Among Friends

When I graduated from college last May, I was very lucky. I found a job. It's not the world's best job—manager trainee in a chain of coffee shops—but what can you expect when you've majored in Sociology, which has to be one of the most worthless majors? Most of the other girls in my graduating class had no job at all, which was probably related to the fact that they put no real effort into looking. I worked my butt off, pounding the pavement (actually, the Internet) hours each day, and I succeeded.

The job means lots of early mornings, some weekend work, and not a lot of pay, but there's room for advancement and a paycheck. And, best of all, the job is in Boston and I get all the coffee and donuts I want-- which isn't a lot.

That was only half of my luck. The other half was that my friend Megan was looking for a roommate just outside of Boston. She was my very, very best friend in high school and I love her dearly. We've seen each other as often as possible since high school, mostly during school breaks, and are still close, though not like it was when we were younger.

Megan is a nurse and had graduated in January, one semester before I did. She had rented a two bedroom, one bath apartment but hadn't found the right kind of roommate so she'd been carrying the whole rent herself. She's not hurting for money –- nurses make a lot more than baristas -- but the rent was still expensive. When I found my job, we were both thrilled that we'd be able to live together and she even offered me free rent for a month or two until I had a little saved up.

The apartment is hardly a palace, but it's ok. It's part of a complex of three-story brick buildings, centered around a small pool. The buildings are a little old and the maintenance isn't great, but the neighborhood is safe and there are no drug dealers or other unsavory characters around. Best of all, I can walk to the Green Line trolley which will take me into Boston for my job, so I don't need a car. Megan has a car. She takes the trolley when she is working day shift (7-3:30), but when she's working evenings till midnight, it's safer to drive. She works crazy unpredictable rotating shifts, but on those days when we're both working mornings, we take the trolley together.

Megan and I are a lot alike, but also different in many ways. I'm no shrinking violet and she's no hell raiser, but she was always the more outgoing and self-confident one. At a party, she'd be the one arriving with the case of illicit beer. She was the one who came to a sleepover with a copy of Playgirl hidden in her duffel bag. She was the one who'd walk right up to a cute boy and start chatting and flirting. I was always a little more restrained.

We actually look a bit alike also. Some people have asked if we're sisters, but I don't think we look that similar. We're both brunettes and are about the same height, and we wear mostly the same size clothes, which is nice because we can borrow from each other. Megan thinks that I'm prettier than her and I deny it, but privately I think that's a little bit true. Neither one of us would be confused with a Playboy model, but we both definitely fall into the category of "pretty girl."

I moved into the apartment on a Sunday afternoon in May, right after school was out. Jimmy was there to help me carry my boxes and few pieces of small furniture. Jimmy is Megan's boyfriend, a real sweetheart. He's not big but he looks a bit like a lumberjack with a furry beard, and he dresses the part in jeans and flannel shirts. Megan and Jimmy have been together for over two years and they're perfect for each other. Megan can get a little stressed and tense but Jimmy's companionship quiets her down immediately. Jimmy is so calm and laid back that nobody can be stressed around him. He's a man of few words – very few words—but he's funny and friendly and I love being around him.

But Jimmy has one problem and it's a big one. He lives and works south of Providence, which is almost 2 hours away in traffic. So Megan only gets to see him on weekends. He drives up Friday evening, or maybe Saturday morning if he had to work late Friday, and goes back home Sunday afternoon. That's a shame.

That Sunday in May, Jimmy stayed later than normal so that he could help me move in. Then he left and it was just Megan and I. We looked at each other, tears came into our eyes, and we fell into each other's arms, crying together. We both remember how close we'd been in high school and how much we missed being together every day.

Megan and I hug a lot. Megan is the touchy-huggy type, which I normally am not. She puts her hand on your arm while you're talking. If she thinks your hair looks nice, she'll stroke it with her fingers. If your shirt is a little misaligned or your makeup is a little smudged, she'll fix it for you. And sometimes, for no reason, she'll just wrap her arms around you and give you a big hug and a kiss. I love it. I don't do that with other girls, but with Megan, I reciprocate.

