I love the girl to death. She's the one who's always there for me when I'm upset, she's the one who always gives me a reality check on the "Scum" level of a guy, and she's the one who's seen me at my very worst and my very best. I love her. For awhile though, I couldn't be in the same room with her. It terrified me Why?... well, I'm not sure.

Let me start over.

Sex with your best friend goes something like this...

It was summer, and she and I went to my boyfriend's house to smoke some weed and sit in his hot-tub... The fireflies circled slowly into the night, and as the pot set in, a hot desirous haze fell over me that I just couldn't get rid of. No matter what I tried to divert myself with, my thoughts always settled back on what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her breasts pressing against me, to hear her moan. "Stop that," I tell myself. "She's CHELI. She's your friend! That's not allowed!" Meanwhile, she has taken off her bathing suit.

We sit there in silence, letting the water boil around us, smoking cigarettes, and staring at the stars. My boyfriend is passed out in the corner of the hot-tub on account of just being way too fucked up, and my hormones are still racing out of control. (Do all females who smoke pot get horny? Or is this just me?) "Well, if you're taking yours off, then I don't wanna feel left out or anything..." Off with the bathing suit... out with the hormones. I turn and look at her. She's smiling at me, laughing a little, getting silly. "I need a hug", she says, grinning giddily at me. Her blonde hair hangs damp and curled on her forehead, the tops of her breasts glisten in the moonlight, and her eyes are full of... something. The same something I know I'm guilty of thinking. Closer... Closer... There is a split second where reality freezes, and all I can hear is a shrill voice screaming in the back of my head. "No! You have a boyfriend! What is this, you're just going to screw her in front of him? Besides, she's your BEST FRIEND... this is going to ruin everything between you two. Don't do it, don't do it!" Aw, shutup Suddenly, my mouth is on hers, we are on eachother, and I feel as if I don't have enough time within this life to fully get as much out of her as I would like. I want to eat her whole. I want to consume her. I want us to be the same person in two different bodies, melting together, on fire. Twice we go at it, twice is the mixture of mouths, sweat, sex, breasts, and damp inner thighs.

We sit there in silence, letting the water boil around us, smoking cigarettes, and staring at the stars.

For months after this happened, I couldn't look her in the eye. I couldn't be alone with her. I could barely even bring myself to talk to her. Why? What the hell was I so scared of? This is the girl who puts up with my stubborn refusals to ditch certain yucky men, this is the girl who has held me while I drunkenly screamed for an hour about how I hated my mother for dying on me... we've shared everything, and I'm silly enough to let something like this affect me in ways it really shouldn't? Finally, a year and a half later, we are at a position where we can comfortably talk and joke about it... hell, we've even had some repeats... and finally, I'm facing the reality that this was probably the most intimate sex I've ever had.

We've decided that Vermont would be too cold for a wedding. We'd rather have it Hawaii, where we can sit on the beach, smoking cigarettes and staring at the stars.

I find him irresistable, but he's not mine. He loves me, but not "that way". I want him so badly but I mustn't touch. We are both aware of the situation but we don't let it interfere with our friendship.

But, sometimes, I just can't help myself.

All day long, I've been touching him--light caresses as I pass by, stroking his hair, small kisses and whispered innuendo.

I know it's wrong, a betrayal, and yet...

I'm looking for a reaction, any reaction. All day, he's been ignoring my actions, or purposely misinterpreting them. But it's getting to him. I can see it in his eyes - like a cornered animal - desperation.

One more brush of my fingertips, the heat of my hand penetrating through fabric to skin. And I see it.


My wrists are crushed in a bruising grip, my arms pulled up over my head. Back slammed against the wall. Pelvis ground against me. He's hard, so hard.

"Damn it," he hisses, "is this what you really want?"

Angry eyes bore into me. There is violence in that look.

Hoarsely, I whisper, "Yes."

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