What Else Is a Slut Bff Good For?

God he's such a pig. Like seriously he acts like a teenage boy. He basically said that I only matter to him for sex, so since I'm not giving it to him, I'm worthless.

That's it for me. When he gets back from his next trip that will be it. I'm going to tell him I can't do this shit anymore.

And so the texts came, every few weeks like clockwork. My best friend and her husband fighting over their sexless marriage. I was happy to listen and be there for her. I love some drama now and then. But Dara was one of my closest friends, so brilliant, witty, and beautiful, that it hurt me to see her run through the gauntlet each time.

She and her husband, Mike, had been married for eight years. Once, at a dinner for Dara's, I asked what their favorite part of their relationship was. Dara said the summer after they bought their first house, settling in and sharing the porch together in the balmy heat. Mike said the week they first got together. Dara oohed and aahed and smiled. When she asked why, he replied--in front of me--"Because you actually fucked me then."

I was embarrassed for her. Mike was such a prick. A rich guy from a blue-blood Maryland family who never had to work for anything in his life. He was out on business trips constantly, going to schmooze with white collar execs, selling some kind of security software. When he wasn't working, he was a slob hanging around the house playing

Hearts of Iron IV

with a five o'clock shadow and college T-shirts on, nursing some craft IPA with a stupid name. I hated his habit of walking around their house with no socks. He was only 32, but his hairline was creeping back. You could tell he expected the world to give him whatever he wanted, and that included constant, low-effort, mediocre sex.

It drove me crazy. Dara, my beloved best friend, who wrote poetry with me, brewed me Japanese green tea, sent me gifts and letters in the mail, fed my betta fish while I was out of town--had to fuck

that

asshole. No wonder she wasn't doing it.

Mike didn't like me, either. He took my fun-loving, loud-mouthed nature as obnoxious. He didn't like that I got meek, tentative Dara out of her shell and took her to do fun things like karaoke and day trips and girls' nights out. He once said I had "manic energy" and was surprised I could hold a job, even though I'd been working at the same place since I was twenty-two and excelled in my field.

He's such a creep. Really. Last night he had too many beers and he was trying to suck my nipples. Like???? Hello?? Who am I, your mom??

Last night Mike left his PC running and he had some weird porn game open. There was some monster girl with a tail!!! Ew!!!

Poor Dara. She didn't really get sex. Most female friends are pretty R-rated with each other, but Dara was shy and sweet about it. It was one of the things I found so charming about her. I liked being an expert in something. I tried to reassure her that she was worth so much more than her body, and took her side, hurling as many insults at Mike as I could--but the texts still came. They were starting to get annoying, and I hated feeling resentful about my best friend. I wished there was something I could do to help her.

I picked Dara up at her house. She was in a checkered light purple dress that fell to her knees with big shiny buttons, white socks, and a big black bow in her curly hair. I thought she looked adorable.

"Dara, you look so cute. Did you thrift that? I'm obsessed," I gushed, picking up the hem of her dress and feeling the fabric.

"Thank you! No, I didn't actually. I bought it from this Etsy shop I found. The seller handmakes these su--"

Then Mike came into view, leaning on the door frame with his elbow. He was in sweatpants and an Orioles T-shirt, his PlayStation controller in his other hand.

"She looks like a grandma, is what she looks like," Mike said. He had a smarmy smile on his face. He looked his wife up and down, and then over at me. I was wearing a low cut black dress, a red bandana, and my new platform sandals. I caught his glance and wrinkled my painted lips in annoyance.

Dara shifted her balance and clutched her canvas tote bag. I grabbed her arm and started leading her to my car.

"Sure, let's take our fashion advice from the guy in sweatpants," I said.

"Bye, honey," she called after him. He mumbled something like "Laterz" that we couldn't hear as he vanished into his cave.

We were going out for drinks at a speakeasy a few blocks from Downtown. It was a cute little bar with a secret entrance in the back, all decorated with fairy lights and Chinese lanterns. When we got inside, there was a big crowd at the bar, but with Dara behind me I sidled right up to the bartender and ordered for us.

