Hookups with Trina Ch. 02: AC Clams

I haven't seen Liz since I dropped out of Rutgers three years ago, but she was always the sweetest dormmate. She never left a mess, she always helped clean up mine. She kept the noise and drama to a minimum, even with the revolving door of college hookups high-fiving each other on the way in and out of my bedroom. Plus, her own hookups swung towards girls -- she'd fall in love at least twice a semester -- meaning I'd never have to worry about her either poaching my conquests or trying to make me one of hers.

So, when she calls me up out of the blue and asks if I want to waste a weekend in Atlantic City, how am I going to say no?

I meet her on Friday in the lobby of the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. The last three years have treated Liz well. I can't find a single acne scar on her smooth, olive skin. She's taken that crazy head of frilly, umber hair that she used to let me comb on the sofa, and she's given it a cute perm. She'd never be caught dead in a dress, but she's rocking a black sweater over a plaid shirt.

The only detail of her look that doesn't scream, "I'm winning, and I know it!" is the cast on her right forearm. Plain, baby blue and completely void of well wishes. Not even a "Get Better Soon" scrawled across the plaster.

Fireworks burst in Liz's eyes when she sees me. "Trina! Oh my God, you look so great!"

No, I look so underdressed. I didn't think to wear anything more than pink shorts and a Black Sabbath tee. Then again, she never mentioned a dress code.

"Lizzy!" I say. "It has been entirely too long!"

I wrap her in a hug, careful to avoid her plaster-encasted arm, while also pretending not to notice it.

We dump our bags upstairs in the room that Liz has booked, and we make a beeline for the bars. At random, we pick a Caribbean-style place, right off the boardwalk. With a few hours of dusk-light left, I grab us some good seats on the patio, where I can sample the pecs of passing swimmers and Liz can ogle her own dish of choice.

Margaritas first, plus a bowl of clams. We shell and eat the mollusks like candy. I'd ask Liz how the sea creatures compare to the human variety, but I remember that the last time I asked her that in college, she set aside her text book and spread her legs and said, "You're welcome to find out." So, I play it safe and ask how's work.

Sucking down a clam, she says, "It's hectic, but things are finally starting to take shape on the new project. We're still waiting for the permits to get cleared by Newark City Hall, but the deal is definitely going down. It's just a waiting game of grin and bear it."

"Man, if I had a quarter for every time --"

"But it'll all be worth it once the red tape comes down and the walls start going up. The lot is just going to waste on that corner. People are using it as a dump for needles and beer bottles. The emporium is gonna to do SO MUCH good for the community. Some call it gentrification, I prefer the term Neighborhood Two-Point-O."

"That rolls off the tongue easily. Unlike certain things I've had in my mouth as of late --"

"Even then, it's gonna be years before the domino effect kicks in and businesses really start migrating to that part of town. But to get in on the ground floor like this is like finding a Golden Ticket in the first Wonka Bar you buy. I mean, it's like dumping your life's savings into Apple the day before their stock blasted into the stratosphere. I count myself insanely lucky, even with all the headaches."

I sip my margarita. "Most of my headaches are self-inflicted, these --"

"But you know how it is. I've just gotta keep my head down and my eyes on the paycheck." She wrings out a full-bodied sigh. "So, where are you working now, Trina?"

"Right now? Um, you know, the usual. Retail, customer service, crisis management. Sex on the barter system."

Either missing or ignoring the punchline, Liz says, "Our customer service reps are so flaky right now. They never answer the phone. They're never around when you need them. I feel like I wind up stepping in and handling a good seventy-five to eighty-percent of their responsibilities myself. Oh! But if they ever want something? Better stop, drop and roll, if you don't want corporate climbing all up in your ass."

"Only one occupant at a time in there for me, please."

Liz misses my jokes, right and left, as she rabbits on about her job. I barely understand most of it. After a while, I realize that I'm not even sure what it is she actually does, though she's probably explained it five times since we sat down. Her lips move, but all I hear is, "Jargon, jargon, jargon. I make more money that you. Jargon, jargon, jargon. See how together I've gotten my life? Jargon, jargon, jargon. You just know I'm secretly judging you right now."

I start ordering margaritas at twice the strength, but I'm not getting drunk. Liz has hardly touched hers, even if we're on our third bowl of clams. I break up the tedium by going full Tommy Wiseau and point-blank asking, "Anyway, how's your sex life?"

For the first time this afternoon, Liz's mouth stops flapping. She stares at me with those big, blue eyes of hers, through those big, trendy glasses. Then, she releases a pitiful yelp and buries her face in the tabletop, sobbing.

