We're Just Friends Ch. 1 and 1/2

Chapter 1 - Lake

           The party music blasted loudly downstairs, and I swear I could feel it shaking the bed. But that’s

probably because I was hyper-conscious of my half state of undress as well as the guy semi reclining against the headboard.

            I knew who he was, though I wasn’t sure he still remembered my name. Viking Huller. Some girls would go as far to say the Viking Huller. I snuck a look at him from underneath my tempest tossed strawberry blonde hair. He was okay, maybe a 7 out of 10. He had these really nice eyes, sort of the color between milk chocolate and caramel. And his hair was a nice light brown color with those natural sun kissed blonde highlights. And he played on the soccer team, according to my best friend Amanda Wines.

            Even so, my stupid shallow teenage self at that precise moment couldn’t help but wondering: Was it really alright? Like, really really?

            Here I was, only bra and panties laying rigidly underneath the bed sheets with Viking Huller smoking a cigarette next to me. I didn’t want to bother finding out whether or not his boxers were still on. We had turned off the lights about an hour earlier, (and he had locked the bedroom door) and engaged in some sort of awkward make-out session that left me feeling like a limp fish out of water. Not to mention that Viking Huller the Little was also limp.

            Which brought us, about an hour later of trying almost too eagerly, to the point where doubts flashed through my mind and Viking puffing out his frustration, sexual or whatever.

            I was sure, undoubtedly, that Viking had to know about my lack of sexual expertise. Hell, I didn’t even know that much about kissing back then. Crazy scenarios burned at the back of my eyelids, a speech bubble from one of those comic books ballooning out of my lips bursting with the words VIRGIN ALERT!!!

            All the while, my alter ego, devilish and sexy Blake was perched on my bare naked shoulder fluttering her eyelashes incredulously while nearly shouting, “You stupid bitch, this is your chance to have sex with Viking Huller, the Viking Huller. You’re never going to get this chance again, don’t screw it up!” And then my angelic self Flake was pouting her nude colored lips while simpering back, “Don’t listen to her! This is YOUR virginity that we’re talking about. You shouldn’t have sex until after marriage!”

            Of course Flake sounded a little too much like my mother (who naively believed I was sleeping over at Amanda’s house tonight) which was why I quickly pushed her off my shoulder and she disappeared in a huff.

            Stuck obliviously in my dilemma I didn’t realize that Viking was talking to me until after he repeated himself a second time.

            “I said how do you like the party?” Whatever Viking was, handsome, jacked, popular or whatever, he was definitely not socially adroit. What an appropriate question to ask when, hello, were about to have freakin sex. Or wait, was this normal pre-sex conversation?

            “Uh, yeah, it’s cool.”

            “Yeah, my man Billy Webber’s throwing it. We play soccer together.” I dimly registered that this must be Mr. and Mrs. Webber’s bed we were currently infiltrating.

            “Cool.” Lame, was that the only word I knew?

            “Yeah.” Conversation died epically, stretching one imaginary hand toward a quickly dissipating sun while some heart-wrenching violin soloist squeaked out a melody on d minor. Okay, Lake, back to the real world.

            “Are, are you sure, you know, you want to go through it?” Finally he faced me, his eyes for once actually making contact with my own, and he snuffed out the butt of his cigarette.

            I stiffly crawled out of the sheets and sat up next to him. He had drawn up his knees so that he could rest his arms on his kneecaps. And though it was quite shallow of me to think, I couldn’t help but marvel at the veins lacing through his arms like an age old biological symbol for oh yeah I’m one fine honking male specimen you know you want to sex with.

            “I, I mean, you know, it’s like coo-good with me. If you want.” I blushed deeply at his confused expression. Speak English you dumb idiot!

            He chuckled, “So I’m going to decode that to mean you want this?”

            I nodded, the only response I could do. If I opened my mouth I wasn’t sure if I could refrain from asking whether “this” was sex or his package. I know, I know. Blame it on a combination of teenage hormones and adolescent immaturity.

            “Okay, then let’s go ahead and take it slow, shall we?” He leaned over on his side of the bed to turn off the lamp and then crawled underneath the covers. Gingerly, Viking snuck his right hand under my hip bone and the remaining hand palmed my cheek. I leaned closer to him and he pressed his lips against mine.

            For some reason, the mood was a lot less tense now, a lot less hurried, and more…pleasant. Experimental.