"Can I have the Purple Paloma, and--" Dara whispered her order in my ear--"just a grapefruit juice please. Keep it open."

We talked about what we were reading as we spun back and forth on the bar stools. Dara wasn't drinking, but she giggled along with me all the same. We talked about the latest Moshfegh book she'd read and I told her I was going back through and reading Anaïs Nin. I felt her unwind a little bit, come out of her shell now that she was away from Mike.

It was Anaïs Nin that got us talking about sex. I was telling her about this short story where an artist's model has an orgasm on top of a fake horse she was posing on, and how she'd shiver when the artist maneuvered her body for the exact pose he wanted to paint.

"Mike just, like--

grabs

me. He doesn't even think about it. Just lifts up my skirt. So boring and unerotic. And you know, if I'm telling truth? I don't think I like sex that much. I've wondered if I'm asexual. I thought it was my medication for a while, but then I went off it...it's not that important to me. Don't get me wrong, I know you're super horny or whatever and I respect it! But that's not me."

"Do you think you'll ever leave him, Dara? I mean, you're miserable. And clearly he wants something you aren't comfortable giving. Maybe it's time," I said.

She sighed. Her tone was tired.

"I mean, you've heard me. I threaten it all the time. But he's good to me otherwise, and he pays all my bills. I

really don't want to work. I get to be alone most of the time and work on my book. It's a pretty peaceful life."

Dara scrunched up her nose and then added, "Is that fucked up?"

"No, not at all," I told her. "Don't worry about it not being feminist or something. It's your choice. And that's a trade off you have to choose for yourself."

She smiled with understanding and the conversation migrated on to other topics, but I kept thinking about her dilemma. I didn't want Dara to feel trapped and pressured into things she didn't want to do. She deserved her quaint, slow burn life reading English novels and grilling veggie burgers. I had to appease Mike, try and get him off her back. What else is a slut friend good for?

We got back to the house and Dara yawned the whole way home. She kept an early sleep schedule so she could write in the wee hours of the morning, something she said was good for inspiration. The clock read 12:17 when we pulled into her driveway, and she went straight to the bathroom to put on her moisturizer and brush her teeth when we got back.

"I'm so sorry, girl, this is late for me. Feel free to stay and sober up if you want to. There's sparkling waters in the fridge."

I said thank you for the night out and gave her a warm hug. She smelled like iris and mint. I could hear Dara's white noise machine switch on, its soothing static emanating from the master bedroom. I headed to the kitchen. The dual monitors in Mike’s "office" made the hallway glow blue and unearthly. And then there he was, on their big sectional couch, with his bare feet up on the antique coffee table Dara had scouted off Facebook Marketplace.

"And what are you doing stalking around in the dark?" Mike asked.

I eyed him down. He was in the same clothes we'd left him in. A few cans of beer were lined up on the side table. His eyes were blue and sleepy.

"Just getting some water."

I stood on my tiptoes to reach in their cupboard for a glass, felt my dress ride up and expose the tops of my thighs. His gaze on me was like a slow fuse burning, a purple flame trickling down a long match.

"So what bar did you two end up going to?"

"The speakeasy down on 3rd."

I settled into the couch next to him, occupying my own cushion. The space was warm as if he'd been sitting there for hours.

"Pssh. That place is too expensive."

"And you're rich, so who cares?"

"My life isn't easy, you know. I have to talk to insufferable assholes all day about the most boring shit imaginable and when I come home, my wife won't put out."

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they were going to fly up into my skull. How was he such a parody of himself? I hoped it was dark enough that Mike wouldn't see my reaction.

"Damn, that sucks," I said. I tried not to laugh. It was going to be easy to goad Mike into talking about how blue balled and desperate he was.

"All I want is a crumb of affection. Solid missionary. A nightly blowjob. Hell, a handjob in the shower. Is that too much to fucking ask?"

I stayed silent.

"If you were dating a guy, you'd do those things, right?"

