C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s

“C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s. I spelled it out for him myself.”

“There’s a word I never got in the spelling bee.” I snorted, closing my copy of Plato’s Republic and tossing it onto the floor.

Christy was sprawled across her bed, swinging her feet and finishing the last of her Zima, her tongue fishing for the lime. She stretched out to plop the empty into the cardboard container, her shoulders hanging off the bed, her little breasts pointing toward the floor.

“Want another one?” she offered, but I shook my head, waggling my half-full bottle at her. I’d already had too many, but mid-terms were over and we were celebrating. She settled herself back on the bed with a sigh, stretching, her tanned, bare bottom rounding with her arch.

She didn’t have to worry, really—we were in an all-girls dorm. Although she got more than her fair share of strange looks at first from other girls, no one ever said anything to her when she walked down the hall to the showers in her birthday suit She was one of those people who could pretty much get away with murder.

“Then what?” I asked—me, the shy girl, the one who changed every day in the bathroom stalls. I was too self-conscious to wear shorts or even tank tops. I was the button-down, jeans girl, winter or summer, didn’t matter. I could spell c-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s, but I could count on one hand the number of times a guy had half-heartedly attempted the thing.

“And then he said if I was waiting for him to do that, I might as well put a candle in the window for Jimmy Hoffa.”

She rolled over onto her back, putting her feet up on the wall and hanging her head off the end of the bed, making a face at me. I made one back, reaching for another Zima and grabbing a cut lime off the desk.

“And then?” I prompted.

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