A Bomb in the Barbies

YUCA

I am very talented at fucking guys in the backseats of cars without hitting my head on anything. Talla doesn't need to know how I got so good, even as he moans out the benefits with praise trailing from his lips. We're both mostly dressed with school spirited pairs of sweatpants pushed aside in just the right places; nothing naughty is showing, which is why I have no problem with doing this right here and now.

As I fuck Talla in the backseat of his car, I glance out the window and make direct eye contact with one of his teammates. The guy's name is probably one that I've overheard plenty and have just never bothered to remember or anything. This guy is in sweat pants too with his arms loaded up with beer. Makes sense: someone in the group chat sent out a Doodle poll for alcohol requests, a Venmo link to pay him back, and a Google Spreadsheet to coordinate who was riding up to Talla's place with who. Because, in case any of us forgot, this is college in the twenty first century.

"Yuca, oh my god, Yuca," Talla gasps, and that is how I know he is getting close.

I grind my hips down harder, gasping back as I do. There are few instances when I don't think of Prov when I'm having sex. This moment is all Talla, with his hair in a manbun that I've frisked up, and a jersey still from the game. This is us, both sweaty from his game and my practice; him with lines of black paint under each eye and me with my bleeding rips left untaped. He wraps his arms around my back and holds me to him as he finishes inside me. It isn't fetishy, just practical considering that we are fucking in a car.

I'm laughing as I roll off of him and pull my sweats, practice spandex, and panties back up. "I'm getting flashbacks to high school."

"Me too," he replies. "Oh my god, Dallas is standing there staring at us."

Dallas, oh, so that's his name. "I noticed," I tell him. "I don't care. If you grab my bag, I'll get the food."

Without waiting for Talla's reply, I hop out of the backseat and grab the food. To be more precise, four large pizzas with various toppings, three orders of wings, two orders of every kind of cheesy-breaded side, and nine chocolate lava cakes. For the record, it was yours truly who tetris-ed the fuck out of the million pizza boxes. Because I am damn good at tetris, and even better at balancing an armful of food against one hip while slamming the passenger door shut with the other. Talla grabs both mine and his own practice bags--identical with the Fort Caber lettering, and only differentiable by the much more pleasant smell of mine and the bulkiness of his.

Dallas finally makes himself useful by running ahead of me to open the front door. I march past him to the kitchen table where I unpile the feast. He throws down the cases of beer before he finally opens his mouth to say something.

"You've got a little something on your neck there. Did Tal do that?" He asks incredulously.

This is him telling me what I already know. There is a bluish-blackish smudge at the base of my neck. More bruises of the same cover both flanks, the insides of my thighs, and my left breast. Bruises that border on purple encircle each wrist and form handprints at my waist. He points the damage out to me as if I hadn't examined it in the mirror that morning and texted Prov pictures of my naked, bruised body to show off his handiwork. Call it my daddy issues at work, or maybe something more masochistic, but it is this game of bruise show and tell that gets me off half as much as the actual sex does.

"Nope, he did not."

There isn't much time for this pointless conversation to go on any longer. The other nine people who had RSVPed to the group text have arrived, including Beau among them, who had driven her own car full of people. With her was her itty-bitty flier, a flamboyantly agender person who we all call Frodo. Talla tosses them his stolen copy of the key to his dad's office and they head down the hall that we all know so well to steal all the good booze. I follow them because I will always take every chance to set foot in Mr. Li's office. Call me vain--you would be right about that--for always stepping inside to stare back at my reflection.