            Lake Sanders, 17 year old virgin, lost her virginity in the bed of the unsuspecting Mr. and Mrs. Webber to the then hawtie (yes I know it’s grammatically incorrect but bear with me for stylistic purposes) soccer superstar and surprisingly gentle Viking Huller. It was a superbly blissful, unbearably passionate, and altogether fantastical night (cue pink and blue bubbles in the background) that remained forever etched in her brain and heart for the many years to come. It was also the zenith of her sexually active career. And the subsequent event that led to her demise of sexual promiscuity. And the last time she saw Viking Huller. For a long time anyway.

            Yeah, I know that’s a long ass caption. If my boss Sally Upton with an Upturned Wedgie saw it she’d have a fit. That’s the point. This is a caption underneath a mental picture of insecure virgin me sitting in a picture with limp dick Viking Huller (thank god it didn’t stay limp). A damn fine caption may I add. Damn fine.

Chapter 1 and a half – Viking

            At one point of their adolescent career, all guys must master a very critical skill. The art of “looking”. We’ve all been there before, that painful shit-she-caught-me-looking-at-her. Of course, it might have been innocent, you know, just looking at her arm or her face. Fuck that. 90% of the time a guy looks at a girl, he’s only looking at three places: her chest, her ass, or her legs. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to objectify women as sexual objects. I’m trying to let you girls know that at least three of your body parts are. Some guys dig other shit, like that crazy ass guy from Charlie’s Angels who sniffs hair. At which point I’m not sure you ladies want to go home with a kinky fellow like that.)

            Anyways, tangent aside, that’s the reality. And after us guys get caught looking, and come on most sexually inexperienced or unconfident women tend to go with the dirty look, we come face to face with an ultimatum. Stop looking, or stop looking like we’re looking. Yeah, most guys go with the latter.

            Personally, I’ve always been a legs kind of guy. And after playing soccer for about ten years of my life, I’m not fond of muscular or tanned calves. No, I like those creamy, pale, and thin ones that sort of shyly sneak out of a just short enough flower printed skirt. It’s not sexual predation; (so calm down you frantic feminists) it’s knowing your preferences.

            I remember how I downed the rest of my beer can, and let my eyes roam around the packed living room (yeah this is a common technique, especially at parties). It was sometime during late may, and most of us seniors were ready to high tail it out of high school. My man Billy Webber, another soccer player on the team, was throwing a party on the weekend his parents left for Mexico.

            There were a lot of girls, but not all of them were available. I noticed some of the girls in our grade, but that was just bat shit awkward. Some of those girls were friends, others girlfriends of friends, and a couple I wouldn’t be caught naked with any day. And then there were the freshmen. Freshmen have this strange ability to stand out like they all walk around with a neon sign with blazing capital letters FRESHMEAT. I think it’s their really overdone makeup, or maybe the way they congregate like a bunch of geese, not sure when to come, where to go, and when to leave. Billy and Peter dug that stuff, I actually noticed that they were chatting them up, but freshmen just reminded me of my little sis Zoe who was also a freshman, and yeah…that’s just wrong. So that’s why my pool of possible girls was already pretty depleted and I was getting that irksome feeling that I might not get some tonight. Which was okay, I guess. Damn it.

            That’s when I happened to see her. She had just come in through the door, and had this strand of loose hair that sort of curtained her eyebrow and gave it a sexy, mussed up look. I knew she was the one when she walked further in and I appraised the strapless, tight flower dress she had on and her perfect legs. Throwing out the empty beer can, I went into the kitchen and brought out two fresh cans from the refrigerator. Following her with my “not looking” eyes, I waited until she settled down on the edge of the couch.

            Nonchalantly, I made my way over to her and the guy standing next to her.

            “Hey, thanks for coming man,” I said, feigning this cheerful what up brother from another mother attitude. I blame it on the alcohol, it makes me over friendly. I handed him one of the cans, and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

            “Yeah, thanks man, happy to be here.” The guy smiled brightly, obviously a little nervous. Then I recognized him, he was one of the guys who worked on the school newspaper. What was his name? Brandon? Bratt? Brad? Damn, it was B something. Oh well.

            “You want one too?” I casually looked over at her and offered the remaining beer in my hand.

            “Thanks,” she murmured. Her voice was lower than I expected, for some reason I was expecting a falsetto with that mound of strawberry blonde hair. Needless to say, it turned me on.

            “No problem,” I flashed her a quick smile.

            “This is quite the party,” Brad or Bratt said. To me it was kind of the norm, a grinding fest in the corner, drugs in another, sex upstairs, and puking in the bathroom. Then again Brad or Bratt didn’t look like the type to party much.

            “Yeah, my friend Billy’s throwing it. How long are you guys planning on staying?” Although I asked the question to both of them, I kept my eyes on her, letting her know that it was her answer I wanted. She gulped visibly, and my heart kind of squeezed tightly for a moment.

