Bitch, I Love You

"Ugh! I just need to get railed," Heather said. She was lying on my bed. Her biochem textbook was open, but it was splayed pages down across her stomach.

"And then you'll understand glycerol bonds?" I kicked the floor and let the swivel chair spin me around. The momentum carried me too far. I waited patiently for the second turn to complete. I'd also had about enough of hydrocarbons.

Heather stared at my dorm room ceiling. She'd been doing a lot of that for the past half hour. "If I couldn't walk, there'd be nothing to do but study for Miss Jensin's stupid midterm." She sounded downright wistful.

"There's a Chi Rho party tonight," I suggested.

She just groaned. "No. I don't want it to suck," she said.

"I kinda like Chi Rho." They had this elevated dance floor right next to a bunch of pong tables. Total frat vibes. But it was easy to bounce between drinking and dancing, which worked well for me.

"No, not the party. The sex. Hookup sex always sucks."

"This is college, dude. All the sex sucks."

"I know," Heather whined.

I chewed the problem over. It was more stimulating than carbon valences. "We could hit the bars. Try out some townies," I suggested. Marry Halance had put some miles on a farm boy sophomore year. She'd ended it when he started angling for something more, but it had hurt her to break his aw-shucks heart, so he must have been doing something right.

"We?" asked Heather. "You're in on this too?"

"Yeah, duh." I waved at the pile of discarded clothes in the corner of my room. An inside-out bra and mismatched panties sat right on top. "Does it look like I'm getting any?"

We both regarded my shameful pile. Not for the first time, I wondered what might be gestating under there. Maybe Miss Jensin could do her next lecture on that.

"I don't think it's a frat guy problem," Heather mused. "It's a first time problem. Think about it. Any decent guy is going to pussyfoot around until he figures out what you like. He'd be a total sociopath otherwise."

"In which case the sex will be fire, but then you've got a stalker."

"Yeah. Or worse."

I discarded my bio book. It hit the floor flush, making a satisfying thump. "What if we wore signs? They could say, 'Just so you know, I'm a total hoe,' or something."

"Mine would say, 'Don't be a bitch, hit one'," said Heather.

"If it worked, we could get tattoos."

"Tramp stamps?"

"Naturally."

Heather was quiet.

"Are you thinking what font you'd pick?" I asked.

"It wouldn't work," she said. "He'd think I wanted him to choke me or something."

"I thought you liked that?"

"No. Like, really choke me. Have you ever? It's fucking scary."

I threw my pen at Heather. "Stop fantasizing on my bed, hoe."

"College guys are mellons. You have to be so god damn specific every step of the way. It's fucking exhausting."

"I pretty much stopped trying," I admitted. "It's like, I'm trying to get leveled here, not direct my own porno."

"Right?"

"Fuck, dude. Who gets bored of hooking up? We really are hoes."

"You know what would actually work?" Heather said. She rolled onto her front to look at me. The pages of her book crinkled angrily, but she ignored them. "You and I, we like the same shit. You could give him pointers! Like on a voice call."

I crossed my arms. "That sounds fun for one of us."

The pen came flying back at me. "Fine, bitch. Video. You can watch."

"Now it's a threesome, with extra steps and I have to make myself cum."

"It's my first time with him, so you'd have to do it yourself anyway-- if you were there, I mean," Heather said.

"Fuck. Hoeing is a lot of work."

This time it was Heather who broke the contemplative silence. "You know. I'd probably be okay with it."

"Okay with what?" I asked.

"You being there."

"Like, a threesome?"

It turned out that deciding to have a threesome was the easiest step in planning one.

Heather slid her binder over to me. It was flipped to a mostly blank page, just a penciled line down the middle. It was a very straight line. Heather was tucking a pink half-ruler back into the pocket of the binder.

"Mr. Rider, will you present first, please?" Professor Cole said.

A mousey guy in an oversized hoodie popped up from one of the middle rows. He walked up to the front of the class and fumbled a flash drive into the computer.

Heather wrote 'Mickey' on the paper. She worried her pencil eraser against her bottom lip a few times before writing '3' on the other side of the penciled line.

"The fuck is this?" I whispered.

"We're rating them. You know, one to ten."

I wrinkled my nose. Bouncy blond curls, sporty yet curvy, and expensively dressed, Heather had always been one of the pretty girls. At least, that's the impression I'd built since rooming with her freshman year. I did like Heather. She was probably my best friend at school. But sometimes the privilege showed. "Dude. This is some real high school bimbo shit," I said.

