Girl Crazy

by Sacchi Green

  At first she ignored me, too. Who wouldn’t? I was just another mousy-haired chick with big tits, even if I did hide them under my sweatshirt. It wasn’t until she figured out that I was a virgin that Beverly took any interest in me.

  We sat next to each other in Dumb English for months without speaking. Or, rather, I sat with all the other girls in the great solar shadow she cast, imagining male hormones coating the classroom like an unseen, sticky fog. One day the teacher made us partner up to do some stupid worksheet on Romeo and Juliet. I hated Beverly just a little, like every other self-respecting, average-looking girl in the school did, so I was less than enthusiastic. Close as I was to her, I could smell the minty tang of her mouth as she worked her gum. Beverly heaved a sigh, not lifting her gaze from her cell phone, and demanded, “If I’m gonna cut myself, I’d at least wanna get something out of it. What is all this big deal shit about when they never even fucked?”

  For a beat I blinked and said nothing. Then I realized she meant Romeo and Juliet, which I hadn’t actually read, but everyone knows how that one turns out, right?

  “Maybe they weren’t interested,” I said suddenly, surprising myself. Fucking dumb thing to say. I almost never talked at school, let alone to people that looked like Beverly.

  “Not interested? In fucking each other?” Her eye-roll said, How did I get stuck with the stupid girl?

  “Yeah.” I was defensive now. “Maybe they just weren’t interested.”

  Beverly looked hard at me as she slowly folded her arms around those angel tits of hers. I felt myself flush, but I stared back. I might have been a nobody, but I didn’t take shit, either. Plus I bet every dude in that room would have killed to see Beverly in a catfight, hair askew, boobs swinging. She was either going to make a scene, or I was going to burst into flame. Then something shifted and I watched her eyes light up, her face splitting like ripe fruit into a wide grin. She threw back her head and laughed, a real cackle that bounced off the concrete walls of the classroom.

  “Girl, you never got some, huh?” There was honey in her voice. “That’s why you said that shit. You’re a virgin.”

  It was true. Sort of. I was a virgin—in the way that she was thinking, anyway. And I had said that Romeo and Juliet weren’t interested in fucking each other because I wasn’t interested in balling any of the Barneys at our school. Who could blame me? But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let on that Beverly was right.

  “Fuck you.” I said, trying to sound serious. But my feet felt like fish in my shoes. Beverly, the hottest chick in school, is talking to me. Teasing me! I felt a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.

  “Oh, shit. Don’t be like that. It ain’t my fault you’re a virgin! Shit.” I loved the way Beverly put about eight extra syllables in that last word.

  The next moment was one I’d think back on later. Beverly’s flashing eyes ran over me appraisingly. It was as if she said the words aloud before she asked me my name: You’ll do. And from then on, strangely, we were, like, friends.

  Okay, this is the part like in the movies where time passes, but you see it anyway in one long, pukey-puke happy action scene, where the characters do everything successfully and high-five each other a lot, all with an unnaturally peppy pop song in the background. But in my and Beverly’s movie, we’d be doing shit like ditching school to hang out at her apartment, and hitting up old men who liked Beverly’s rack to buy us vodka at the corner store. Then I’d go buy some chips and gum (Beverly never seemed to have any money). We’d get drunk in the stairwell at the Towers, or smoke out if I could score any weed, laughing our asses off and shivering in the fog. Then you’d see us crashing at my dad’s, ’cause he’s never there. We’d be talking in the dark, me sprawled on the bed with the spins and one foot on the ground, hoping she didn’t see.

  Beverly was so spectacularly self-centered, after a while she made you believe that you were missing out if you were not up to the minute on when she last took a crap. Guys wanted to fuck her shitless. Shit, girls wanted to fuck her shitless, but they’d settle for being her. A little of her fairy dust rubbed off on me, and suddenly girls that previously considered me a walking corpse said hello to me in the hall by name. There’s that girl that’s friends with Beverly! Maybe some (okay, all) of Beverly’s appeal stemmed from the fact that she was undeniably the hottest chick any of us had ever seen. And, also undeniably, Beverly was absolutely obsessed with talking about sex.

