My Shallow Regret, Chapter 3 - Kisses free porn video

Three hours went by before my mom finally knocked on my door, breaking up my research session. "I brought your suit up," she said through the closed door. "You should probably get ready. People will be arriving soon." "Thanks," I said, as I opened the door to get my bikini from her. "You've been awfully quiet up here," she said. "Is everything alright?" "Yeah, everything's fine mom," I said, lying through my teeth. "Just catching up on my reading." "OK, well get dressed and we'll see you downstairs in a few minutes. Ron's already got some food on the grill if you're hungry." I closed the door and tossed the bikini on my bed, then hopped back on the bed and took another look at the computer. In only three hours, I'd learned quite a bit, way more than I had in my quick Facebook session at the gym. Most enlightening was the fact that my parents had separated six years ago, right around the same time I started college, and finalized their divorce a couple years after that. I'd always heard about how children of divorce often blamed themselves for their parents splitting, but in this case I was wondering the opposite. In my life, my non-Alana life, was I responsible for my parents staying together even though they didn't want to be anymore? If I'd been more stable and responsible, like this version of me was, would they have followed their hearts? And how much had them staying together long past their expiration date as a couple affected the tension in our family the last five or six years? I learned a bunch about Aiden too, though that wasn't going to help me tonight, since two weeks ago he moved out to Los Angeles for a movie role. We'd met at NYU; he was a 21-year-old undergrad, which kind of creeped me out, not just the idea of dating a guy, but dating one four years younger than me. He was from New Zealand, not Australia, and apparently I'd been attracted to him in the first place because of his voice, seeing him perform in a student version of "Guys and Dolls". So apparently male or female, I'm a sucker for that accent. But as much as I had learned from our Facebook messages, wall posts, e- mails and texts, I hadn't learned why when he went out to L.A., I decided to return home to Connecticut. It didn't make much sense at all, even if my lease was up in New York. There had to be more opportunities for a graduate-level dancer in New York and L.A. than in Connecticut. The only dancing I knew of in this area was the exotic kind, and I didn't think I went to six years of college for that. "Then again," I thought, looking over at the string bikini I was apparently planning on wearing at the barbeque. No, I had to stop thinking that way. Just because a girl wore skimpy clothing it doesn't mean she's a stripper or a slut. I was clearly the kind of girl who was confident enough to show off my body -- my Facebook photos and iPhoto library were evidence of that -- so I tossed off my halter and slipped on the bikini top. And then the bottom. It took a little adjusting, but I got it into a position that covered the majority of my ass. Apparently a bikini bottom that covered my WHOLE ass would've been too much to ask for. At least it wasn't a thong. I slipped on a pair of wedge sandals and started to head downstairs, but not before giving myself one last head-to-toe look in the mirror. I couldn't say I loved the reflection looking back at me, but I couldn't say I hated it either. No matter what I thought about being a girl, I had to admit that by most measures -- not the least of which was attractiveness -- Alana was better than Andrew. And while there was no way I could be everything Alana was at this party, I had to put on the happy face and play the role. As I got downstairs and walked back into the kitchen, I saw my sister there in her black bathing suit, sipping on a bottle of water and texting with someone. "Ryan," I asked. "No, just Stephie," she said. "But Ryan said he's gonna come by later. And then we might all go see 'Ted'. And then..." She trailed off. I knew exactly what followed that "and then", and it was nothing good. "Just promise me you won't rush into anything, OK, Lexi?" "You know I won't," she said. God, it was incredible. She looked so much like the sister I knew, but she couldn't have been more different. I headed out the back door to leave her to her texting fun when she called out to me at the last second. "Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "Doctor Briggs's office called. You're all set for Friday." "Thanks," I said, having no idea who Dr. Briggs was or where his office was or when my appointment was Friday. But at least now that I knew ABOUT it, I knew how I could look into it. As I got outside, Ron immediately handed me a paper plate with a burger on it. "I didn't know if you wanted a bun or not," he said. "If so, they're over on the table." I looked over and there was a portable picnic table set up on the deck with an impressive spread of sides, condiments, buns, and a serving plate piled high with already-grilled burgers. The part of me that was still Andrew -- that is, to say, pretty much everything but my body -- was drooling at the sight of it. But my mouth wasn't producing any actual drool. And if anything, my stomach was feeling queasy. I handed the plate back to Ron. "Actually, I was gonna take a dip in the pool," I said. "But save me one for later, OK?" "Sure thing," he said. He was so chipper. And even though I'd just met him, I liked him, because he seemed to make my mom happy. It bugged me a little bit when I found out he was only 35 -- closer to my age than my mother's -- but, again, he made my mom happy, and that's really all that mattered. Heading up to the pool, I was surprised to see there was already someone in it. It wasn't Ron, my mom, or my sister. I thought it might be my dad, but it didn't look anything like him. He was hanging out around the far end of the pool, so I kicked my shoes off and decided to just slide right in. It was about 95 degrees outside, even as the sun lowered in the sky, but the water was refreshingly cool. It was only about four feet deep, so I was able to stand comfortably without submerging my head, though the bottom of my hair was definitely getting wet. "You can swim on down this way. I don't bite," said the man at the other end of the pool. He looked like he was about my age, maybe a little bit older, but the shaved head was throwing me off. For all I knew he was a creepy 50-year-old who just kept in remarkable shape. Though I didn't know many 50-year-olds with barbed-wire tattoos on their right bicep and a tribal eagle on their left arm. Regardless