"Don't be like that. This will help us find our ideal hookup."

"Well it's not going to be Mickey."

"Duh." Heather circled the '3' for emphasis. "Look, with this system we can find the guy we both agree is the hottest, who's also in our range."

She pushed her pencil at me.

I couldn't help myself. I put a '5' on Mickey's line. "What? He's kinda cute. Pretty sure he showers. And it's not like we're going to settle for five."

Heather considered and then, with some gravitas, revised her '3' to a '4'. Then she wrote 'Mel' on a new line. That's my name. Short for Melly, which is short for Melanie, both of which make me want to puke. Though I tolerate Melly in special circumstances. Notably, my mom and Heather.

"No way. You first." I gave the pencil back.

'Heather' and '7' appeared on the line below my name.

I put an '8' next to mine.

"Bitch," hissed Heather.

"What? I'd give you an 8 too."

"Aww." She updated her official ranking to reflect.

It was fun, in a mean girls kind of way, ranking our classmates as they stepped up to present. The guys, at least. Heather wouldn't let me add the girls to our list. Except for Sophie Burnheart, who I gave a '15' and some little hearts. Heather let that one slide because she knew it was accurate. Though she did hiss, "You're such a lesbo."

"Don't say it like that."

"What do you want me to say? Gayyy?" Heather drew out the word into a nasally parody.

"You don't have to say anything, I can just be bi," I said, feeling that maybe whispered conversation in the back of mammalian anatomy class wasn't the ideal venue for this convo. Fortunately, Kyle Rook was about to present. So I didn't have to come up with my own distraction.

Kyle, who everyone just called Rook, was captain of the wrestling team, as a junior. I gathered he wasn't even that amazing a wrestler—though he sure looked like he would be. But the way the other guys looked to him for direction, and how easily he gave it, with authority, but not in a dickish way. Yum.

After some deliberation, which involved a lot of pencil grabbing, Kyle ended up with a '9.5'.

"Damn," said Heather.

"He's dating Aligasha, anyway. But, like, we could totally pull a nine-point-five," I was getting into the grade school rating system.

Heather considered our two '8's on the page, pencil poised to cross them out.

"Dude. Think about it," I said. "As a package we could have literally anyone on campus."

I could see the possibilities starting to take shape behind Heather's emerald eyes. She put a little heart next to Kyle's name.

"Girlfriend," I reminded her.

"You know I'm cool with you liking girls," Heather said. We were walking between classes, lugging our bags down the barely maintained asphalt path. There weren't that many people around. And it wasn't like I really cared who knew. Still, it seemed like the kinda thing she should have lowered her voice for.

"Oh yeah?" I said, a little more icily than I'd intended. "Because you sure keep bringing it up."

"Woah, back off bitch. You don't think it's super fucking relevant?"

I side eyed her. She glared at me. We weren't fighting. Not yet. But she was ready to spark up if I rose to the bait.

Some girls, or just people for that matter, would be put off by Heather's scrappiness. But by now I knew it was mostly insecurity. I rolled my eyes at her. "You're actually super into this aren't you?"

"No shit. I've been thinking about it all day." She flapped her skirt dramatically. "I should have worn a pad. Have you not? Are you fucking welching on me?"

"Woah, easy dude. I'm a sop show too." It was true. "It's just, kinda crazy, you know."

"Right?" Heather agreed, finally softening.

"Also, I don't—" I picked through words carefully, "I don't see what you get out of it?"

"What? Because I'm not into you?"

"Fuck you too. Girls in general, I mean."

Heather rubbed her temples like she was explaining something to the slow kid for the tenth time. "Okay, it's like, you and I, we want the same shit. But we don't want it from each other. Or, at least I don't. No offense."

"Over it," I said, attempting to make it true.

"So, like, if we nail a guy together, we can be each other's advocates. Then we know we're gonna get what we want."

"I don't see why you need me for that. Why not just use your fucking words?" In actuality, I did understand the difference. But I wanted to hear Heather say it, to be sure we were on the same page.

"Ugh. I do that. But it's like you said earlier. It makes me feel like a director. I don't want to be in charge. It's better when you feel— I dunno what to call it," she trailed off.

"Out of control?" I suggested.

"Exactly." Heather shouldered into me. "See, you're my perfect bitch for this."