  Beverly was a veritable pornographic infomercial broadcasting 24/7. Missionary or doggy? Long or thick? Swallow or spit? Beverly had an answer to any erotic quandary, solicited or not, and loads (pardon the pun) of field experience. She talked for hours about who she’d had sex with (lots of hot, rich, well-hung guys back at her old school), how she’d done it (doggy, anal, but not with another girl, that would be skanky), and—who hadn’t done it. Which, as you may’ve guessed, is where I came in.

  Beverly was equally obsessed with the fact that I was, technically, a virgin. The fact that I’d never ridden some dude’s salami was like a meteorite slamming into my face, lodging there, and me walking around school with it like it was no big deal (her analogy). Needless to say, it was a social handicap. Beverly told me she wasn’t sure how long she could continue to be friends with someone so, well, virginal.

  Thus began her quest to get me laid. Beverly was always talking about dudes that she’d been with, but that she’d be cool if I boned, “just to get you started.” She would even march up to some crazy-ass stranger and ask if he wanted to bang me. I’d watch the guy’s face melt in disappointment when I dragged her away (usually they thought she was pimping herself). She just laughed when I told her to shut up, as though my intact cherry were the funniest damn thing in the world.

  “You’re eighteen. You’re the oldest damn virgin I know,” she said so many times I lost count. “Like, by a lot.”

  I didn’t mention that she was almost twenty, and still in high school. I laughed off all of her crazy shit. But after a while I realized I was never worried about my supposed virginity before Beverly; after Beverly, I started to wonder.

  After a couple months of BFF, Beverly didn’t show up at school when we’d planned to actually go to class, and she stopped picking up her cell. I saw her with some skinny-necked chick who was walking close enough to be her shadow. Giraffe Girl and Beverly were falling all over each other laughing the way we used to do. The message was loud and clear and so fucking “Dawson’s Creek” I could’ve puked. I’d been replaced. Or maybe I had just been a stand-in all along. In any case, it sucked, but I made like I didn’t care and went to class.

  Later on I saw Beverly in Dumb English, and I decided to use my interpersonal skills. I walked up to her and asked her why she was being such a bitch.

  “Fuck off,” she said before she pushed past me. “And quit calling me.”

  We only talked to each other one more time, when I sent her a message: Thanks for ditching me, bitch.

  She texted back immediately. Whatever, VIRGIN. The last word was all capitals and extra letters and took up half the screen. Then I wished I’d called her a slut instead.

  Next semester, depending on who you heard it from, Beverly’d gone back to Oakland, or she was on crack, or she fucked the girls’ basketball coach, whatever. The guys still had blue balls, and her legend lived on. I didn’t hear shit from her.

  Until now. The number is Beverly’s, but I don’t know the address.

  Come over. And then an address.

  She expects me to just jump? Fuck that. I don’t write back. But I don’t erase it, and I pretend not to notice that my heart is jangling like a pair of hoochie earrings. Feeling flushed, I get up and open the bedroom window, leaning over the sill to look down at the street below. The rain’s slowed to a steady drip that after a minute plasters the hair to my neck. Ten minutes go by. My nipples curl tight into themselves, making me shiver in my panties and wifebeater. I close my eyes for a minute, filling my lungs deeply with wet air. I wa
nt a beer, just a stupid beer. Beverly would have liquor. She’d tip it back, watching my reaction, laughing with her eyes. But I’m not going over there. Fuck her.

  I breathe out and open my eyes. It’s just homeless dudes down on the street, taco-wrapped in colorless blankets, and Mexican couples herding sleepy children that bump into each other like moths. It’s not her, watching me. I make myself admit that I’d been fantasizing it was her. It’s not the first time.

  Beverly would only call me for a reason, and I have a pretty good idea what it is. I close the window against the cold and stand looking out. After a while I realize I’ve stopped shaking. I’m so sober I feel drunk.

  I leave the apartment fifteen minutes later.

  I’m going to get laid.