Already, the whole restaurant and half the beach is turning to watch us. Stiff-spined, I tap Liz on the shoulder. "Um, Liz? You okay, honey?"

She blubbers into her hands. "Marcy and I broke up!"

"Oh, no!" My eyes dart around in search of clues. "Who is Marcy?"

"She was my girlfriend who was gonna be my fiancé, who I thought was my soulmate! We'd been living together for two whole years, and now, it's all over!"

"That's horrible! What happened?"

"I came home early last week and caught her in bed with another person! And the person was a man!" She casts her tear-streaked face heavenward. "A MAN!"

"Oh...wow..."

"They'd been screwing behind my back for a month! And when I caught them, Marcy wasn't even sorry! She asked if I wanted to join in!"

"Um...did you?"

"No! She called me a tight-assed prude and I called her a slut, and I told her to get out of my bed and out of my life! I started throwing all her stuff into a suitcase, and she ripped it away from me, and-and-and --"

"Yeah?"

"And she started grabbing a bunch of my stuff and saying it was hers! Marcy stole ALL MY SEX TOYS!" she wails for everybody to hear. "Even my favorite RABBIT! I was screaming at her and she was laughing at me! LAUGHING! I got so mad, I-I-I...I started grabbing my shoes out of the closet and throwing them at her and the guy, and we all three got into a big fight out in the street!"

I glance at her cast. "Is that how you hurt your arm?"

A violent spasm of her head. I can't tell if she's nodding or shaking it. "I was chasing them with the extension nozzle of a vacuum cleaner --"

"Um, with a...?"

"IT WAS ALL I COULD FIND! I was swinging at them and screaming and trying to knock their fucking heads off, and I didn't see the crack in the sidewalk, and I tripped and fell and broke my ulna!"

"Your...?"

"It's your forearm bone, and I broke it!" She blows her nose into a cloth napkin, loud enough for all Atlantic City to hear. "I broke it, and they took me to the hospital, and I had to call my mom to drive all the way down from Poughkeepsie to come get me!"

Her words become an endless stream of phlegmatic stutters. I can't translate any of it into English. I steal a few silent sips of my drink -- mostly for strength -- as it hits me that this isn't a Girls Catching Up weekend. This is a Make Liz Feel Better weekend.

Both of us need to be MUCH drunker.

When the nurse rushes over to check that everything is okay and no one's about to commit suicide on the premises, I order two straight shots of Jose Cuervo for each of us. We skip the lime and salt. I practically have to pry open Liz's mouth and use a funnel to get the medicine down her throat.

She wrecks what's left of the cloth napkin, sopping up her snot and tears, but the color slowly creeps back into her face. Once we reach the point of being just slightly tipsy, we move the party down the street to a fried chicken place.

We get some wings and beer in our bellies. I catch guys watching us, down the bar, awaiting the slightest opening for a come-on. Under other circumstance, I'd throw myself into the middle of them and let them fight it out. "May he with the biggest dick throw in the first bone!" But since Liz prefers clams to sausage, I leave the fellas to either find a different hole for tonight or simply settle with each other's.

Too bad about my blue ovaries, soon to make an appearance. I'll probably have to flick my bean in the bathroom tonight.

I pace myself to maintain the absolute minimum level of sobriety, but once I've gotten Liz good and drunk, I escort her back to the hotel. We party at the casino downstairs, knowing the bedroom is just an elevator's ride away. I watch her lose $100 on the roulette wheels. At the blackjack table, she screams, "Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!" on seventeen, and she accuses the dealers of cheating when she busts.

The lady behind the table holds up her hands in innocence as Liz screams, "This is bullshit! If I had a dick, don't think I don't know you'd at least slide me a few easy hands and lull me into doubling down before ass-raping me with your bullshit marked cards!"

I spot the security guards closing in, and I drag Liz to safety, even as shrieks, "Do you know who I AM! Do you know who you're FUCKING with!" over her shoulder.

I force her onto a stool over at the bar. Liz slaps the countertop and shouts for a Cosmopolitan. Mixing and guzzling like this, she's heading for a rough morning, but I let her do it anyway. She could use a break tonight.

Liz wipes a mouthful of spilled booze from her chin with the sleeve of her sweater. "Trina, I am having a fucking great time with you, man! A fucking GREAT time."

I stick to sipping beer, for once being the one to play it safe. "So I've noticed!"

"Thank you SO MUCH for coming out with me tonight. You have NO idea how much I've needed this."