Heather and I had developed a tell-all policy about our escapades. Swapping hoe stories was a cornerstone of our friendship, that's why she was so confident we'd be on the same wavelength. But this would be, something more. "I get it dude. But, it doesn't bother you that we'll be naked. Together?" I asked. Not just naked. Fucking. Hearing each other's sounds. Smells too. It made me shiver.

"I know you think I'm hot. It doesn't bother me." Heather sashayed her hips, mid-thigh skirt threatening to catch the wind. "Just don't, like, catch feelings. You know what a cunt I am."

"You know I don't actually fuck girls, right? I just think they're pretty."

"Bitch, you think I'm stupid? Kimmy Pale, Sigma Chi, hellooo?"

"We just made out," I insisted. It's not the same."

"You said she finger blasted you."

Those were not the words I'd used. "Yeah, and that's it. Under my pants. Glad to see you take notes, though."

"And you came."

"So?" I knew Heather was winding me up. But I was trapped.

"That's not just making out. You hooked up."

Distracted, I stumbled on a pothole. What kind of walking path has potholes? Heather cackled and skipped ahead, leaving me to try and suppress my blush before I caught up.

"Hey, I've been wondering," Heather said once I had. "Did ya, you know, return the favor?"

I'd gotten my blush mostly under control. But that was a lost cause now.

Heather peered at me. "Oooh. Is it juicy? Spill, bitch!"

I could see her gossip girl mind working behind those green eyes.

"It's not what you're thinking," It said.

"She didn't pee in your mouth to the Gorillaz soundtrack? Lame."

"What, no?! How would you even pee to a soundtrack?"

"Stop dodging."

I couldn't look at Heather. I knew how her mind worked. She was going to hate this.

"Actually, after she did me, that was kinda it."

"Oh my god," said Heather. It was exactly the way she'd said it when we learned the quiet kid had hung himself in the showers.

"Hey! Hoes don't judge."

"Jeez, ice fucking cold. Now I'm definitely not going to be your girlfriend."

"Bitch, you wish."

The path ended at the science building parking lot. We navigated across it without any more conversation, focused instead on not getting flattened by the late commuters screeching in.

When we were almost at the door, Heather said, "You know I don't actually want-"

"Yeah," I said quickly. "You were just being a bitch."

"Cool."

We beeped our ID cards. The door shut heavily behind us and we took the hallway to class in silence. Awkward silence. Ugh, we were going to stew in this all lecture. You couldn't talk in the back of Professor Snider's class. He was a hard ass.

Through the lecture hall doors, I could see him racking papers. Class was about to start. My opportunity to break the weirdness was closing.

As we squeezed into the hall, alongside the other last minute arrivals, Heather leaned in. "Hey, what do you think about a professor?" she whispered.

Heather and I talked about normal shit on the way back to my dorm. We weren't even ignoring the threesome topic on purpose. An hour and a half of biochem was just that major of a turn off. It had totally slapped my reset button. My panties were still damp. But now it was in that chill uncomfortable way that makes you walk funny.

"Saw that." I caught Heather slipping out of her own underwear when she thought I wasn't looking. She jammed them hurriedly into her bag, but I still clocked their expansive dark staining. "Throw them on the pile if you want. I'll wash them with my stuff." I waved at my growing mound of underthings.

Heather eyed me suspiciously "You're gonna sniff them."

"Dude, seriously?"

She pulled them back out of her bag and finger flicked them onto the pile. They landed gusset out. Messy. We both studiously ignored them.

Heather sat on my bed. That's where she always sat. Me in my desk chair, her on my bed. I was about to complain—because, you know, no undies—but then she crossed her legs. Suddenly she looked small and vulnerable. Not a look I was used to on her. I let it slide.

"I don't think a professor will work," I said.

Heather looked up at me. A little brightness came back into her. Her blind, almost gold, curls looked a little bouncier. "Because all the hot ones are married?"

"Well maybe," I said. "But you said you wanted us to be like, directors for each other, right?"

Heather nodded.

"Professors are smart," I said.

"Not all of them."

"The ones I'd want to fuck are."

Heather bobbled her head, she was getting it. "They'll have their own ideas. We'll end up doing what they want, not what we want."

"Right. We're trending the wrong way. I think we should go dumber, not smarter." I stopped to consider my friend sitting on the bed. She kept trying to flatten her skirt along her thigs. With her legs crossed, it rode up pretty far. "Assuming you're still in?"

