invincible summer.

“What if I don’t let you fuck me any more?” she asked one morning. “I suppose we won’t have sex,” I said, still half asleep. “Would you like that?  We could just make out like teenagers.” “I think teenagers fuck now.” “Well we could make out like teenagers who don’t fuck.  We could kiss for hours, and you could get excited about taking off my bra again. We could run our fingers along the elastic of our underwear as if we’re afraid the other might say no.  I could rub you through your jeans and you could struggle with how to ask me to do more. It would be cute.” “Could I touch you?” “Maybe after an hour or two.  Once we’ve kissed long enough, and you’ve pressed your knee between my legs until I’m soaking wet.  Maybe once we finally take off both our shirts and we get to feel our skin touch for the first time.” “Then I can slide my hand beneath your skirt?” “Just for a moment.  Just long enough to see what it feels like and then you can taste me.  I’ll pretend to look away and you can taste me on your fingers and wonder if I’ll ever let you go down on me.” “I think it would drive me crazy.” “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

[For those who missed it, I requested that people ask me for advice, and tell me the form in which they’d like their reply. Yesterday I posted my first try, advice in the form of good ol’ MS Paint comix. It didn’t get enough attention, tbh.]

Let me tell you about my friend Kristin. She supports every dumb idea I have, including this one. She listens to me talk about my ~*~*problems*~*~ and she enjoys a good lazy day talking and eating in bed. She is the best person with whom to have an impromptu rich-kids-of-Instagram-style pool party. She is really pretty much the best? Everyone deserves a friend like her but very few have one.

So when she makes a request, goddammit, I do it. That’s just the kind of friend she is, the kind for whom you immediately and unquestioningly make a huge ass of yourself on the internets, without even taking your hair out of a bun or putting on earrings or makeup, or shit, something nicer than your OnePiece.

Lemme tell you something else: ya girl Rachel LOVES rap. Like, so so so sooo much. But I’ve never made my own… UNTIL NOW. Kristin, this isn’t really gangsta rap, except in the sense that I basically took someone else’s rad music and rapped over it (oh burn! For real though gangsta is maybe my second or third favorite kind of rap and I love it so so much). Needs more Bootsy bass, tbh. Also, I didn’t really answer your question, though I did address it, I suppose. So, basically I did nothing that you asked, and this is bad. Because I love you? 

TL;DR, enjoy the most embarrassing thing I have ever put on the internet. I love you SIXever, Kristin.

It’s only half on purpose, but when I let myself indulge in memory I always let in something else.  I let in something that wasn’t her, and wasn’t me, and definitely wasn’t us.  Sometimes it’s the way she talked or did her hair; sometimes it’s a dress she never owned or place we never fucked.  Often it’s just a few words of a conversation that didn’t happen. I can see her lying back on the bed with a satisfied smile and as she holds my hand lightly.  She just touches me with her fingers as we wonder who will talk first without a hint of worry about the answer.  In my mind’s eye I listen to my heartbeat as she rolls over onto her side and kisses my cheek.  She’s perfect and we’re both too sleepy to close our eyes. It’s not exactly the way it was, but it’s close enough to be convincing.  It’s close enough to be comforting and warming, and often I don’t even notice what’s missing.  It might have been just like that.