of age, that wasn't exactly a trustworthy combination. I didn't budge, so he swam over toward me. "Alana, right," he asked. "I'm Cash." He extended his hand to shake, but I left him hanging. I did kind of feel bad doing it, but I didn't know this guy from... well, from me. After a couple seconds, he pulled his hand back. "I work with Ron over at Pratt," he said, continuing to try to make small talk. "Well, I work FOR him. I mean, he's my superior. Well, not SUPERIOR, I just... I report to him. I... you know, feel free to jump in here at any point, save me from babbling like an idiot." OK, I had to chuckle at that. Because he was babbling like an idiot. And he kept glancing down at my breasts, which I had to admit looked spectacular in this bikini. I arched my back, thrusting them forward in his direction, while wearing the biggest shit-eating grin of my life. He tried his hardest to avert his gaze, so I splashed some water at him. "Hey, if I'm gonna put on a show, the least you can do is watch," I said, totally baiting him. "So... Cash? Is that a first or last name." "First," he said. "Really? Like given birth name? Not a nickname like 'people call me Cash because I'm SO money." I was trolling him, only he didn't know it. Or if he did, he so badly wanted to get in good with me that he wasn't going to call me on it. "Hand to God," he said, literally holding his left hand up like he was being sworn-in for testimony. "I'll get my driver's license if you don't believe me. "No," I said. "I believe you. No need to get your driver's license. But you can get me a drink." "Beer," he asked. "Or are you more of a wine cooler girl?" "Honestly, just a water will be fine," I said. "Oh, really. Well, that's easy enough." Then he splashed some water in my face before hopping out of the pool. I turned to watch him walk across the deck and down to the lower level, when I saw Gwen standing there, wearing a purple halter bikini under a sheer white cover-up -- a piece of clothing I wish I'd thought of wearing when I'd put this bikini on. "Ohmigod," she said. "You were totally flirting with that guy." "I was not," I said. I pulled myself out of the pool, and sat down on the deck, putting my feet back in the water. Gwen pulled off her flip- flops and sat beside me. "You totally were," she said. "You should go for it. He's way hotter than Aiden. And way more not all the way across the country." "We were not flirting," I said. "We were just talking." "And giggling," Gwen added. "And splashing." I had to admit, Gwen had me there. I really just thought I'd been harmlessly messing with the guy. But was it flirting? I'd always sucked at flirting. "Look, I literally just met the guy," I said. "I know his name, that he works with Ron, and that's it. I don't even know if he's interested in me." "I'm pretty sure he's interested in you," she said. "I mean, the guy is breathing right? And he's not blind, is he?" "Who's blind," asked Cash, coming up from behind, startling me to the point that I almost fell into the pool. I had to catch myself on the deck, and Cash helped, grabbing my shoulder from behind. "Careful, there," he said. "Wouldn't want you to drown." "Yeah," Gwen butted it. "You'd have to dive in after her and maybe give her mouth-to-mouth." I was starting to very much hate Gwen. I needed something to distract from the horrible shade of red I was turning, so I did the only thing I could think of. I pushed Gwen into the pool. She let out a scream that probably got the attention of the entire neighborhood, and made a splash big enough to get Cash and I wet. Well, wetter than we already were. She completely submerged, soaking her hair and her cover-up. "What. The. Hell." she asked as she came up from underwater. "Sorry," I said, making a "who, me?" kind of shrug. "I must've slipped." "Not cool," she said. "I dunno," Cash chimed in. "It was pretty cool." Cash sat down next to me on the deck and handed me a bottle of water. I took a sip, then looked over toward the driveway where more cars were pulling up. The upper part of the deck extended far enough around the pool that there was probably room for a dozen or more people to sit like this, plus countless others in the pool itself. So it wouldn't be long before Gwen, Cash and I were joined by others, and it would be harder for us to talk. So I just decided to go for it. "OK, cards on the table," I said. "What's your deal?" "My 'deal'," he asked. "Yeah, are you trying to mack on me or something?" "Well, no, I'm not trying to 'mack' on you, because I'm not a 1970's pimp," he said. "I just thought maybe, you know, we could, umm, hang, I guess." "Well, that depends," I said. I put the bottle of water down and dove forward into the pool. "Can you hang?" He put his beer down and jumped in after me. ***** "I know how to throw a football." I kept repeating the words, but Cash kept not believing me. It was understandable, given that with my new tiny hands and their perfectly manicured nails I could barely get decent grip. I played football from the time I was six until the time I graduated high school, and though I was never a quarterback, I also never had any problem throwing the ball. I could even throw it a solid 25 yards downfield with my left hand. But now I threw it... well, like a girl. It was incredibly embarrassing, and just another reminder of my predicament, but without being able to get a grip on the ball, I ended up more pushing it than throwing it. If I'd just kept my mouth shut, I wouldn't be standing here, with Cash half pretending to teach me how to throw and half hitting on me. But he started talking about football, and I -- forgetting myself ever so briefly -- challenged him on the subject. It turned into a proverbial dick-measuring contest, which -- of course - - I was guaranteed to lose. Even knowing the exact proper mechanics wasn't helping. Cash kept coming back to me and standing right behind me while repositioning my arm. He said he was "coaching" me, but I was pretty sure his style of "coaching" would be frowned upon at the Manning Quarterback Camp. He was spending way more time with his hands on my hips than on a football. The worst part was I didn't entirely hate it. I mean, sure, the THOUGHT of this guy -- this 6-foot-1, well-built guy with an engineering degree -- getting all touchy-feely with me was mentally off putting, but when he actually put his hands on me, my body responded. It liked being touched. It didn't help that I was still wearing nothing but a string bikini, while Cash was going bare-chested (and when I say bare, I mean it. I think he manscapes.). It was taking every bit of concentration I had to not let this body's natural responses