That evening was our first time alone together in months, and we had some unpacking to do. Megan helped me organize my clothes, but she was helping a little too much. I came into my bedroom carrying a box of books and saw that she had laid out four of my tops and was trying them on, one by one. She laughingly told me she was making a mental note of which ones she wanted to borrow some future day.

So I went into her room and came back carrying four of her tops, and tried each of them on too. It's kind of funny wearing each other's shirts because my boobs are bigger than hers and things that look good on me don't usually look good on her and vice versa. Also, most of my shirts are a thinner fabric which is ok because I usually wear a bra, but Megan hardly ever does except when she's at work, so her nipples were sticking out a lot in my shirts. I told her that if she ever borrowed any of those shirts, she'd have to wear a bra, but she just gave me a wicked look and smiled.

Moving in was quick because I didn't have much other than clothes and a few school books and photos and stuff. Not even a bed. Dad had given me a little money and I had bought a mattress and bed frame, but it wouldn't be delivered until Tuesday, so Megan and I would be sharing for two nights. It would be just like the sleepovers we used to have in high school!

When we had finished the unpacking, we hung out for a little and decided that, with summer coming soon, we'd celebrate my arrival by giving ourselves pedicures. Megan hunted up her pedicure kit, and we took off our sandals and sat down facing each other on Megan's bed, our legs outstretched and wrapped around each other. Megan massaged one of my feet and I took the nail scissors and examined her toenails, choosing my plan of attack. "You have such beautiful feet," I told her. "I wish I had feet like yours."

This was the start of an unspoken ritual that Megan and I had developed and perfected over the 15 years we'd been friends. One of us would compliment the other on a feature and tell how we were jealous of it, then we'd trade. Megan always felt that I was prettier than her, but that's not the whole story. There's a lot about her that I'm jealous of, including her feet and many other things.

I took held each toe and admired it. "Each toe is so perfect." I continued. I was telling the truth. My toes are a little knobby – not ugly, just knobby. My fingers are like that too. Megan's are much nicer.

I saw Megan admiring her own feet. The ritual doesn't require that the person receiving the compliment deny it. In fact, if the compliment is true, she's supposed to agree but then point out some feature of the other girl that she admires. So after a few minutes, that's what Megan did.

"I'd trade my pretty feet for your boobs." She let go of the foot she'd been massaging and rearranging, coming closer to me. She put her hands on my boobs, outside my shirt, and moved them up and down, cupping them underneath. I wasn't wearing a bra then, so they were easy to bounce. "They bounce, like real boobs are supposed to." She lifted her shirt, showing me her own, smaller boobs. "These don't bounce." She put her hands under her own boobs to demonstrate.

I lifted my shirt too, and we compared, which was something we'd done countless times before. It was true that I have nicer boobs. Mine are nearly a C-cup and nicely shaped. Hers are not really even a B-cup (though she says they are), pretty but not rounded or full. Lots of people like smaller boobs, but I agree with Megan that mine are nicer, so I didn't deny it.

Megan started to speak. I knew exactly what she was going to say because she'd said it hundreds of times, so I cut her off immediately. "Don't give me that bull about my nipples being nicer than yours. Your nipples are beautiful." Our ritual requires that if you get a compliment that you don't think is legitimate, you have to reject it. So that's what I did, even before she said it. Megan has much smaller nipples than I do, but it's just a matter of personal taste to decide which is better. I really like her small nipples, so I didn't want to hear her tell me that mine are better. She started to speak again, but I was emphatic. "Don't!" I held up my hand and she stopped.

Megan surrendered the point, and went back to sitting facing me, and we both put our tops down. I picked out the Spring Plum polish I wanted for my toes and handed her the bottle. We resumed our pedicures, talking about my new job in the coffee shop and her job in the hospital. But nobody wants to talk about that stuff when they're getting a pedicure, so we changed to a more appropriate topic, which was, of course, boys. She complained about how she only got to see Jimmy on the weekends and I complained about my old boyfriend and told the story about us breaking up last March. We both had heard the stories ump-teen times before, but we listened sympathetically like it was all new.

When the pedicure was done, it was time for bed. Since it was still not summer and not really warm yet, we put on pajamas. We brushed our teeth together into the bathroom, taking turns spitting into the sink and each pretending to be grossed out by the other's spit, like we always did. We combed each other's hair.