Heather gave me a look like I'd just slapped her. "Of course I'm still in." She gave up on the skirt. Sighed. "I'm just wishing I'd kept my underwear on."

"So put them back on."

We both looked at her discarded underwear. They sat there, almost proudly. They weren't just damp. They were—and I use this word knowing it's terribly unsexy—slimy. We quickly looked away.

"I could take mine off too," I offered.

"Holly fuck, Mel. How about, I dunno, offering me a fresh pair? Do you think you're gonna get lucky or something?"

I couldn't help it, I winked at her.

"Gross," Heather said. She eyed my underwear drawer. My dorm room was small. The little dresser was closer to me and my swivel chair than it was to her.

I didn't move.

Heather sighed. She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm being such a spaz about this."

"It's okay." I opened the drawer, picked out a pair of blue cotton panties, nothing special, but not threadbare, and tossed them to her. Pointedly, I swiveled away while she put them on.

"Thanks," she said, letting me know I could turn back around.

"We should probably talk about this, huh?" I said.

Heather flopped back onto my bed. Her skirt flew up and settled more around her waist than her thighs. My panties peeked out. Now that she had underwear on, it didn't seem to bother her anymore. "Probably," she agreed. But she didn't add anything more useful.

I figured I knew roughly what had my friend so flustered. And she had just offered me a rare and elusive Heather apology...

"You know," I said, "I wasn't thinking we were going to, um—" This was silly. Heather and I were usually so frank recounting our sexploits, and now I was resorting to euphemisms. "I wasn't thinking that we'd be hooking up during it." I felt a little twinge of regret closing the door on the possibility. A slutty, consequences be damned, part of me definitely had wanted it. But rationally, I'd known it was just a fantasy.

"Right. Okay then. Good," Heather said quickly. She did seem relieved. But I was left feeling that I'd missed something.

"Sooo, we need hot, but dumb," I said, by way of getting the conversation anywhere else. I felt like I should be checking, again, if Heather still wanted to play this game. But she didn't seem to like it when I did that.

"Well, not dumb. Easy going. Like he'll be happy just to be there."

I grimaced. "I'm done taking virginities."

"Ew, no. Not what I meant. No drama."

"Yeah, we'll supply that." I gave Heather a cautious grin.

"It's the hoe way," she agreed. "Hey, can you pull up the class roster? I might have an idea." She slid off my bed and came over to me. Soon, she was leaning over my shoulder, weighty curls bouncing against my back, pointing at headshots on the screen. Just like normal.

Davin Greymill wasn't dumb. Nobody at school was truly dumb. Not in the way some kids had been when I was growing up, where you wondered how they even got themselves dressed in the mornings.

But Davin was, uncomplicated. He wrestled. Probably on a full scholarship, judging by my one group project experience with him, where I'd had to do practically all the work. And as far as Heather and I could tell, there wasn't much to him besides the wrestling. You got the sense that he woke up early, hit the gym twice daily, and practiced hard, not so much because he was driven, but because that's what his coach told him to do. Maybe we were being unfair. But that was the vibe.

Davin was also, super hot. He had that soft muscle. The kind where you missed it at first, until you sat next to him in class, and his t-shirt pulled tight when he reached into his bag, and then, bam! You realize he's fucking sculpted.

"He's got a bit of a baby face," I said.

Heather ignored me. "I bet he shaves, everywhere."

"You're thinking of swimmers. Swimmers shave everything."

"Wrestlers do too. And swimmers don't have to shave their junk. Rupert was a swimmer, remember?" Heather did not invoke Rupert with fondness. They'd dated for a good portion of freshmen year, before she'd properly embraced the hoe life with me. Every once and a while we'd run into him, and he'd make snide, slut shamey, comments. But it was mostly just funny now. We knew what we were about. And he didn't seem the crazy murdering ex type. We hoped.

"Why would wrestlers have to shave their junk if swimmers don't?"

"Probably so they don't get dragged around by their pubes. Have you seen those singlets? You know they're rummaging around in there."

I made a face. "I dunno."

"You'll see," said Heather, with confidence.

"You're team Davin then?"

"Are you not?"

I considered the little headshot on my computer screen. Davin stared straight back at me. He had blond hair, a little long in the bangs, but combed to the side. I could imagine a less muscled version of him on a boy band poster, hung in Heather's childhood room. Not my usual style. The bands on my posters had rocked more black and chrome. Still, it was hard to argue with those delts. And I was pretty sure he'd changed his hair since that picture.