She passes out (she's wasted, remember?)

Then she passed out. With a disappointed sigh, I rolled away, leaving her to sleep off what was sure to be one hell of a hangover. Talia’s affections had been nothing more than the result of drunken pity, that much I knew. And knowing it made the shame of the evening all the worse. Corrine’s words replayed over and over again in my mind: “Maybe when he’s thirty.” It felt like some gypsy had put a curse on me.

Gloom hung over me the next day at school. Talia bumped into me towards the end of lunch and took me aside, clearly mortified for what had happened between us. She was on the verge of tears as she whispered, “I’m so sorry about last night.”

I put a comforting hand on her shoulder and assured her that I understood completely. “It was just a party thing,” I muttered, “Don’t worry about it.” She nodded and hugged me close, her words spilling out with machine gun speed:

“I’m so sorry I fell asleep—it wasn’t you—I swear—I was just so wasted–I swear I am never ever going to smoke weed again in my life! Can we just—Oh, and thanks for being cool about it and, you know, leaving me alone after I was out.”

She was so earnest, I couldn’t help but smile. “Look, Talia, you know you’re gorgeous, so don’t take offense when I say that the whole **** thing just doesn’t do it for me.”

She laughed through her tears, and awkwardly added, “And could you please not tell Steve, if you see him?”

“Right, like I’m gonna tell your huge scary boyfriend I made out with you.” That got me another laugh from her, as well as a playful punch to the shoulder. Then for some reason I just blurted out, “Do you think Corrine was right last night? That I really won’t be attractive until I’m like thirty?”

Talia had enough of a heart to let me down gently: “She was exaggerating, Ian. What she meant was you’ve got the potential to be really cute, but right now you aren’t living up to it. You’ve got a cute face and, like, really amazing eyes, but girls want a guy who takes care of himself. Get a better hair-cut, stop just wearing those baggy comic book t-shirts, and maybe start taking PE a little more seriously. Just a suggestion.”

Unexpectedly, our brief conversation over lunch soon led to me becoming even better friends with Talia than I had been with Corrine. She was always a ton of fun, despite her ADHD, and nowhere near as intimidating. Unlike with Corrine, I never even considered making a move on Talia. Sure, I admired the way she looked in the microscopic clothes she always wore, but we got so comfortable with each other so quickly that thoughts of dating never even came up. Even when she finally broke things off with that loser Steve, we just stayed the course as buddies.

The tighter I got with Talia, the tighter I got with her friends. And what friends they were.

Amy was a naturally beautiful tomboy with fiery red hair and a lithe, lean body. She was far more frank about her sexuality than anyone else I knew, even guys (a bit of what my grandmother would call a “floozy”). The first time Talia introduced me to Amy outside of school, she was wearing a t-shirt with “YES THESE ARE MY TITS” printed across the bust. Amy was the biggest jock I knew, but her real passion was ballet. She poured every bit of herself into her dancing and all that effort had sculpted her body into a thing of beauty. I saw a few of her recitals and she was incredible. There was a graceful, feline sensuality to her movements.

But one thing kept her dreams of dancing professionally in check. Well, two things I guess. Apparently most professional dancers don’t have Amy’s tits. She joked that nobody in the world would hire a C-cup dancer, “Unless it’s on a pole.” I promised her that, if I were to ever own a ballet company, I would ONLY hire dancers with C-cups or bigger.

Then there was Stephanie, who embodied classical Hollywood glamor. Perfect golden ringlets framed a soft, round face and big, piercing blue eyes. She had the kind of zaftig, pinup-type figure that fighter pilots liked to paint on their planes during World War II. Va-va-voom, as the chairman would say. She was feisty and flirty, and a bit neurotic about her hair and makeup. Whenever we all went somewhere she would, without fail, be the last one ready. Our school’s resident “drama club diva,” Stephanie had played the lead role in every school play since she was a freshman, pissing off the older girls in drama club to no end.

Ever since pre-school, Stephanie had been BFF’s with Elizabeth. Like all great pairs, the two of them were different in almost every way. While Stephanie was only a few inches shorter than I was, Elizabeth barely reached 5’2”. Stephanie was blonde as they come, but Elizabeth had luxurious dark hair and very fair skin. Stephanie loved the spotlight, Elizabeth was shy as a mouse.

About the only thing they did have in common was their bra size, 34DD–a running joke that tended to make Elizabeth blush whenever it came up. While the taller Stephanie rocked her curves in groovy proportion to the rest of her frame, on short little Elizabeth those boobs looked positively humongous. As a life-long “breast man,” Elizabeth’s tits made me practically drool, but she was really self-conscious about them, choosing to dress much more conservatively than her friends.

Despite being beautiful enough to merit a statue in the Parthenon, Elizabeth’s quiet, good-girl nature caused her to often be overlooked by guys more interested in outgoing easy types like Talia or Amy. This lack of attention gave Elizabeth the ridiculous notion that she was “the ugly one” in the group, something that drove me insane. Aside from being a regular feature in my sexual fantasies, she was the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful person I knew and she had no business being insecure.

Before that year, all of us had been in separate cliques, but when we started hanging out together things just worked. We found that rare, perfect group dynamic. If you ignored the gender ratio, we fit every high school cliché: the nerd, the tease, the basket case, the jock, the diva, and the shy kid. Me, Corrine, Talia, Amy, Stephanie, and Elizabeth. But you know what? Our differences made every conversation more interesting. I always say that the longer a person spends with people exactly the same as they are, the dumber they become. It’s like inbreeding your personality.