Mike was even easier than I thought he'd be. Dara was right. At his big age, he was exactly like boys I'd dated in high school, who'd start talking about how lonely they were seconds after they passed you a joint.

"Of course I would. Physical affection is super important for maintaining a healthy relationship," I offered.

"See! You get it. Why can't all women think like you?"

"Because then there'd be no women to marry," I said, deadpan.

Mike laughed.

"True that."

The two of us--the most important people in Dara's life--sat in the dark like strangers. I took a sip of my water. When I put it back down, I didn't return my hands to my lap. I ran my fingertips along Mike's leg, following up his inner thigh, stopping before the bundle in his sweatpants. He leaned in close to me; I could hear his ragged, ugly breathing. His hand found my forearm and squeezed. Then he started kissing my neck, dragging the short hairs on his chin along my collarbone, and his mouth was hot, wet, lazy like it was July, like there was nothing left to do in the world but fuck.

I tilted my head back and moaned for only Mike to hear, a soft rumble in my throat. I kept my hand where it was on his leg, pressing into the muscle of his thigh like I was reminding him what lay above. He took my wrist and dropped it on top of his cock. It was hardening quickly, a thick knot underneath the heavy fabric of his sweatpants. I gripped it, hard, and he bit the soft skin under my ear as if to keep from groaning.

"Are we doing this?"

Mike's voice was a low, labored whisper warm in my right ear.

"I don't know," I said, pitching up my voice. "Are we?"

I snuck my hand up his shirt. His belly and chest were covered in short, sparse hair, like he'd shaved it some weeks ago. He felt dense and strong underneath the soft fat on his body.

"Fuck," Mike hissed. "Touch me just like that, baby."

Mike remained cringeworthy despite how he touched me, self-assured and tight and masculine. Still the heroism of my deed spurred me on, the idyllic life Dara deserved. And so did the heat on Mike's body, and the way his hard cock pulsed, still invisible, in the confines of his sweatpants. He felt like a room I didn't want to leave.

Mike's hand gripped my ass and I swung my leg over to straddle him. He used both of his palms to rock me back and forth over his erection, panting for friction, any kind of pressure on his throbbing dick at all. He was moving quicker, frustrated. I pet the thin hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Shhh," I cooed. "I'm gonna touch you, baby. I'm gonna make you feel good."

He shut his eyes tight and moaned softly and rocked harder, harder, angling his hips up. I took the opportunity to pull down his pants and met his curved dick instead of underwear. It was short and thick, swaying to the right in a manner that felt uncannily in character for Mike.

"Mmhmm," I murmured. Mike's cock curved perfectly into my hand, and he kept bucking his hips, grinding into me as I stroked him. "You like that, baby? You like how I touch you there?"

I was thinking about Dara. I admitted that I could do this so much better than she could. What a sweet, good girl she was, and me, her closest friend, an incorrigible whore.

"Fuck yeah. Suck it. I want you to suck it," Mike said.

It seemed terrible that he should have ever said those words to Dara. It was better now that I was hearing them, and she could spend her time listening to more intelligent things than the immature sexual utterings of her husband.

I got on my knees as quietly as I could and nestled myself in between Mike's hairy knees. He smelled like straw and sweat; his cock tasted like salt and soap in my mouth. I sucked it down like the slut I was. It was easy, a manageable size, its length ending right before it got too deep in my throat to breathe. I let him fuck my face for as long as he needed to, touch my face while he did it, sully my makeup as he drug his thumb across my cheek. I let him pull my hair at an awkward angle, take a fistful of it. How terrible to think of Dara's curls getting crunched under his careless hands. How good it felt for him to tear at my scalp.

Mike didn't speak while his cock was in my mouth. He didn't want to make any noise with his wife sleeping in the next room. I could only hear him panting. Then after a few minutes he pulled me up by my hair and folded me into his lap again.

"You were about to make me cum," he said "But I'm not done with you yet. I'm gonna fuck your pussy."