take over, which wasn't at all helping me concentrate on throwing the ball. "Good, you're getting the hang of it," Cash said, totally lying as another one of my tosses fell harmlessly at his feet. I really needed this embarrassment to end. Fortunately, right on cue, Ron came over with food. "Got a couple burgers for you too," he said, handing me the plates. "Thanks, Ron," I said. I looked at the two plates and it was immediately apparent which one was mine. The double-cheeseburger on the toasted bun with a pile of chips on the side... nope, not anymore. Mine was the single patty on a bed of lettuce. Yay, dancer's diet! "Go deep, Ron," Cash said, picking up the football. Ron obliged running back up the driveway, where Cash tossed a deep pass, one that Ron hauled in nicely while narrowly avoiding crashing into the back of my mother's car. "Didn't we need that," I asked Cash while handing him his food. "No, you totally proved yourself to me," he said, mockingly. "You obviously know how to throw a football." "I do," I yelled back. "I just can't. Not in this..." I caught myself. I nearly said body without even thinking about it. I was finding that when I got emotional, I was more likely to slip, and in just a day I was finding myself getting emotional more often. I wanted to chalk it up to "hormones" but it was probably something more complex than that. Still, I was safe this time. "Bikini," I said, finishing my sentence after a bit of an awkward pause. "I feel like I'm trying out for the lingerie football league." "We'll, if you did, I'm sure you'd be great," Cash said. I wanted to call him a condescending ass, but instead I just cut off a piece of hamburger with my fork and stuffed it in my mouth. Most of the partygoers were in the back on the deck or in the pool, but Cash and I made our way to the front porch, where Gwen was engaging in some unabashed PDA with a guy I didn't recognize. I looked over awkwardly at Cash, afraid of giving him any ideas. "So, umm, how's your burger," I asked, trying not to say anything about kissing or making out or touching or anything that would lead him on. "It's good," he said, before taking another bite. Oh, God, this was so awkward. And Gwen and this guy just kept going to town on each other's lips. "I wonder if they need to come up for air at any point," Cash said. I laughed, not because it was particularly funny, but just because it was SOMETHING to break the tension. I forced down another bite of my burger, then looked back at Cash. And he looked at me. We were doing that thing where we made eye contact and both knew what was next, but didn't know how to say it. Fortunately, we didn't have to, because just when the awkward tension was reaching its peak, Gwen separated herself from her symbiotic kissing partner enough to say something. "Oh, hey, this is Darnell," she said. "He works at The Cloud and can get us in tonight. Want to go?" The only "Cloud" I was familiar with was the one where my iPhone stored files, but I knew that wasn't what Gwen was asking about. Nor was she asking me. "I dunno," Cash said, turning to me. "Am I coming?" Ew, he said "coming". My overgrown juvenile mind immediately wanted to say "that's what she said", but I didn't think that would go over too well. So I went noncommittal instead. "You're an adult, you don't need my permission to go to a club," I said. As soon as I said it, I realized how bitchy it came off. I tried to recover. "I mean, like, if you wanna come, or not, it's like, no big deal, or whatever." OK, maybe I overcorrected. But it worked. "OK, well, I'll head back to my place in a few and get changed," he said. "Unless you think they'd let me in like this." As good as he looked wearing nothing but a black bathing suit and flip- flops, there was no club on the planet that would let him in like that. OK, maybe in South Beach. But we weren't taking our talents there, we were taking them to downtown Hartford. Where I was fairly certain that "no shirts, no shoes, no service" was still the baseline and "dress to impress" was the preference. Oh, shit. That meant I was gonna have to get dressed for a club too. This day just kept getting worse. Why couldn't I just throw on some shorts, grab a giant bowl of ice cream and watch "Independence Day" like I did every year on the Fourth of July? No, I had to be little Miss Popular who wants to spend time with her friends going out and living life. This was fucking draining. And on top of all that, this burger -- which I'd only eaten half of -- was starting to make me queasy. Well, queasier. I'd been fighting a weird feeling in my stomach all day. God, I hope it's not cramps. I was ready for a lot of random shit I was going to have to deal with until I got this fixed. My period was not one of them. Honestly, if I could magically somehow not have to deal with those, that'd be fucking phenomenal. Cash finished off his burger and headed down the street to his car, a black Dodge Charger with black-and-red interior. I wondered if that was a sign, or if it was the universe's way of fucking with me. Or maybe it meant nothing -- it's not like it was a rare car with an uncommon color scheme. As he pulled out, another car immediately pulled into the vacant space, a red Mercedes-Benz C350 with tinted windows. I recognized it immediately, and wasn't surprised when the driver stepped out. It was Monica. As much as I wasn't looking forward to seeing her, it was nice to see that one thing -- her car -- hadn't changed. And Monica herself hadn't changed much either, though the version of her I was looking at was... well, "better" probably wasn't the way to describe it. She was more primped. Monica had always taken special care of her appearance when she was dating Mark, but her style was "laid back". She wore good looking clothes that were also comfortable and casual and while she wore a lot of makeup, she made it look like she didn't. This version of Monica was "night club" Monica. She was wearing a white glitter dress with matching four-inch heels and her traditional Gucci sunglasses. Her hair was down, and perfectly waved with fresh highlights, like she'd just come from the salon. She waved to me as she got out of the car, then pushed her sunglasses up on her head, revealing some seriously heavy eye makeup. "You know we're going to a club in Hartford, not Paris, right," I asked. She kissed me on the cheek and flipped her sunglasses back down. "There's nothing wrong with looking your best," she said. "Especially if you might run into your ex." Right, Bryce, the guy I'd apparently been advising her to break up with, which she finally did yesterday. "How are you doing," I asked, trying to play