After two long years at a community college, I transferred to UNLV and enrolled in the William F. Harrah College of Hospitality. As a transfer student, I felt behind in meeting people and making friends, and spent the first few weeks with my head down, too shy to put myself out there, sure that everybody else already knew each other and had no more space for a new friend. And I think things would've stayed that way for a long time if I hadn't sat next to Michelle one day in class.
Michelle was a loud, boisterous Vietnamese girl, with jet black hair, an infectious laugh, and large boobs that were always on display. I noticed her boobs long before we ever met.
Michelle sat down next to me and without any hesitation or shame turned to me sticking out her hand and said, "I'm Michelle,"
"I'm Neha."
"Nice to meet you, Neha. Where are you from? How long have you been here? How are you liking it?"
That is exactly how Michelle talked all the time. Three questions strung together without break. A string of thoughts spat out like machine gun fire as if she was worried if she didn't say it all quickly she'd forget her thought before the next came. Or, more likely since she was the youngest of seven, as if she wouldn't be able to get another word out if she didn't fill every inch of space with her voice.
I was the complete opposite. I could sit in a room of people and never feel the need to open my mouth at all. My Indian family was not exactly strict, but women also weren't expected to be the center of attention. It was understood that our first job was to cook the food that the men would eat first; and our second job was to clean up the food after the men had eaten; and our third job was to do it all without being noticed. All of which turned out to be great training for my future career in hospitality.
It was not, however, great training for being friends with a whirling dervish like Michelle. But maybe our opposite natures were the reason for our quick friendship, maybe the fact that I allowed Michelle the space to fill the room and the conversations with her entire personality endeared me to her. Whatever the reason, we were fast friends from then on. It turned out our apartment complexes were just blocks away, and we soon began carpooling to class, studying together in the library, working out at the Mack (whenever she could convince me) and hanging out at my apartment's pool (Michelle's complex was nicer, but there was no doubt my pool was the nicer of the two.)
Michelle was the recipient of constant attention from the guys at school or at the pool or pretty much anywhere we went. Almost invariably she'd just shrug it off and keep moving, keep talking, keep it just between us. I once asked her why she dressed so provocatively if she didn't want the attention. I asked why she was constantly showing major amounts of cleavage, why her bikinis were so small, why she always wore thongs at the pool, if she didn't want the guys to approach her. She must have known it would draw attention and guys who wanted more than just to look.
"I do want their attention," Michelle said. "I love it. I want it all."
"But you never like them, you ALWAYS blow them off."
"Yeah, but choosing to blow them off is better than not having a choice. Maybe someday the right guy will come talk to me. And maybe the right guy will come talk to me despite what I'm wearing and not because of it." After a rare pause, she said, "besides, you know girls only dress for other girls anyway," and winked and skipped off towards my apartment, her exposed butt cheeks jiggling away from me.
After our last class of the fall semester, Michelle insisted we go out. She made reservations at Tao, and after we ate, we went upstairs to the club. I wasn't dressed too differently from my usual attire, a flowy satin blouse, jeans and heels. Michelle went all out. She wore a black, strapless dress with a very low slit in front and an uneven hemline that perfectly revealed the tiger tattoo on her upper left thigh. I was too scared to ask, but I couldn't for the life of me figure how she was keeping everything hidden.
We ordered a drink at one of the bars, turning down two offers from guys trying to buy us drinks, and slid our way through the crowd to the dance floor. Michelle held my hand and pulled me through the crowd, our bodies brushing against everybody. I noticed that hands would reach out and brush against Michelle, feeling her side, her butt, even her breast. She just kept going, fearlessly leading me through the swarm, and eventually we started dancing in our world. Guys would approach Michelle and eventually slink off when she paid them no mind.
After a handful of songs we were getting hot and made our way back to the bar for another drink, then slid along a wall to rest and watch the bodies move. There was a couple to my left that Michelle peered past me to watch. The guy was a tall, handsome white guy with broad shoulders and, I can never help but noticing, perfect teeth. The girl was every bit Michelle's match, Asian, jet black hair with straight cut bangs, high heels, short, SHORT shorts, and a white t-shirt tied up at the stomach and hanging off one shoulder. She clearly wasn't wearing a bra.
The girl was dancing in front of her man, facing him, then rubbing her ass against him, then turning around again to face him. I couldn't help but notice the bulge in his slacks when she'd create space, and I understood his reaction. This girl was all gorgeousness and sexuality. I turned to see Michelle entranced, and when the couple started making out, Michelle groaned, "ugh, it's been foreeeeever since I had a good makeout sesh. How long has it been for you, Neha?"
"Oh, probably two years," I laughed.
"What?" she shouted. "We have to fix that."
I laughed again. "I'm not real comfortable making out with just anybody," I said. "I can't make out with someone I don't know."
"Then what about someone you DO know," she asked.