I shrug. "Life is short. You've got to enjoy it all while you still can."

A sudden, spastic wave of her arm upends her glass and splatters the Cosmo across the bar. She slaps her hand over her eyes as the waterworks begin again.

Ah, shit. What did I say?

I throw an arm around her shoulder and pull her tight to me. "Hey, Liz, honey, it's alright." Fuck, I hope hotel management feels the same way. "Don't worry, everything's going to be just fine."

"No! No! Everything is so FUCKED!"

"Hey, forget Marcy. That cheating bitch didn't know what she had."

Liz weeps into my shoulder. "It's not Marcy. It's my mom!"

"What? What's wrong with your mom?"

"M-m-m-my mom! My m-m-m-mom's gonna die!"

"Oh my God, no! Oh, honey, that's horrible..."

"My mom! My mom!"

"Is...is your mom sick?"

"No..."

"Did she get hurt, then? Was she in some kind of...accident?"

"No, b-b-b-but when she came to the h-h-h-hospital to get me, I couldn't stop thinking that-that-that I'm gonna have to take her there someday, and sh-sh-she's not gonna come back home!"

"Well, how old is she now?"

"Sh-sh-she just had her forty-nineth birthday..."

"So...is she in bad health or something?"

"No...I mean, she still goes to the gym every week...and she's telling me I need to start going to one, too...and she's started an all-vegan diet, and she's thinking of running the marathon this year....But she's gonna die one day! My mom is gonna DIE!"

Oh, for FUCK'S sake! Of course Liz would pick Sloppy Drunk at the Casino night to brood and cry over the mortality of a woman who's probably going to outlive ME.

I do the only thing an old friend or dormmate can under the circumstances. I hold her tight and say, "There, there," until she's cried it out. Then, I pay for the drinks with her credit card -- I mean, it's not like it's MY mess she left splattered over the bar -- and I drag her ass upstairs.

Straight into the shower she goes. I trust her to leave the water temperature as icy as she can stand, but I wait just outside the bathroom door, in case she slips while in the stall.

Once the water cuts off, I strip to my underwear and pull on a wife-beater shirt. I flop down on what I've claimed as my bed -- two queen-sizes in one room. Nice! -- and I click on the TV. By the time I settle on some Chuck Norris vs. Drug Dealers/Terrorists movie, Liz emerges in a hotel bathrobe.

I get a good look at her puffy, red eyes. "You feeling better, honey?"

Liz moans. "I think I'm dying..."

I pat the mattress. "Get over here. Let old Trina help you feel better."

She half-walks, half-crawls to the bed. She tries to stretch out alongside me, but I go the extra mile by gently rearranging her and letting her use my stomach as a pillow.

She murmurs in slight comfort. I knead my fingers through her thick, frizzy hair. I get a kick, watching her damp, umber locks curl back into place every time I release them. They do it quickly, as if spring-loaded.

"See? That's not so bad, is it?"

Liz sighs. "It feels nice. I miss whenever you'd do this for me in college."

"I haven't lost my touch yet."

"I miss how you'd always make me feel better after a breakup. I miss how you'd just brush my hair and listen to me bitch and somehow always know exactly what to say." She stares at her cast. "I miss jacking off with my good hand. I REALLY miss my vibrators."

"Meh. I prefer cock."

"Anything can be a cock, if you use it right. But with vibrators, at least you don't have to deal with a man and his bullshit just to get you to your orgasm."

I drag the comb of my fingers through her scalp. "Are us girls really all that better?"

She shrugs against my hip. "You're welcome to find out."

I smirk. She always did love keeping that line in her back pocket. Smug little lesbian to straight little slut, always relaxed in the certainty that I'd never call her on the bluff.

Unless...

I bend forward, my loose abs tightening beneath Liz's cheek. With a hand cupped beneath her chin, I tilt her head to face me, and I press my lips to hers. She giggles but kisses me back. Somehow, our tongues wind up in each other's mouths.

Admittedly, not the best flavor of the evening. Maybe it's the fishy aftertaste from all those years of eating Marcy's pussy. Maybe it's bile from puking in the shower. Whatever. She's my friend, so I let her French me for a few more seconds before breaking away.

Liz smiles up at me with saliva-soaked lips. "Wow, Trina!"

I pop my eyebrows. "Weren't expecting that, were you, bitch?"

She giggles on my stomach. I watch her nibble her lip and turn pink. She really knows how to pull off that cute but confident look, even without the glasses and sharp outfit. I trace a finger along her spine to find that even if she's wearing panties under that robe, she trusts me enough to go braless. It makes me wish I was doing the same for her.

