Renee was a woman who belonged on the front page of an alt-model site with her floral half-sleeve, a dagger on her shin, and big plugs in each ear. Gold rings adorned her perfect nipples, which she delighted in showing to lucky strangers. I met her late one night at a concert, and we began dating shortly afterward.
A few months later, on a balmy summer evening, Renee picked up her friend and drove out to meet me for dinner. Sara was a slender 25-year-old New Orleans transplant with bright red hair, deep blue eyes, and milky skin dotted by freckles. She always carried a book, spoke with only the slightest hint of an accent, and had a laugh that was endearingly infectious.
Sara's mind was on the same incredible level as her body. After a few months, we were best friends. We met up for brunch -- in reality, a Bloody Mary with shrimp -- every Sunday afternoon, trading our stories from the night before. These often began with the words, "I'm a terrible person."
It wasn't long before she met Chris, the lanky drummer who became her boyfriend. While Chris and Renee both accused us of fucking behind their backs, Sara and I always behaved. The thought hadn't even crossed our minds -- our connection was intimate, but platonic.
As fall approached, the four of us had tickets to see Jenny Lewis. I picked Sara up, and we drove to Chris's garage apartment, which resembled a treehouse. As we pulled up, we saw Renee's convertible parked outside, figuring that she came early.
Came, she had. As we climbed the stairs to the front door, heavy moans drifted toward us from an open window. Sara and I shared a knowing glance before she rummaged through her purse, then slid her key into the lock. She opened the door quietly, and we stepped inside the apartment.
We found Renee on top of Chris, bucking against his cock with her eyes closed, totally oblivious. She rocked back and forth, grinding like there was no tomorrow, shirt pulled up and pierced tits dangling in front of his face. Chris panicked as he saw us, grabbing Renee and launching her off the couch. As his dick slid out of her pussy, it smacked his stomach with a loud thump.
There weren't any frantic attempts to cover up with a blanket, no cliches about this not being what it seemed. In hindsight, Sara and I were surprisingly calm. We turned around and made our way back down the stairs.
Deciding not to waste our tickets, we drove to Warehouse Live, sharing a few drinks in the ballroom. We watched Jenny Lewis take the stage, greeting her as she descended into the crowd midway through her set.
Sometime after midnight, I watched Sara's silhouette from my idling car as she walked up her driveway. After she was inside her house, I drove home with the day's events in my head, pondering what the fuck had just happened.
On the following Sunday night, I found myself on the patio of a Westheimer lounge, waiting impatiently for Sara. I caught a glimpse of her walking toward me, trying not to stare in disbelief. This wasn't the version that showed up in a t-shirt and jeans to trade stories, still wearing traces of her smeared makeup.
This woman was a desert oasis for my thirsty eyes, which were drawn to the pair of white shorts clinging tightly to her long legs. Her tits bounced with every step she took, barely contained by a skimpy violet top. It felt like they could fall out at any second, priming me to salivate at the sight.
"Hi," she said, accent flaring slightly. Sara took a seat next to me, closer than usual, crossing her legs. "We need a drink."