            “I don’t know, Lake when do you need to get back?” Lake, interesting name. Kind of boyish actually.

            “I don’t have a curfew, my parents think I’m sleeping over Amanda’s.” She faced him when she said this, but I could tell by the way she smiled that we were on the same page. The only thing left was to get rid of this dumbass here.

            “I think I might have to leave in about an hour or two,” he said looking at his watch. I wondered if this guy would get it if I gave him a couple of hints to leave earlier. It was worth a try.

            “Then you have to party it up before you leave,” I grinned, and swung my arms around his shoulder. He stiffened slightly, but I ignored it as I led him to the grinding corner – it was the best attempt at consolation I could offer him after taking the girl he had come with.

            “Tammy,” I tapped her shoulder and pushed him forward. She looked him up and down, and then at me with a cocked eyebrow. “Have you met Brad?” I stepped behind him before holding up my index finger. She shook her head imperceptibly. Only after I had four fingers in the air did she lean seductively into him and cooed, “Hey Brad.”

            Cunning imp. Four dinners on me and I was already nearing the limit of my credit card.

            I made my way back to the couch and sat down next to her. She was still perched on the armrest, a situation that placed her a couple of inches higher than me. Lifting her up quite easily by her hips, I plopped her down on the couch besides me. Much better. Also a sneaky way to establish physical contact.

            “So, most important question of the night, are you a freshman?”

            “No, should I be?” Her adorably doe shaped baby blue eyes cringed worriedly.

            “No.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “This is late, but hey I’m Viking.”

            “Lake. Lake Summers.” That name, I really liked the ring of it.

            “Are you, you know, on the newspaper?”

            “Yeah, how did you know?” She seemed genuinely surprised. Which she could be since no one paid attention to the high school newspaper.

            “Brad, I remembered he writes for the newspaper.”

            “Brad?”

            “Um, Bratt?” Her only response was an amused smirk.

            “Brandon,” I said, conviction settling in my voice.

            “Brian,” she corrected, barely suppressing a smile.

            “Whatever, he’s not important.”

            “Oh? Not even a bit?” She held my gaze as I slowly leaned torward her, closing the distance between our faces.

            “Nope.”

            “Then, what is?” Lake’s voice was barely a whisper and I gazed longingly at her lips. (By the way, for those confused, this is one of the few moments a guy can look, without using the art of “not looking”.)

            “You.” I inched my hand around the back of her neck. “And,” I paused again, softly kissing the edge of her mouth. “Me.” Another kiss. “Right.” Kiss. “Now.” Then I kissed her for real until both of our lips tingled.

            Ten minutes later, I led her up the stairs, gripping her slender hand tightly as we maneuvered around other couples. I kicked out the freshmen in the master bedroom, turned off the lights, and locked the door. You know what happened after that.

            I graduated high school with a tri-athlete award a couple of weeks later. Two months after that I enrolled in University, took a bunch of jock friendly classes, dropped out of soccer division after freshmen year, partied three more years and barely graduated. Secured an entry level position at a bank in L.A., had more fun and more parties and nine years later I was living with my parents, unemployed, and hopelessly in debt. A trip to the doctors for a slight fever confirmed that yes, at 31, male Viking Huller was positive for HIV.

            I remember thinking that it had to be a joke. I asked the doctor for some antibiotics and he gave me a booklet with a front picture of some middle-aged geezer smiling brightly with a corny tagline: I’m HIV positive and still positive about it.

            I kept waiting for someone to pop out with a camera and say you’ve been duped! How relieved are you? And then I would have good-heartedly beat the shit out of the little punk until he thought twice about playing jokes. But no one popped out, and I wasn’t sure how long I had stayed sitting on the bench in the hallway of the clinic. No one bothered me, so I assumed there was a sign post on top of my head stating RECENTLY DIAGNOSED HIV PATIENT, DO NOT DISTURB.

            “Viking Huller?” A soothing voice. Slowly I looked up and saw a smartly dressed women with a blazer and a black, tight skirt. Her hair was cut into a stylish bob now and her eyes were lined with black, but I recognized her the instant I saw her. Lake Summers.

            She looked down at the brochure in my fisted hand, then back up at me.

            “Hey,” I managed gruffly, before I lowered my face to cover my eyes. I won’t lie, that positive test screening was pretty much the cherry on top of the whip cream of the fucked up failure that was my life and the tears just came out. I cried, according to Lake much later, like a bitch in her arms and she just held me tight for an hour or so. That’s how Lake became my first ever and only female friend. A platonic friend.