Fuck it. Life's short. You've got to enjoy it all while you still can.

I take hold of her shoulders. "Come here."

"Huh?"

"Come over here." With both of us still facing the TV, I ease her on top of me. Her head between my breasts, my pussy against her lower back. I wrap my legs around her. My feet slip between her firm, warm thighs and spread them open. Locking one arm gently around her throat in a playful chokehold, I kiss her frizzy scalp. Slowly, my other hand unties the sash of her robe.

Liz squirms against me. "Trina...! What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm making you feel better."

My hand disappears inside her robe. My fingers find the swallow pocket of her un-pierced navel as I familiarize myself with her abs. I've got to remember to ask her how she keeps them so hard and tight. Hopefully, imitating her regiment won't require too much effort on my part.

While Chuck Norris roundhouse kicks his way to an All-American victory on the TV, my hand creeps north to my friend's breasts.

"Lizzy's titties!" I say.

She giggles and slaps my thigh. "Don't make fun!"

"Of what?"

"They're so tiny! Marcy was always going on about how she wanted me to invest in a boob job."

I squeeze her left breast. Not large -- an A or maybe A-Point-Five cup -- but nice and warm. Her nipple stiffens within my palm as my legs and elbow tighten their grips. "One: fuck Marcy. Two: your tits are great."

"Yeah?"

Not even lying, I say, "I'm already half-wet. See?" I press my pussy into her back. My clit grinds her spine in slow, gentle circles, trying to force some of the moisture through the fabric of our clothes and onto her skin.

Liz purrs atop me. She peels open her robe. Her fingers slip beneath their elastic lining of her panties, touching herself as I play with her nipples and hump her back.

My first time ever, getting steamy with a girl. It's fun. It's comfy. I don't have to worry about condoms or pulling out or keeping Plan B in my purse. But still, I want more.

I brush my lips through her killer perm and loosen my arm from her throat. "My turn on top," I say. Slipping out from beneath her, I position myself between her legs.

I find Liz still plowing herself, so I seize her by the forearm and unplug her fingers from the dike. Or dyke, I suppose. Though I don't think I'll share that joke with her.

Her eyes are still swimming, half-drunk, as she smiles up at me. I latch myself to her lips for a while. Then, I pause and yank off my shirt and bra before Frenching her again. My tits bulge against her tits. Our pussies smash together, the juices slowly seeping through our underwear.

"You know, I still prefer cock," I say, "but this right here is pretty fucking sweet."

"Maybe you should try my quim, see if it changes your mind?"

A lot of firsts for me tonight, a fun education via experimentation. I break the kiss and move to her tits. I don't suck or nibble on them like my hookups enjoy doing for me, but I give both breasts a quick lick on my journey down south.

I pause to let my mouth pay homage to the tattoo encircling her navel. A green snake eating its own tail. An Ouroboro, I believe it's called. I heard that from the first guy who sixty-nined me.

Another brief stop at her upper thigh, where I run my tongue along the stem of a flower tattoo. The rose from Depeche Mode's "Violator" album, done in black. I watch it perform a funny tickle-dance across her skin.

Deep breath, Trina. Brace yourself for the big one.

I draw Liz's panties down her legs in a single, quick motion, like ribbing off a Band-Aid.

The smell hits me in the face. Not foul but potent. A fierce, wet heat. It's surprising, the odor that pink, quivering slit can produce. Though it was probably once nice and trim, I find her hedges a bit overgrown. Then again, I can't recall when I last took the time to wax mine.

"Hmm." I nod. "That's quite the quim."

Liz bites her smiling lip. "You sure you wanna...?"

"It's not like I'm going to back out now. You know my slut ass better than that."

Alright, Trina, girl. Here we go...

I press my face into her bush and ease my mouth against her pussy-lips. God-DAMN if it isn't salty. Saltier than the margaritas. Even saltier than when I let guys kiss me after an eat-out session. It's more powerful, drinking straight from the spout.

Okay, I'll admit it: I freeze up, trying to remember what to do. It shouldn't be this difficult, having been on the receiving end so many times, but it is. She should have tattooed an instruction manual on her inkless thigh. Then again, most guys have no clue what they're doing with me, either.

Fake it 'til you make it. I wedge my tongue inside her opening. Hot and tight and running with juices. The vaginal walls squeeze me on contact, slowly easing open. With my hands, I ease her thighs a bit farther apart.