We climbed into bed together and pulled up the covers. Megan came over to my side and we kissed. "Welcome home," she said, then she went back to her own side and we held hands. I moved my leg over so it was resting against hers and we went to sleep.

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That first week after I moved in, I started my new job and soon discovered that it was tiring and physically demanding to be up and moving all day. Not like college at all. I soon came to the conclusion that, as soon as I was home, three things had to come off immediately: my shoes, my socks, and my bra. As soon as I walked into the apartment door, off they came.

When I got home from work Friday, Megan was in the living room. We hugged, in my coffee-smelling clothes, and then, as I shed the shoes, socks, and bra, she invited me to join her and Jimmy for dinner.

Before I had moved in, I'd assumed that Megan and Jimmy would want to spend time together by themselves on the weekends and that I'd be pretty much on my own when Jimmy was around. But that wasn't what Megan was thinking. When she invited me for dinner, I declined so that they could have time alone. But Megan was insistent and seemed to be sincere, so I agreed. I changed out of the smelly clothes into something restaurant-friendly.

When Jimmy arrived, he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. As touchy-huggy as Megan is, Jimmy is even more so. He'll come up behind me, wrap his arms around me and give me a big kiss on the neck. He'll sit next to me on the couch and put his arm around me, or take my hand in his and hold it, or rest his hand on my leg. If the three of us are out walking somewhere, he'll hold hands with both of us. It's part of his charm. With some boys, that sort of thing would be inappropriate --like putting the moves on me-- but not with Jimmy. He's just a very friendly person.

After the hugs, I went into the bathroom to fix up my hair. I wasn't doing anything personal so I left the bathroom door open. Much to my surprise, Jimmy came in. He lifted the toilet lid, unzipped, and peed, right there in front of me, completely exposed. I tried not to look. When he was done, he flushed, zipped up, patted my butt, told me my hair looked nice, and walked out of the room, as if this had been the most natural thing in the world.

I know what you're thinking: that peeing is the most natural thing in the world, but-- well -- you know what I mean! If Megan had walked in, sat down, and peed, I wouldn't have thought anything of it. Megan and I have always shared bathrooms together, and since I had moved in a week earlier, I don't think either one of us had closed a bathroom or bedroom door even once. With other roommates, even girls, I've always at least partly closed the bathroom door when I was on the toilet or in the shower, but Megan never worries about modesty so I don't either when I'm around her. But Jimmy isn't Megan. Jimmy's a boy.

I didn't know how to react to Jimmy peeing, so I tried to ignore it. I acted like it hadn't happened, but it made me wonder about what would happen next.

We had a great time at dinner, laughing and drinking a little wine. Megan told Jimmy embarrassing stories about me from when we were kids, including the time I got caught kissing some boy in a closet at church when I was 13. Neither one of us could remember his name. I got back at her by telling stories about her, like the time she flashed her boobs to my 10-year-old brother and he told all his friends. There is no limit to the embarrassing stories we know about each other.

After dinner, we came back to the apartment and I decided that this time, I really had to let the two of them have time together. I went to my bedroom and got ready for bed, and so did Megan and Jimmy. I got out a book and began to read.

It wasn't long before I got a reminder of the disadvantage of living with a roommate. The sounds of sex were coming down the hallway and through the thin walls. It was almost as clear as if I were in the same room with them.

This was a problem I hadn't had since freshman year in the dorm, when my obnoxious roommate would masturbate when she thought I was asleep (or maybe she just didn't care if I was asleep). She was only about five feet away from me, and her "activities" were quite vigorous, and, I might add, very successful, so there was a lot to hear. She did it three or four times a week, and eventually I complained and she found some other time or place to do it, somewhere out of my hearing. That was years ago, but Jimmy and Megan were tonight.

At first, all I could hear was Megan and Jimmy talking. They were talking quietly, and, though I could hear their voices and their intonation, I couldn't hear many of the actual words. Then the talking ended and soon the bed started moving back and forth. Then a little more of the voices. Single words, not sentences. Excited but not loud. Exclamations like "God" and "Oh" and "Ahh." It went on for many minutes, the bed was moving faster, and the exclamations were at a higher pitch and closer together and there was some grunting. Finally, the bed was still and there was a little more quiet talking, now in a more relaxed tone.

