobbly, and sore in that wonderful way around 4 in the morning…

And knew she had to get the fuck outta there immediately.

And so she super-secret-spy-rolled her way outta the bed, landing soundlessly on the carpet as he reached for her in his sleep, ninja-ed back into her clothes, and slipped out the front door into the night. On the way home, she texted her friend at a stoplight;

“Well… I did that shit.”
“MAH NIGGA. How do you feel?”
“Like I just fell down a rabbit hole into a whole new world I didn’t know existed.”
“You been missing out. Welcome, bitch. Wait, how are you texting? Are you in the bathroom or something?”
“No, I’m in my car…?”
“You left?!?!?! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA You’re an asshole. That’s far too advanced for where you’re at.”
“I was never much for minor leagues.”
“You hit the Heisman on his cuddles and went home in the middle of the night?”
“I got my panties off the top of the TV first.”

The girl drove home, smiling and giggling, surprised she’d waited this long to have this kind of arrangement. She continued this way happily for two years, enjoying this periodic convergence of football and fucking, and laughing heartily at everyone who doubted she was able to maintain her trademark warm detachment after twenty-four months of sipping and sleepovers.

“I’ve done it the other way,” she thought, “and this way is FUN.”

And when she was done, her eye caught by someone who could charm both her mind and her chamber of secrets, she moved on without a backwards glance.

But my friends still won’t let me live down that damn super-secret-spy-roll.

Er… I mean her. Her friends won’t.

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