I wasn't sure how far I'd have to go to help Dara, but I saw now the depths of Mike's desperation. Penetration would make it a real affair. Maybe it'd been longer than she'd even said. What if they'd only had sex that first year they were together? I'd have a lot to drain out of Mike to make him a normal, well-behaved husband. I'd have to come over on a rotating schedule, milk him dry and offer to water Dara's plants while I was at it.

"How do you want it?" Mike asked me. Our foreheads were touching. He was still hot, hot, hot to the touch, the temperature that lingers on someone's skin after they've woken up from a nap.

I hesitated long enough--resting in Mike's lap, running my hands along the coarse outsides of his thighs, playing with his dick--to have the choice made for me.

"I'm going to fuck you right here, then," he said.

He fumbled to find my panties beneath my dress, and when he did find them, he tried to yank them off like he was Johnny Sins or some loser and they just bunched up. I pulled them gingerly down my thighs and across my knees until they dangled off one ankle.

"Shit, you're wet," he breathed.

It was the most genuine he'd sounded, maybe ever, voice all full of wonder and naïve delight. Two of his fingers dove past my clit and into my hole. I tried to relax my body and let Mike inside me, but I didn't need to. All of him sunk inside me easy, easy, like how it was when I learned to swim. His fingers first and then his stubborn cock. I sucked him up and couldn't stop moving, working him inside my pussy. Mike seized the small of my back, grabbing so hard I knew I'd wake up wondering what the ache was from.

"God, you're good," Mike managed. "Look at you ride it."

It felt like he was trying to lift me off of him, the depth bringing him too close to his own orgasm. In any case, he didn't seem to be worried about mine. But I was such a slut, I didn't care whether or not I was going to cum. The knowledge I was doing this sick act for Dara was enough for me. And the pressure, the rhythm, the heat, and

fuck,

the heat...

As Mike pounded me from below, I realized my mouth was open. Little breaths came out of me, barely audible. I felt loose, my neck bobbing with every thrust he made. Mike caught my face in hands and brought our lips together. Liquid pooled in my mouth, cooler than my own saliva--Mike had spit in my fucking mouth. I opened my mouth in helpless surprise and as it dripped out, he stuck his thumb between my lips like a plug.

It was humiliating. My body fluttered with something. Arousal, fear, regret, tenderness, I didn't know. But I was grateful it was me and not her. I swallowed it down; I kept fucking him. He was buried in me so deep it had become comfortable, and I knew I'd feel that empty ache when his cock left my body.

"Keep doing that, Mike. Keep fucking me like that."

My whispers became kisses he left down my neck.

"What if I came in you? What if I just came in you, right here on our couch, while she sleeps? What about that?"

Each word was choppy, cut off by the movement of our bodies. I was tired; I was fucked out, and my cunt was clenching around him in desperation. I nestled into Mike, my chin on his shoulder. His chest had become sweaty, my breasts moving slick across the expanse of his skin.

"Please," was all I could say. I wasn't sure what I was asking for, or to who, but I hoped it would be enough if I asked politely.

"God fucking--"

Mike came, slamming me down on his lap like I was a toy. I felt a small spike of pain against the farthest part of my pussy and then a deep, deep pleasure, an orgasm that seemed to start from the base of my entire body. I came so hard my foot cramped up. I kept riding

after Mike had spent everything he had, until he was limp and I could feel cum run tracks like candle wax on the inside of my sore thighs. I was hanging onto his neck and shaking like a leaf. I was scared if he got hard again and moved right I'd come again and it'd be so intense I'd cry out, so I did that, just lay there hanging onto Dara's husband.

He let me sit there for a moment and cool off. I thought about Dara again, how I'd done all of this for her. I knew it would help. Look how Mike had changed, even in those few minutes we spent fucking. I'd gotten him off her back, I knew, at least for a few weeks. And she would spend those upcoming days unbothered, sipping iced tea outside and writing her book, what she told me would be the next Great American Novel, and I believed her, although it didn't matter, because she was my friend, I loved her, and she deserved to be happy more than anyone else I knew, especially me.