“No, the other one.”
“Greasy Greg?”
“Why would I hook up with him again?”
“Girl Greg?”
“She graduated last year.”
“What was her actual name?”
“Georgina.” Jade smirks, probably in memory of Georgina.
“Who else is left?” I take another bite, then remember one last person, nicknamed for his resemblance to Mr. Clooney. “George Greg?”
“Yes! Okay, so, I find George Greg at the party last Thursday night randomly and we start to dance, right? It was super sexy, and it turned into kissing, and it’s all fun and games, and then this girl walks over, okay? And she starts dancing with us, sort of like on the side, you know. Like she’s trying to work her way in, maybe. And I was like, okay, I can get behind this. And then she finally kind of gets in the middle of us and starts to make out with him, and I was like, um, no, bitch. Like, you’re not going to steal my dance partner, make-out buddy—no. We’re not doing that. So I, like, back up, and then grab her arm and spin her around, so now she’s facing me, and I start to be like ‘what the fuck,’ like, I’m ready to fucking fight her. But then! She takes my face in her hands and literally starts to make out with me too.”
“Oh my god.” I hide my face as best I can with a fork in my hand. “Am I stressed, am I into this? I don’t even know.”
“We’re into it.”
I give her a thumbs-up and a skeptical look. She throws her head back and laughs.
Jade’s stories used to make me clutch my pearls, but I’m used to it now. It helps that she’s an amazing storyteller, and once I got past the content I started to enjoy Jade’s tales of her rendezvous a lot more. But sometimes she still has me clutching my pearls.
“I knew you’d react like that. Anyway, we do the dancing/making out thing for a while, just, like, taking turns, and then she invites me and Greg back to her place.”
“What’s her name?”
“Anna.”
“Okay, Threesome Anna. Got it. So you go back to her place.”
“We go back to her place. And it was…” She fans herself.
“I have questions.”
“Of course you have questions.” She dips a brush into an eyeshadow palette and brushes it onto one of her eyelids. She’s gone for a fiery red look, no doubt with an outfit already planned out to match.
“Logistics, specifically,” I say.
“Go on.”
“Who was on top?” I ask.
“It changed.”
“So there’s a lot of position shifting?”
“Well, sure—”
“Does anyone get left out?”
“Not that night, they didn’t,” she says with a smug grin.
“And going forward?”
“We have no plans to make this a regular thing.”