  It’s stopped raining when I get off the MUNI, but I walk down the street she gave me a couple of times before I find the building. It’s a mean-looking, concrete block of a thing, the color of skin. I scan the numbers on the stairwells until I find the right one. Beverly is somewhere in there, waiting for me, probably not alone.

  I open the greasy glass door into the hallway to the stench of piss and cigarettes and climb the stairs, glad there’s no one around. After scanning the numbers, I find the door and force myself to knock, loud. No one answers for what seems like an eternity. A flare of relief lights in my chest before it’s extinguished by pride, because what the fuck is she playing if she’s gonna call me all the way over here and not even answer the fucking door? I raise my fist to knock again and jump when the door suddenly thumps open, and two eyes peek out at me from behind the chain. Beverly’s pupils dilate in the hallway light.

  “Oh…you came.” Her voice is blank.

  “Yeah. Yeah, well, it’s fucking cold out here. Are you gonna open the door?” But she’s already closing it to undo the chain; then she cracks it, and I slip past her.

  I look around the living room of the dark, boxlike apartment. I can tell right away it’s not Beverly’s place; no cute shoes on the floor, no makeup case the size of a small dog spewing out on the coffee table. Plus it smells distinctly like dude in here; a funky mix of sweat and testosterone and Top Ramen lingers in the air. I can’t help wondering what Beverly’s up to.

  It’s cold, but I take off my wet sweatshirt anyway, giving her a minute to check me out. Push-up bra under cut-off black T-shirt, big hoop earrings, mascara, all left in a heap on the bathroom floor by my dad’s anorexic girlfriend. I’ve lost weight since Beverly last saw me, but the black pants still hug my ass. I feel like a cross between Miss America and a horny circus clown.

  “Check you out, shit,” she says in that telemarketer voice as her eyes slink over me. I detect a faint hint of approval.

  She walks past me into the kitchen that’s attached to the living room, and I drop onto the couch. Now it’s my turn to check her out. The golden flesh of her love handles muffin-tops over the waistband of her sweatpants. The perfectly formed orbs of her ass jiggle under their personalized message to the world—You Wish—as she pours cheap gin and juice into a huge plastic cup. When she walks back into the living room, I can tell she’s gained weight since the last time I saw her. Most girls would look like shit, but Beverly is a milk-fed cat, all sensuous curves and vacant eyes. She’s never been hotter. I feel a liquid gold gathering in my panties that makes my face go red.

  Curling up on the opposite side of the couch, she takes a long sip of the drink without offering me any. Now she’s all sneaky kitten smiles and giggles.

  “He wants to fuck a virgin.” She lets the words hang there in the dank air of the apartment. She watches my face, no doubt relishing the drama. For a minute, I think I might actually do what I came here to do, which is call her a ho, smack her, something to make her feel bad for ditching me. Then we’ll be friends again, once I fuck whatever guy she’s got holed up in here. It’s time. The oldest virgin she knows.

  “Okay, whatever,” I say, too quickly, and the corners of Beverly’s smile tremble.

  “Oh.” It dawns on me that I’ve made it too easy for her. She’d wanted to have to convince me. “Well, anyway, at least you’re finally gonna get rid of that shit.”

  She makes it sound like a case of crabs. I watch as Beverly grabs a chunk of her hair to examine the split ends, and fakes a yawn. I feel a sudden, hot surge of rage. Beverly doesn’t care that I haven’t seen her for almost a year. All she cares about is her stupid little power games. She hasn’t changed at all. Slap a big fat L on my forehead: had I really come here hoping she wanted to be friends again? Fucking pitiful! I grab the cup from her hand, jostling her and spilling it.

  “Jesus, lay off my shit, will you? God.” I ignore her and chug it, feeling the sweetness and fire hit my stomach like a storm cloud. I suck in my breath and my brain shifts. I’m starting to think smacking that perfect face just won’t do.

  “So where is he? Let’s get this shit going already.” My voice sounds as forced as a radio announcer’s. Beverly doesn’t notice because she’s picking spilled ice out of her luscious cleavage like a mother baboon.