the role of the sympathetic friend. "I'm good," she said, not that I really cared. Truthfully, I'd always resented Monica for getting between me and Mark, and now not only were my suspicions about her personality confirmed but I was apparently enabling her, which didn't speak well about the kind of person this body had been before I'd ended up here. But the weird thing is that so far everyone I'd encountered seemed to like me. Though honestly I wondered what they were saying about me behind my back. Was Gwen telling Darnell how much of a bitch I was just before I walked by? Did Monica hate me for telling her to break up with Bryce? I just wanted to go back to when I KNEW everyone I knew hated me. Life sucked like that, but it was certainly easier. "Hey, Gwen," Monica called out, as Gwen waved back. "We're gonna head upstairs so Ali can get ready, OK?" Wait, what? Get ready? Already? "We've got time," I said. "Let's just hang out for a bit." "Oh, please," Monica said. "Knowing you, if you start getting dressed now, we should be at the club just in time for last call." She started walking up the walkway to my front door, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me along in the process. I guess I didn't really have any say here. I was getting dressed up for a night of clubbing, whether I was ready or not. ***** I finished taking a shower to get the chlorine smell off my body and had started drying myself off when Monica knocked on the bathroom door. "Leave your hair wet," she said. "I want to try something." "OK," I said nervously. All day I'd just been pulling my hair back into a ponytail, so any type of styling was going to be an adventure. "I still can't believe you dyed it," Monica said, still talking to me through the closed door. "You were perfect with the red." So, I guess I dyed my hair black for some reason, and apparently it had been red before that, and blonde whenever I got my driver's license photo. Who knows how many other colors I'd gone through over the years? "I was so over the red," I said, which was a blatant lie on every level. Not only did I not know if that was the reason I dyed it, but I adored redheads. My favorite comic book character of all-time was Mary Jane Watson from Spider-Man and I had a giant poster of Jennifer Garner from the first episode of Alias hanging in my bedroom growing up. If I had to be a girl, I'd want to be like them - instead I looked more like Lois Lane, which I kind of hated, since I wasn't remotely a DC fan. I wrapped the towel around my body, and patted down my hair with another one, leaving it wet but not dripping. Monica and I went back to my room, and she immediately opened up my closet, which was bursting with clothes. "So, how badly do you want to make this guy drool," she said. "What guy," I asked. I really had no idea. "Oh, don't play dumb with me," she said, running her finger along hangers to find a dress. "I saw you flirting with that guy from the party before I showed up." "You mean Cash," I asked. I still felt stupid saying his name, and Monica seemed to concur. "Cash," she said, laughing. "Oh, honey, please tell me that's some frat nickname or something." "No," I said. "He swears it's his real name." "Yeah, just like he swears he totally knows what those Chinese characters tattooed on his shoulder mean," she said. "Wow, so you got a pretty good look at him from your car," I said. "Your car with its tinted windows, while you were wearing your sunglasses." "OK, fine, you got me," she said. "Gwen might've texted me some details. And a photo. And I might've checked on him on Facebook." "Ohmigod," I said, exasperated. "You know you're not my mom, right?" "I just feel like I owe you," she said. "You said from the start that Bryce wasn't right for me, and you were totally right." "Speaking of Bryce," I said, trying to get the conversation off Cash and me -- if there was even a "Cash and me", which I'm pretty sure there wasn't, "how'd he take it?" "Oh. My. God," Monica said. And I'm pretty sure she wasn't reacting to my question about Bryce. She pulled out a red bandage dress and held it up. "When did you get this? Where did you get this? How did you... Ohmigod, this is a Herve Leger!" Monica was freaking out over this dress, and I was freaking out about the possibility of having to wear it. It was low-cut in the front, open in the back and looked like it would barely fit me, even as tiny as I was. So I tried to get her to put it back. "Isn't that a little dressy for tonight," I asked. "Even by your standards?" "Oh, come on, you don't buy a thousand-dollar dress to leave it hanging in the closet next to this nerd costume," she said, pointing to the spandex Phoenix outfit I'd seen in those pictures from New York Comic Con. Also, did she just say a thousand dollars? I think the most expensive piece of clothing I owned as Andrew -- outside of football jerseys -- was a $150 suit that I bought to wear to a wedding about a year ago. And I'd only worn that once before getting too fat for it. This thing Monica was holding up had about one-tenth the fabric of that suit (if that) and cost seven times as much. I couldn't even comprehend that. And I still didn't want to comprehend wearing it. So I improvised. "Ok, let's say I'm trying to impress this guy -- which, I'm totally NOT, by the way," I said. "If I start with this, I really have nowhere to go but down. Shouldn't I build to it? You know, break it out when I need it the most?" "You always did know how to play a guy," she said, hanging the dress back up, being incredibly careful not to wrinkle it in the process. "OK, what about this one," she said, pulling out a black lace bodice dress. It was just as short as the last one, and still didn't have sleeves, but it wasn't quite as revealing. And both the top part and the skirt had an extra layer on top. Sure, it was lace, but it was better than nothing. "That's much better," I said, holding my hand out. She handed me the dress, then started looking for a pair of shoes to match with it. I tossed the dress on my bed and opened my underbed drawer to find some underwear. I realized with my shoulders being covered only by lace, I'd either have to go with a strapless bra or a black one, unless I wanted to be super suggestive. And no, to make it clear, I did not. I grabbed the first black bra I found, which was a Victoria's Secret push-up bra with matching lace-lined panties. Suddenly going underwear-less seemed like a viable option. "Oh," Monica said, looking over at my selection. "Well, if you're going with that, then these won't do." She was holding a pair of black ballet flats with a lace ribbon on top. They would've gone perfectly with