Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys) (4 page)

THREE

“I’m not your type. My breasts are real.”

Janeane Garofalo

 
My best friend, Caroline Ford, suffers from a nasty case of self-deprecation. Caroline is my age, five-foot-seven, with a perfectly shaped classic bob in wheat-blond, mile-long legs, and a flat chest.
 

The flat chest is Caroline’s biggest worry in the female sex appeal department. Today she seems to have an especially hard time with it.
 

“So, I had a consultation with a plastic surgeon, and I think I might do it,” she says, trying to bite off a tiny piece of cuticle around her left pinky.
 

“You’re insane,” I declare.
 

“Oh, come on, Nat. Look at me.” She points ostentatiously to her non-existent breasts. “Remember last time we went shopping? The woman in the lingerie department couldn’t fit me in their smallest bra size. So what did she suggest?”

“That maybe you could just stick with the sport bras,” I answer, unmoved.
 

“Yeah, fuck that. I have more sports bras than she had on her shelves. And it’s not working. Do you know how embarrassing it is when a guy undresses you, all hard and ready, and he finds a freakin’ sports bra under your clothes? With nothing in it?”
 

I’m afraid Caroline will start foaming at the mouth. Sometimes she can get seriously worked up. I can understand her frustration, but come on—getting fake boobs is not a good option. She asks me why it isn’t, and—honestly—I can’t come up with a credible answer. But it just doesn’t seem right to have your chest stuffed with some man-made material.
 

“What if they leak?” I decide a health-aware approach. Caroline is very particular about her diet, doesn’t drink much, had never smoked or, God forbid, done any drugs. She would totally qualify as a “granola girl” if it wasn’t for me, Ali, and our other friend—Jena Simon. Together, we make sure Caroline doesn’t go overboard with the manic living healthy style.
 

Caroline makes a dismissive sound—something like ‘pffftt’—and tops it with a ‘seriously?’ face. “Are we living in the eighties? No, they normally don’t leak. But even if they did for some weird reason, I’m choosing saline over silicon. Saline won’t harm anyone.”
 

“Still. Caroline, don’t be stupid. You don’t want fake boobs,” I protest.
 

She crosses her arms hotly over her chest (no pun intended) and gives me a patronizing look. “Actually, Natalie, yes. I
do
want them. I want to have cleavage. I want to wear a bikini and have the guys salivate over my tits. I want to look and feel sexy.”

Oh, boy. There is no talking to her. No way can I convince her on my own. I take my cell phone out and text both Ali and Jena. We need an emergency intervention meeting.
 

“I’m gonna get some juice. Do you want some?” Caroline walks to her tiny kitchen.
 

“No thanks. Do you have a Coke? Diet?”

“Yes.”

“Really? You actually buy soda, you health-conscious freak?” I laugh.
 

“I only buy it for you and the other two crazies,” she shouts from the kitchen. She means Ali and Jena.
 

I hear her opening the freezer and scooping ice cubes from the tray and into the glasses.
 

Ali texts back, “U can’t b serious!”

I text that actually yes, Caroline
is
dead serious, and I want Ali and Jena here to convince my best friend that she doesn’t need Pamela Anderson’s boobs to be—or feel—beautiful. All three of us are on the text together, but Jena hasn’t responded.
 

As on cue, Ali asks, “Where is Jena?”
 

“I’m here.” Jena’s text finally comes through. “Give me an hour. I’m in the bathroom, getting ready for my hottie.”

Huh? Jena is about to get laid. Bitch. I inwardly roll my eyes.
 

Ali calls my cell phone, laughing, “Jena scores again!” she shouts. Her voice is distorted somehow, as if she’s eating.
 

“Hardy har har. Get your ass over here. Caroline is having a serious boob-induced breakdown.”
 

“On my way.”

“What are you eating?”
 

“A cranberry scone from Garnelli’s,” she says around a mouthful of food. I’ll bring some. Got a whole box here.”
 

Garnelli’s bakery is the best in town. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but as you step over the threshold, you feel as if you’re transported to the Italian countryside.
 
Walls are covered in frescos depicting Tuscan landscapes: lush vineyards, tall cypress trees, and groves of olive trees, white-walled houses, and monasteries.
 

And the smell! Once you experience the perfect mixture of sweet and savory baked goods with the aroma of strong espresso, it always stays with you.
 

I snap out of my food fantasy and realize that my stomach is growling, demanding some attention. I call out to Caroline, still bustling in the kitchen, “Ali will be here with Garnelli’s cranberry scones. But let’s order pizza too. I’m seriously starving.”
 

I pick up my cell phone, dial the Papa John’s Pizza down the street, and give them my order—three large pizzas, each with different toppings. I know each of my friends’ preferences so it’s a quick phone call.
 

Caroline comes out from the kitchen with a glass of apple juice and another glass filled with ice for me. Holding a can of Coke pressed between her torso and the inner side of her arm, she sets everything down on the small coffee table and wistfully says, “I
love
Garnelli’s scones. Is Jena joining us?”

“She’s busy getting laid. But yeah, I suppose she will. Eventually.” I grin.
 

“Again?” Caroline’s eyes get round. “I swear, that woman gets laid daily. Who’s she seeing now?”

“I lost track. She was with that model dude Carlos for a while. But he moved back to Milan last month.” I shrug. “I wonder what the hell he was doing in Seattle in the first place. It’s not like this is some hot modeling spot.”

