Teach Me Dirty

My stomach churned. “You and Mr Roberts?”

She nodded. “Come on, Hels, it’s only a game! It’ll be fun!”

“You want me to draw dirty sketches of you and the love of my entire measly, miserable, weirdo teenage existence? Why? I’m not even drunk. You’re not even drunk.”

“Because it will be fun! And, we’re not drunk yet.” She reached for her overnight bag, and dug out a bottle. “Tada! A quality beverage from the cabinet of the delightful Ray.”

I took it from her. Cheap vodka. Nasty. I tutted but reached for our cola-filled tumblers regardless.

“Bad influence, Lizzie Thomas, you’re a very bad influence.”

She held out her glass for a toast, and I clinked it with a sigh. “To Mr Roberts,” she said. “And the magnificent cock you picture him with. May it be true to life. Amen.” She downed hers then pulled a face at the burn. “Now draw me,” she ordered. “And don’t skimp on the detail, I want everything, Helen Palmer, your very finest work.”

Nights like this were exactly why Lizzie Thomas and I were born to be best friends. A couple of vodkas took the edge off, and a couple more had me feeling just fine. The giddiness and the giggles numbed my shame in a way that felt nice and warm and tingly. Talking about the incident felt easier, lighter. Talking about him became dirtier, and Lizzie talked, too. She talked of sex, and boys, and all the hot things waiting for us at university that I had no interest in whatsoever, and all the while I drew her. And him. And me.

I drew all three of us, and it was hot, and wrong, and quite ridiculous, but what the hell. I had to slam the sketchpad closed as Mum poked her head around the door to say her goodnights, and only just managed to clear it from view in time. The damned thing was on a mission to embarrass me completely and utterly, like it hadn’t done enough already. Lizzie collapsed in giggles once the coast was clear, pointing at my cheeks as they re-bloomed to beetroot.

“Shut up,” I protested. “Just shut up, Lizzie. You’re so bad. Look what you’ve made me do!”

I held up the picture and her laughter stopped. Her eyes focused, and she reached out for it, holding it close for viewing. “You see me like this?”

“You are like this.” I giggled, warm. “You’re so pretty, Lizzie. Of course I see you like this.”

The girl in the drawing had Lizzie’s perfect smile, her twinkling eyes. She was mischievous and dramatic, and alive. In the picture I was holding her hand, both of us naked, on our knees, as Mr Roberts stood tall, his cock proud and ruler in his hand, about to land with a tap against his palm.

“I love it,” she said. “You are so cool, Hels. Sooo cool.”

She downed the last of her drink before pulling out her night clothes. I smiled at the faded cat print on her camisole. She’d been wearing that since we were in primary, only once it had been a nightdress. She undressed in front of me without the slightest awkwardness, brazen and bold, as though the picture itself had come to life. Through tipsy eyes I admired the girl I’d been drawing so accurately. Her tits were bigger than mine, her nipples darker against pale skin. Hers were perky, and bounced when she ran, unlike my little teenager breasts that I bulked out with padding. Her hips were curvy and her ass was cute, and the dark hair between her legs was so much more tame these days. Boys had seen to that. Namely one boy. Emo boy. Scottie Davis.

She pulled up a pair of frilly white panties, and checked herself out in my dressing table mirror.

“Height of fashion,” she smirked. “Check me out, Hels. Aren’t I a hottie?”

“I am checking you out.” I smiled. “You look cute.”

“You’re the cute one,” she said. “Nobody would ever guess what a dirty little cow you are.” She tapped her lips. “My secret. Promise.”

She offered out a hand and pulled me to my feet, wrapping her arm around my waist and making me stand beside her. Our reflections stared out at us, and in the lamplight I looked so much more innocent than her with her edgy little pigtails and smoky eyes.

“I’m boring next to you.”

“No way,” she said. “Don’t be a crazy bitch. You’re so beautiful, Helen.”

She brushed the hair from my face, chocolate brown tendrils of standard shoulder-length hair. My eyes were hazel, not bright blue like hers, and my mouth was not nearly so pouty or dramatic. I had a nice nose, and a cute enough face, and my eyebrows were thick and naturally shaped without the crazy plucking routine Lizzie endured, but she was dramatic, and hot, and different, and I was, well, Helen. Just Helen.