the dress and not destroyed my feet all night, but apparently my choice of bra had sent Monica a signal that I wanted to look "sexy" and not "cute". Was it too late to just call this whole thing off? I dropped the towel and pulled on my underwear as quickly as possible. The 32A bra was a little tight, but once it was on, I could see in the mirror that it noticeably enhanced my cleavage. I'd gone from looking like I barely had breasts to looking like I had a decent pair worth showing off, even if I didn't want to. I was about to pull the dress on, when Monica stopped me. "Wait," she said. "Let's do your hair first." I sat down in my vanity chair and she put her sunglasses down on the table. As I watched her work in the mirror, I was impressed with how well she was able to manipulate my hair with her long nails. I'd thought mine were long when I first noticed them this morning, but hers were a solid half-inch longer, with a french manicure. I didn't remember her wearing them that long before, but I never really paid that much attention to them, since she was Mark's girlfriend, not mine. "You should probably start doing your makeup," she said while pulling some of my hair into a small braid. I wasn't sure if I could. I knew I couldn't get away with just a fresh coat of lipstick like I had at the gym this morning. And given Alana's stage and costuming background, I also couldn't get away with saying "I don't know how." Just think, Andrew. I'd seen plenty of girls do this at the genius bar while completely ignoring my instructions on how to use their computer. It shouldn't be that complicated. I thought maybe if I just kept it simple, stuck to the basics, I could be OK. Then something strange happened. As soon as I reached for the makeup kit, I felt a tingling sensation in my head. I thought at first that it was something Monica was doing with my hair, but at that moment she was reaching down into her purse for another hair-tie to pull a couple of the braids together -- I knew she wasn't close to finished, but honestly my hair looked kind of idiotic like this, with just a couple of side braids. Without even thinking about it, my hand picked up some foundation and started applying it. That makes sense, I thought. It's called "foundation" for a reason. I started with a few quick dabs in the middle of my face and worked outward, blending as I went. I put the foundation down and applied some powder to my face, not even knowing what it was. Part of me was amazed and part of me was scared. I had no idea how I was doing this, and more importantly, I couldn't seem to stop. I put down the powder and tried just leaving the makeup at that -- which, honestly, wasn't really an application of makeup at all -- when the tingling started again. Instinctively, I reached for a jar of Glamour Daze Powder Blush from MAC. Funny, I always used to joke when people called us "The MAC Store" that we didn't sell makeup. It was one of those jokes that only nerds and frequent Apple Store customers appreciated, which was understandable, since it was a pretty nerdy joke, and a bad one at that. But it caught on, and I was far from the only one who used it. Hell, Cole practically said it every day, and he was one of our store managers. I started to wonder about Cole, and the other people I worked with at the store, and if I knew any of them as Alana. And as my mind wandered, my hands kept working. I'd gotten so lost in Andrew's thoughts that I had barely noticed that Alana was now wearing smoky red eyeshadow with thick black eyeliner that blended nicely with her dark red lips. I looked down and saw tissues where I'd removed the pink lipstick from earlier in preparation of this darker, more club-like look, and I was holding a Cremesheen Glass lipgloss tube. Monica had also just about finished my hair, pulling all the braids into a single wet bun. She was finishing tightening the wet strands now, creating a stick look with the hair. But I couldn't focus on the hairstyle while I was still freaked out about the makeup thing. This went way beyond muscle memory or even randomly accessed memories like at lunch with Gwen. It was like Alana took over for a few minutes while Andrew was daydreaming. And it freaked me out. I tried to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, but Monica quickly noticed me panicking. "Are you OK," she asked. "You like the hair, right?" A couple more deep breaths, and I was back in business, though my stomach was still doing somersaults. "The hair's fine," I said. "No, better than fine. It's stunning." "Not half as good as your makeup job," she said. "Even with all the tips you've given me, I can't get mine that nice." "I guess I'm just a natural," I said, which this time was the God's honest truth. I dabbed a bit of lip gloss on the middle of my top and bottom lips and puckered them together -- that was something I'd definitely seen girls my age do at the bar -- and closed up the tube. Then I put on my dress, which was a bit tighter than I'd expected. Still, I was able to close the side zip with no problem at all. Thanks newfound thinness and flexibility! Monica handed me a pair of lace, VC Signature booties with a four-inch heel. I immediately took one look at them and decided that if I was going to wear them -- and I pretty much had to since Monica picked them out and even I had to admit, as fashion-challenged as I was, that they were a perfect match for this dress -- that I wouldn't be doing too much drinking tonight. It was probably a given that Alana's body didn't have a high tolerance for alcohol, given that she was barely 100 pounds, and the last think I needed was to be tipsy in heels I wasn't comfortable walking in. But I pulled them on, then stood up and gave myself one last look in the mirror. "We're drinking free tonight," Monica said. She put her sunglasses back on and started walking down the stairs. I grabbed mine -- a basic black-and-pink pair that looked to be a designer knockoff -- along with a silver watch from the vanity. As Andrew, I never wore a watch; my phone was more than enough to tell the time. But this was more fashion accessory than timepiece. I picked up my phone, tossed it in my purse and headed downstairs after Monica. As I got downstairs, I ran into my mom in the living room. "Headed out," she asked. "Yeah," I said. "Hitting the club with Monica." "OK," she said. "Don't get into too much trouble." God, I hoped I wouldn't. ***** "Are you having a good time?" It was the third time Monica had asked me that question since we'd arrived at the club, and my answer had been the same every time. "Yeah," I said. "This is fun." But it wasn't, and she could definitely