Knickers

Stupid Succulent

Maya never fails to outdo me when we go out. The details are always spot on, no matter how obscure. She glues tiny rhinestones to the corners of her eyes and dons an elegant layer of glitter over all her exposed skin. Her lipstick matches her dress and her eyeshadow matches her shoes. Her curls hide the fifty hairpins undeniably littered across her scalp. She smells of peaches and vanilla and confidence.

For my sake, she's always sporting her Pride necklace, a dainty gold lesbian symbol hanging around her throat. I'm convinced men only notice me when I'm standing next to her because she gives off a clear message of disinterest. Otherwise I would never stand a chance.

"You look great," she tells me, licking her teeth. "Super fuckable."

"Do I have the lesbian stamp of approval?"

"The eyeliner is a bit trashy," she tells me. "But otherwise, absolutely."

I stretch to inspect my makeup in the rearview mirror. "Do I look like a hot mess?"

"Couldn't have said it better," she says, putting the car in gear and starting down the alleyway. "Want to go over protocol?"

I nod, signing along with my words. "Peace sign for supervision, devil horns for diversion, hang loose is a code blue. Meet by the front door if anything happens."

"You have condoms?" she asks me.

"Yes," I say, digging around in my tiny purse, counting the variety. "Flavored, spermicide, and," I hold up a little black packet, "ribbed for her pleasure."

"Ew," she says.

"Do you have dental dams?" I ask her.

"I usually improvise with a condom," she says, sneaking a sideways glance into my open purse. "Is that a succulent?"

I snap my bag shut and tuck it into my lap. "It's a housewarming gift. Shut up."

The drive is supplemented with loud music à la Blink-182. The ride is short, just barely enough to get my adrenaline going, aided by Maya's crackhead road habits. She merges recklessly and makes it onto exit ramps by the skin of her teeth.

Dom's street is packed, up and down the block, both sides lined with flashy cars and people trotting around smoking pot in small groups. There's a bouncer at the door, basically the dictionary definition of a beefcake. We give our names, half shouting over the loud music, and he scans an intimidatingly long list on his phone before he steps aside to let us in.

If it weren't for all these people, I might pay better attention to Dom's decorating style. If it's anything like his style of dress, or style of speech, or style of music, or style of being, it must be eccentric, well-balanced, delivering a kind of eclectic satisfaction.

Maya drags me straight to one of the bars dotted around this main living room, where another beefcake awaits our orders. She leans over and asks for our usual party drinks, a mint julep for me and a lemon drop for her. I'm not a particular fan of how his eyes rake over her, eyeing her like a carnivore at a butcher's shop. He notices her necklace. I pull her tightly to me. The staring stops there.

Our drinks are served with an impressive array of tricks. We commend him for his showmanship and continue our prowl, scanning for any potential conquest, but I would be lying if I said my hunt was genuine.

I want to see Dom.

We've been texting all week, and I've gone through the messages about a thousand times each. They're punctuated with poorly angled selfies, videos of Dom jumping off things, attempting various soccer and skateboard tricks. I sent him pictures of bugs I found and videos of failed apartment gymnastics.