  “He’s in the bedroom. He’s totally into, like, me, but I told him what’s up and he’s gonna help you out because you’re a…”

  “What a guy.” Luckily sarcasm requires higher thought, and thus is lost on Beverly. “But will you, um, come in there with me, just for a minute?” I’m going carefully to get this thing right. “I’m kinda nervous, and you’re, like, so experienced.”

  Beverly smirks, and I know I’ve got her. It’s only a minute until I’m following her down the dark hallway, loving the luscious cleavage of her ass peeking out the top of her sweatpants. It’s hard to act like someone walking the plank. Beverly plays older sister, even goes so far as to tell me to make sure I move my hips so he’ll come faster. It’s a real Marsha and Jan moment.

  My eyes take a minute to adjust in the dim light of the bedroom. Then I see him, sprawled out on the bed in his tightywhities, his junk spilling out the sides. He’s small and wiry and reminds me of a weasel with his pubelike goatee. I can’t help but wonder where Beverly found him. The fact that he’s undressed himself—what an industrious young man—makes me choke down nervous laughter. Cocky bastard. He barely looks me over as he grunts something unintelligible, maybe his name, his eyes already swinging to Beverly’s tits. It’s now or never.

  I put my hand on Beverly’s hip to stop her as she starts toward the door, looking pleased with herself.

  “Hey, let’s have some fun, huh? Like, all three of us?” I blaze a smile and push my face toward hers to nuzzle her neck, not letting myself notice yet the softness there, the hint of salt. The absolutely Beverly smell.

  “Hey, get off, what are you playing at?” She jumps like I’ve bit her, but the dude’s already off the bed with a paw on both our boobs, practically creaming his shorts. She slaps his hand away.

  “Whoa there, killer,” I say to him. “We’ve got all night.” He jams his hard-on into my hip, tries to snake his arm around her wrist and pull us both toward the bed. But I’m ready for him.

  “Hey, why don’t you go get that bottle? We want to get messed up before we, uh, ride that thing.”

  Surprisingly, it works. He blinks at me, mumbles something about fucking the shit out of both of us bitches before he stumbles out the bedroom door. Which I promptly slam and lock behind him.

  Beverly stands with her hands on her hips as I quickly strip off my T-shirt and jeans. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Don’t you want to play, Beverly? You like sex so much, why don’t you fucking have it instead of talking about it all the time?” And I push her, not hard, but she doesn’t expect it and she falls back onto the bed. I fall on top of her. She splutters and squawks.

  “Relax,” I grunt. “This will be the best yet. Believe me.”

  And she should. My cousin’s best friend did, last summer when I was down in L.A. She believed it so much, she’d be pulling at my hair and stifling her screams with a pillow every night after
my cousin fell asleep. And then it was her turn to breathe her hot breath through the fabric of my panties until I was half-crazed, until she took them off and made me come so hard I thought my head would pop off. Three times.

  I tell Beverly this, slowly, and alternate slipping my tongue in her ear and probing the little pink hole with my tongue piercing. I hope she can hear me over the dude’s pounding at the locked door. I ignore the racket, and with her squirming body under mine, I feel all my anger turn into a huge, warm wave of lust that makes me catch my breath. My fingers creep like ghosts to trace slow circles on her nipples through her tank top.

  “I’m gonna kick your ass. Lemme up.” Beverly says thickly, halfheartedly pushing my hands away.

  “Tell me you want to,” I say in her ear, my voice a far-off buzzing that feels separate from me. I clear my throat. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.” My pussy is throbbing like a low-rider subwoofer. Long pause. For a moment I think I’ll have to get up and leave, the whole thing’s bust.

  “Whatever,” Beverly finally says. But her voice is a wilted flower on the side of the freeway. I can practically hear the pussy juice dribbling down her leg.

  I sit up and move into position, straddling her waist. Next, the tank top: I pull it off her and her huge tits burst out like freed hostages. Entirely passive, she flops back down on the bed, stretching her arms above her head for me to catch and pin down against the covers while I rub my face in her breasts, licking and play-biting. My hands move across her stomach and hips, thumb the hard nuts of her nipples.