tell that I wasn't having fun. And why should I be? I'd never liked the club scene, the loud music, the expensive mixed drinks... none of it was me. It didn't help that at the moment I wasn't me. I woke up this morning as a female version of myself and now I was sitting in a club wearing a dress with men trying to pick me up by buying me drinks while my best friend -- who I only previously knew as the girlfriend of my actual best friend -- was running interference on guys she deemed unworthy of me. And thank God she was, because the last thing I wanted to do was be hit on by some skeevy club guy with too much gel in his hair and too little brains in his head. "You want another drink," Monica asked. "No, I'm good," I said, running my finger around the rim of a vodka- cranberry cocktail. I'd ordered it as soon as we got here, because it was the only thing I could think of that seemed like something Alana would drink that I was also willing to force down, but I hadn't had a sip yet. I'd just been occasionally looking back at the glass, watching the ice melt and water down the alcohol. "Actually," I said, "I could use a water. Just water. Ice water. On ice. It's really hot in here." Monica went off to the bar, briefly leaving me alone at our booth. It comfortably seated six, so it felt mildly embarrassing to be in it by myself. I guess sitting here solo keeping watch over Gwen's purse was a better option than going to the bar myself and ordering my own drink. Still, sitting alone at a bar was a feeling that was all-too-familiar. And as much as I was desperate for familiar feelings right now, this wasn't one I was particularly keen on reliving. From across the room, I could see Monica at the bar, and she was happily flirting with a decent-looking guy, which meant I probably wasn't getting that water any time soon. I took a sip from the glass I already had at hand and immediately regretted the decision. I wasn't a liquor drinker; beer was my drink of choice, the cheaper the better. Give me a sports bar with big TVs, two-dollar drafts and plenty of wings in the kitchen and I was happy. I didn't need cocktails, dance floors or -- most especially -- fancy clothes. I looked down at my body and was a little distressed to see that I'd been tapping my foot to the music, the terrible dance-pop music pulsing through the club. It was just another of those involuntary reflexes that had been happening all day, my "Alana moments" as I'd already come to call them. I felt stupid coming up with a name for it, considering I was still holding out hope that this would be my first and last night in this body, but I was slowly losing hope of that. The thought seemed ironic as Rihanna's "We Found Love in a Hopeless Place" started blaring from the club's speakers. Forget love, I just wanted to find me. I closed my eyes and took another sip from my drink when I felt a hand on my shoulder, startling me and causing me to drop the drink before I could even wet my lips. "Oh, fuck me sideways," I said, seeing the mess the spilled drink had made on the table. I quickly snatched my purse before it got wet, then turned to see Cash sliding up beside me. "Well, if you want to move that fast," he said, trying to ease the tension. At least I hoped that was what he was doing, and didn't really think I was propositioning him. "No, that's not... I mean... I'm just... I'm kind of a klutz," I said. "Really," Cash asked. "I figured a dancer like you would be really graceful." "Well, I mean, I am," I said, stumbling to cover my idiocy. "I just, I get kind of klutzy when..." "When you've had too much to drink," he asked, interrupting me. "Like, totally, way too much," I said. I played it up by trying to stand up and "falling" toward him. I'd only had a tiny sip of alcohol all night, but he didn't have to know that. Thankfully he arrived an hour late, and seemed pretty gullible. Or was just willing to believe anything a pretty girl told him, a feeling I certainly knew. "OK," he said. "So no more drinks for you tonight." "That seems like a good plan," I said, playfully. "Or maybe you're just too cheap to buy me a drink." "If I buy you a drink, you promise to keep it in the glass and not on the table," he asked. "Maybe it'll end up on you," I said, flicking up some of the spilled cocktail from the table onto his black button-down shirt. He quickly brushed it off, and sat down at the booth as Monica arrived back with two large martini glasses. "That's not water," I said to her as she handed me the glass with a pink cocktail with strawberries in it. "Oh, come on," she said. "One Tickled Pink isn't going to hurt you." Hurt me? No. Embarrass the crap out of me? Possibly. Then again, what did I have to be embarrassed about? I was a tiny little girl drinking a girl drink in a girl dress with my best girl friend? Girl. The word just kept reverberating in my head, giving me a headache on top of the nausea I was already dealing with. Holding the glass in my left hand I started rubbing my head with my right. Cash took the glass from me and helped sit me down. "I think she's already had enough," he said to Monica. "Enough," Monica asked. "She's barely..." "Barely 100 pounds," Gwen said as she approached the booth with Darnell, the guy who'd gotten us in without a cover charge and helped us stake out this VIP booth for ourselves. "That girl has NEVER been able to handle her liquor." Gwen took the drink from Cash and clinked glasses with Monica's drink, a blue-tinted cocktail similar to mine, with an orange-peel garnish instead of strawberries. "You got that right," Monica said, before they quickly drank down the cocktails. Gwen took the strawberries from hers, popping one in her own mouth and one in Darnell's. I got the sense that Gwen wasn't really interested in Darnell, but was playing the part so we'd continue to get cheap drinks and preferential treatment. She gestured to have him sit down with us, as they sat to my left and Monica and Cash pushed into the booth on the right, leaving me trapped in the middle. Great, I was the center of attention, the exact one spot I didn't want to be in. "So Ali, are you planning on staying in town long," Cash asked. "Yeah, Ali, you've been pretty quiet about your plans since you got back," Monica said. I thought if Alana would've told anyone about why she left New York it would've been Monica, but I guess I would've been wrong about that. Though I wouldn't put it past Monica to play dumb just to get me to open up to Cash. Or any good-looking guy with a nice set of pecs and a thick wallet in his pants. "Right now, I'm just thinking about next week," I said. "And everything will fall into place after that." "Of