Jena is a stunning college student. At twenty-two she’s the youngest of our group. She lives close to the University of Washington campus and doesn’t believe in owning a car. She rides her bicycle everywhere. That’s really bizarre, especially in winter. Although we rarely have snow in Seattle, our winters are often cold, and usually very rainy, which never deters Jena from her quirky commuting ways. However, we all tease her about not having issues with taking taxis quite often, while not buying her own car on the principle of caring about the environment.
 

The buzzer announces someone wanting to come upstairs to the apartment. Caroline presses the button on the wall by the front door, and Ali’s voice comes through the ancient intercom, “Little piggy, little piggy, let me come in.”
 

 
Caroline cracks up. “Come up, you crazy maniac.” She buzzes Ali in and waits in the opened door to her apartment.
 

“When the heck will you get an elevator in here?” I hear Ali grunt.
 

“Let’s both keep wishing.” Caroline hugs Ali kind of sideways, careful not to squish the big white box with the Garnelli’s logo on it.
 

“Why do you even live in this old building? It smells like someone died and was half-eaten by her cats.” Ali puts the box on the small hall table and grins at me. “Hey, gorgeous.”

“This building is close to a hundred years old. It’s a beautiful piece of architecture.” Caroline always defends her decision of living in such a place. “And it’s witnessed a lot of history.”
 

“Yeah, too much, I’m afraid. The smell in the hallways tells all kinds of stories.” Ali snorts.
 

The building is actually really cool, with red brick, huge windows, and a grand entry framed by tall marble columns on both sides of the half-circle steps. I like it a lot, but Ali prefers modern architecture and cringes at the mere thought of living in any structure older than twenty years.
 

Caroline opens the box of pastries and inhales, closing her eyes. “Oh, man. This is heaven.” She plucks up one of the scones and takes a giant bite, moaning in delight.
 

I chuckle and say to Ali, pointing with my chin to Caroline, “We are privileged to witness Caroline’s orgasmic sounds first-hand without even being lesbians. Now that’s something to celebrate.”
 

“You said it, girlfriend.” Ali takes two scones out of the box and passes one to me. She bites into her pastry and matches Caroline’s sigh of satisfaction. Well, she exaggerates of course.

I do the same. Caroline bursts out laughing, bits of food flying out from her mouth. She laughs so hard, watching me and Ali lick and pretend-kiss our scones, that she starts to hiccup.
 

“You dorks,” she rasps between hiccups.
 

“Mine likes it rough,” Ali says with a little growl in her voice and viciously bites into her scone.
 

Caroline and I howl in laughter. I wipe my eyes, mascara helplessly running down my cheeks.

 
“Lord, if Jena was here, I would lose it and pee my pants. She always tops it all.” I sit on the floor next to Caroline and put my head on her shoulder, still chuckling.
 

Ali joins us on the floor, bringing the Garnelli’s box to put between us. She takes another scone, looks at it, a pretend disgust look on her face, and says in a deep French-accented voice, “Oh, Monsieur, I wonder where that mouth of yours has been.” She tsks a few times, theatrically waves her hand, and adds, still keeping the thick accent, “I do not really give a flying crap.”

I feel the mascara flow down my face from my eyelashes in black, unattractive streaks. This time I almost pee my pants. I race to the bathroom, close the door behind me, and, doing a little dance, manage to peel my underwear from my butt just in time. I quickly sit on the toilet to relieve myself and start to wipe the mascara mess off my face with toilet paper. I sigh loudly, marveling at the thought of how good it feels to empty my overflowing bladder. Such a little thing can make one feel so mollified.

After I’m done, I turn to the miniature sink—the perfect fit in Caroline’s microscopic bathroom. My grin fades. On the top of the sink, in full, glorious display is perched a sparkling, pink,
enormous
dildo. Without picking it up, I inspect it. I had no idea my best friend’s size preference hovered in the mega section. My, my! I love the color though. This must have taken her a while to find. I try to imagine Caroline in the Lovers’ Alcove store, choosing and fussing around with different styles and colors, finally settling on this beauty. Nah, she probably bought it online. With a fake name and a P.O. box. Hell yeah, that sounds more like my proper Caroline.
 

I lift the dildo off the sink, applying some girl muscle since it has a suction cup as a stand. Whoa! Nifty. Holding the pink glittery giant in one hand, I put the other hand on my hip and, whistling Aretha Franklin’s
You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman
, enter the room where Ali and Caroline nibble on the scones.

I bring the dildo up, holding it close to my lips like a pretend microphone, and belt out the tune. I’m obsessed with Aretha Franklin’s work in general, but this track is my favorite.
 

Ali’s mouth opens in a silent, ‘Oh’, and then she shakes from laughter, pointing at the object in my hand. “No way! Where did you get this color?”

Caroline’s eyes become round, and she’s actually blushing. She gets over the initial shock, and grins. Before she says anything, Ali continues, roaring in laughter, “Nat, I had no idea you carried this around. That explains why you favor those luggage-sized purses.”

A puzzled look must be crossing my face, because Caroline breaks into giggles. “It’s mine! She found it in the bathroom.”

Ali looks at Caroline, still chortling. “Why the hell would you keep it in the bathroom, girl? Oh, okay. Too much information.” She lifts her palm out to stop Caroline from making any explanation.