It was impossible to concentrate on reading, so I just turned off the lights. I tried not to listen, but who was I kidding? I considered burying my head in a pillow, but that wouldn't have worked, so I just listened. What else could I do?

I thought they were finished, but I was wrong. About ten minutes later, it started up again. This time, the bed noise was different, more like bouncing up and down than like moving back and forth. And this time, Jimmy made no sounds, and the one word I heard clearly from Megan was "boobs." This also went on for a number of minutes, and, again, the bed moved faster and faster and Megan's exclamations grew higher pitched.

I was wide awake now, and needed to pee, so I went down the hall to the bathroom. As I walked by Megan's bedroom, I was surprised to see that the bedroom door was wide open. I don't want you to think that I could look in the bedroom and watch Megan having an orgasm. You can't actually see the bed from the hallway, so I couldn't see anything (even if I'd been looking, which I tried not to do). If I had stuck my head just a little inside the door though, I could have seen the action, but I didn't. Somehow, I didn't think they'd mind if I did, but I didn't.

There was no need to close the bathroom door because I knew that Jimmy and Megan were-- shall we say-- busy, so I peed and while I was on the toilet, heard Megan finish. I went back to my room past the open bedroom door, and after a little muffled conversation from the other room, there was silence. After a long while, I fell asleep.

I should tell you about the one word I clearly heard from Megan: "boobs." Megan has really sensitive breasts and gets mightily turned on having them touched and massaged, and, especially, kissed and licked. Even as a freshman in high school, her top priority on a date with any boy was to get his hands under her shirt and, as soon as possible, the shirt off. She never wore a bra on a date.

I'm sure that many boys went home with giant erections, because even though she was totally promiscuous with her breasts when she was 15 or maybe even 14, she didn't have actual sex or even oral sex till she was 18. I lost my virginity long before she did. She had a huge reputation as a cock teaser but never had any trouble finding boys who were willing to be teased. Her attitude was, "So what? They can jack off when they get home. If I can do it, so can they." Often, the next day, she'd tell me how well or poorly the boy had done with her breasts. We joked that her motto should be "God, I love to have my boobs rubbed." I told her I'd put it on her tombstone.

Looking back on it, there were a few times when we were younger that she'd hinted that she wanted me to play with her boobs, but she never actually said it and I hadn't picked up on it at the time. There was one unmistakable occasion, though, when we were probably 15, she'd told me that when she masturbates after a date, she takes her girl-juices onto her fingers and uses them to massage her nipples. That definitely fell into the category of "too much information" and I pretended to put my fingers in my ears so that she wouldn't tell me more. Of course, I really wanted her to tell me everything, but it was polite to pretend I didn't.

The reason that I'm telling you this now is that I'm pretty sure that what Megan said to Jimmy when I heard just the one word, was "God, I love to have my boobs rubbed." I'd bet a million bucks.

This is probably a good time to tell you about my own sexual status. I'd had a boyfriend, Mark, the last two years of college, but by the spring of senior year it was pretty obvious that the relationship was going nowhere. Neither one of us could imagine spending the rest of our lives together, and neither one of us had any intention of following the other as we moved away from college into the real world. So we drifted apart and by March stopped seeing each other completely. That was the last time I'd had sex, so by the time I moved in with Megan, I'd had no sex for two months. I needed some sex, and listening to Jimmy and Megan just made things worse.

You may wonder why I didn't masturbate that night. The truth is this: I'm not very good at masturbating. Believe it or not, but that's the way it is. If there are any boys reading this, they're probably amazed at the concept of somebody not being good at masturbating, but I'm sure a lot of girls understand. I certainly can make myself feel good and tingly and it feels good while I'm doing it, and sometimes I can get a small orgasm, but often it actually make me hornier than when I started. I can't get a really good, huge, mind-numbing, toe-curling, horniness-relieving orgasm with clitoral stimulation alone. The only way I can get a complete orgasm is with a penis rubbing my g-spot, deep inside me.