course it will," Gwen chimed in. "Because everything always falls into place for Ali." "I'll toast to that," Monica said, as she and Gwen clinked glasses again and drank their cocktails. I detected a hint of jealously in Gwen's voice, and I couldn't begrudge her that if she was telling the truth. I lived a life where nothing fell into place, and couldn't stand people who had everything go their way without working for it. The sad thing about that, though, was that was exactly what I wanted from life. I wanted success, fortune, love, all those things, but I never wanted to work for them. Alana appeared to have most of those things -- well, not "fortune" per se, but it was clear from her extensive wardrobe that she wasn't hurting for money -- but I also didn't think it all just fell into her lap. You don't get a master's degree by accident. Sadly, though, I didn't have any ammunition to fire back at Gwen with, mostly because I didn't really know Alana. "Hey, leave the girl alone," Darnell said. "She clearly doesn't want to talk about whatever she's got planned for the future." God bless you, Darnell. "So let's talk about the past," he added. God damn you, Darnell. The whole "strong, silent" thing had really been working for you up until now. "Is it true you dated one of the Knicks," he asked. "I was a dancer for the team," I said, which thanks to my Facebook research earlier today I knew was true. "That doesn't answer the question," he said. "Oh, sweetie," Gwen said, "A girl like Ali doesn't kiss and tell." "So there was kissing," Darnell asked, before letting out a deep laugh, which made me laugh, which then made me self-conscious about my girlish giggle. Before Darnell could continue to grill me about a dating history that was a complete mystery to me, Gwen tapped me on the arm and pointed across the dance floor. "Hey, is that..." I had no idea who she was pointing at, but I suspected from it was someone that we weren't interested in running into. "Bryce," Monica said. "I KNEW it! I knew that asshole would show up." Monica reached over Cash and angrily grabbed me by the left arm, pulling me out of the booth. I awkwardly contorted my body over Cash's, accidentally shoving my breasts in his face in the process. "Omigod," I said, blushing out of embarrassment. "Never mind him," Monica said, continuing to pull me away. "I need you. NOW!" I wasn't sure exactly what Monica had planned, as she towed me to the far side of the club to the DJ booth. The lanky hipster behind the two MacBook Pros had on an enormous pair of Sony studio headphones, so he didn't hear Monica at first, but she kept angrily waving her hand in his direction, eventually getting his attention. "I NEED A FAVOR," she yelled at him, but with his headphones on, he couldn't hear her, so he gestured to her to come around the booth. She quickly obliged, telling him something in his ear as he briefly uncovered it. He nodded, and she stormed back around, and then dragged me onto the crowded dance floor, picking out a prime spot near the bar, where Bryce was trying to order a drink. As the last strains of the latest Ne-Yo song faded out, they were quickly replaced by an unmistakable beat. "Let's dance," Monica yelled to me, not so much asking as demanding I go along with her plan to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. This felt wrong on so many levels. Not only was I a girl, dancing with another girl, but this girl that I happened to be dancing with was still -- in my mind -- my best friend's girlfriend. I didn't even know if I knew Mark as Alana, but I felt like I was betraying him nonetheless. Still, I couldn't help but be attracted to Monica as she rubbed up against me, with the familiar strains of Katy Perry's voice filling the club. "This was never the way I planned, not my intention... No, it certainly was not. I wasn't sure how to proceed here. Part of me wanted to tell Monica that she didn't need to do this, that she was above juvenile games like making an ex-boyfriend jealous. Part of me wanted to tell her that if she was this concerned about what Bryce thought then she probably wasn't over him and should go just talk to him. And then part of me, some part I didn't want to admit existed, just wanted to go with the flow and dance with Monica. She looked amazing, and the way the club lights reflected off the glitter on her dress, it made her look like the most amazing, sensational person in the club. Before I knew it, instinct was taking over, and it was no longer just Monica dancing with me... we were dancing with each other. My body moved perfectly in tune with hers and in tempo with the music. I dropped my ass down to the ground and snapped as I came back up, and Monica slapped my ass. I turned around and grabbed her ass and pulled her in close. We were face-to-face as the chorus hit, and right then, with Bryce staring right at us, it happened. "I kissed a girl and I liked it..." And this wasn't just a quick peck on the lips. She put her hands behind my head and pulled me in close, closing her eyes right before laying her wet lips right on mine. My left leg kicked up as she slid her tongue in my mouth and worked it over with her silver tongue stud. Her left hand moved down my neck as we moved our heads back and forth, working each other over. It felt like we'd been lip-locked for hours, but the song hadn't even reached the end of the chorus when Monica finally pulled her tongue back and let me breathe again. The look of shock on Bryce's face was only exceeded by the one on my own. I struggled to catch my breath as a warm feeling came over my entire body. I HAD kissed a girl, and I MORE than liked it. I wanted more, but Monica just blew a kiss to Bryce, then turned and headed back to our booth. For a few seconds, I was too stunned to move, but I composed myself and managed to quickly follow her -- well, as quickly as I could in these ridiculous heels. "That'll teach him to cheat on me," Monica said, sliding back into the booth. Cash slid over next to Gwen to make room for the two of us. I really wanted to go sit by Darnell, if only to prevent myself from doing anything further and dumber with Monica, but if I asked everyone to move, it'd be obvious what I was doing. So I came up with a different plan. "Gwen, honey, can you hand me my purse," I said. "I need to go freshen up." "I bet you do," she said, with her eyes wide with shock. Obviously making out with her friends was not something Alana did often. "Maybe I should've asked if you dated one of the Knicks dancers," Darnell said. Everyone at the table laughed, and I nervously joined in, before shuffling off to the bathroom, where there was a line of girls waiting to get in. Fuck. I didn't really need to freshen up, I just wanted a moment of privacy, and I didn't feel like waiting. So I did the only thing I could think of. I went into the men's room. What? As far as I was concerned, I was still a man, just one that happened to be in a very unmanly body at the moment, and at this point "maintaining the illusion" was so much less of a priority than regaining my composure. Luckily no one was in the bathroom when I stormed in. It was a single- occupancy restroom, though it did have a urinal and a stall. I went into the stall, closed the door behind me and sat on the toilet -- making sure to put the seat down, so I wouldn't fall in. I didn't need to succumb to that female clich? on my first day as a girl. I sat there for about a minute when I heard my iPhone chime with the default text message notification sound. Putting aside my surprise that Alana hadn't customized that, I pulled out the phone and saw the message was from Monica. "Sry 2 put u on spot. thx for helping me get back at bryce." Before I could respond, another message came in. "btw, ur a great kisser ;)" Well, at least I had that going for me. Which was... not the point at all. Still, I had to admit, the kiss itself had made me feel good. No, not good. Great. I wasn't sure if it was my male mind or my female body that was more turned on by it, but I couldn't deny that it was a huge turn on. And the fact that it was so wrong on so many levels made it even more of a turn on. It wasn't just hot, it was dangerous and hot, which made it even hotter. Before I could text Monica back, I heard the bathroom door open. "Ali," a voice asked. "You in here?" It was a male voice, but I didn't recognize it as Cash's or Darnell's. I didn't know what to do, so I quickly switched my phone to vibrate and stayed silent. "Look," he said, knocking on the stall door. "I saw you come in, and unless this is a very different type of club than I was expecting, no dude is rocking those heels." Busted. I tossed my phone back in my purse, got up and flushed the toilet, before opening the stall door and trying to quickly walk past the man who was standing outside it. "Sorry, the line for the ladies' room was so long," I said, trying to scamper past whoever this guy was. But he reached out and grabbed me by the arm. "Ow," I said. I wasn't just playing the part. He'd grabbed me hard enough that it actually hurt. I really felt scared - and this wasn't just a hypothetical fear like I'd felt when I encountered Ryan earlier. Here I was, in a nightclub men's room with an unfamiliar guy who knew my name and was holding my arm tightly. He spun me around and grabbed my other arm with his other arm. I looked up and saw that it was Bryce, but before I could react, he'd pulled me up and stuck his tongue down my throat. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to kick him in the balls, scream rape and run out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. But instead I froze. I did nothing. Then, as instinct took over, I kissed him back. My mind was racing with conflicted thoughts. I was screaming out, asking what the hell I was doing, while at the same time experiencing that warm, tingly feeling again. His 6-foot-1, 195-pound frame had no trouble spinning me back into the bathroom stall. He let me go to close and lock the door behind us. "That was quite a show you two put on," he said. "WHAT THE HELL," I yelled out, trying to force my way past him. "Oh, come on, Monica's not here," he said. "And it's pretty obvious you didn't tell her about us." US?! What the hell is going on with this girl's life? "There is no 'us'," I said. But I knew from that kiss that it wasn't true. "Sure," he said. "We're just fucking around, I get it. But with Monica out of the way, I thought..." "You thought what," I asked, angrily. "That I'd just turn around and betray my best friend?" "You have been sleeping with her boyfriend for six months now," he fired back. Oh my god, I'm the worst person ever. I mean, I certainly didn't like Monica, at least not the Monica I knew, but she didn't deserve this. I know I wanted her and Mark to break up, but I would've never told Mark to cheat on her. And yet Alana was perfectly fine not only telling Monica to break up with her boyfriend, but helping move that process along behind the scenes by FUCKING HIM?! Ohmigod, did Bryce think we were going to have sex right here? In this nightclub bathroom? Is that why he followed me in here? "Well, we're not doing that tonight," I said. "No, I know," he said. "You have to play it cool with Monica. But we can't keep going like this forever." "I have a boyfriend, you know," I said to Bryce. "Yeah, the Australian guy, right," he asked. "How many times have you done it with him? Once? Twice? Yeah, you two are real tight." "Love isn't just about sex," I said. I couldn't believe I was having this conversation, and it was starting to make me sick. All those warm, fuzzy feelings from my kisses with Monica and Bryce had faded away, and the queasy feeling from earlier in the night had returned. "Oh, 'love'," he said, air-quoting sarcastically. "That why you let him go to L.A. while you stayed here?" "Look, you don't know anything about my love life," I said. "I know I want to be a part of it," he said. Great, Alana's fuck-buddy wants to be Alana's boyfriend. And I'd totally be mocking the fucked-up- ness of this situation if at the moment I wasn't Alana. I reached past him and unlocked the stall door. He moved out of the way and let me open it. "We can have this conversation," I said. "But not here and not now." I walked towards the bathroom door and Bryce started to follow me, before I turned around to stop him. "Wait 10 minutes before coming out," I said. "We don't want to cause a scene." He backed up and leaned against the wall, pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his pressed black slacks to check the time. The screen glowed against his tailored navy blue shirt, which nearly matched the color of his eyes. Even after our quick kiss-and-tussle, his blonde hair was still perfectly coiffed. I had to admit that if I was going to pick someone to completely betray my best friend with, I certainly could've done worse. "10 minutes," he said in agreement. Leaning against the bathroom door, I gave him one last look before heading out, catching a glimpse of the one piece of clothing that didn't quite go with the rest of his outfit: his shoes. "Nice Jordans," I said. He gave me a quizzical look as I slid out of the restroom, hoping no one would see me, the girl who'd just been making out with another girl on the dance floor, leaving an occupied men's room.