So, this has been me and my best friend's movie for, like, ever. The first time we saw it, I'm pretty sure we played it three times in a row because we couldn't get over how like Needy/Jenn we were. She's my Needy. She totally wants my P, and because of that, I dedicate this to her.
-X-
Most people think they have her figured out. Actually, most people don't even bother to get that far. To the world, she's just the hot, rich popular girl that all the guys get woodies for.
That's why if anyone else had walked into her bedroom that night, they would have shit their pants from shock; Jennifer, crying? Just the idea of it is a concept that most people in Devil's Kettle wouldn't be able to comprehend.
I mean, she stuffs her bra with silicone. She can't be a real person.
When she sent me a text asking if I could come over, I knew that things were bad. Usually when she feels humiliated, or insecure, she becomes a recluse until she gets her facade back in place.
That's why when she didn't win the title of Snowflake Queen, I just expected her to sulk in her bedroom for the next twenty four hours and then emotionally torture me the next day in her attempt to feel better.
I always take it. I mean, why wouldn't I? We're biffs.
Even after being best friends for ten years, I can count in one hand how many times I've seen her cry. And all three of those times were because her mother is as flaky as dandruff.
See, I'm a firm believer in the idea that if you have shitty ass parents, you'll turn into either a slut or a fag. I saw it happen to Jennifer. I mean, I'm not one to psychoanalyze, but when it comes to her, I do a lot of things that I normally wouldn't for others. Not even for Chip.
"What took you so long?" she asks in that tone unique to only Jennifer, before I have a chance to even close the door behind me.
She's in front of her vanity, face completely void of emotion, so if it weren't for the long tears escaping her eyes, I wouldn't have even known that she was going through her own brand of hell.
I clear my throat slightly, looking around the very familiar room as I shrug my shoulders. It's weird, we're so god damn close, yet I always feel so alien around her.
I guess it has to do with the fact that somewhere along the line, I started idolizing her. I try not to admit it, because it makes me feel like a raging lesbo, but if we want to be honest, that's what it comes down to.
She rolls her eyes at my lack of spine, and fixes her eyes back on her own reflection. She seems to study herself for a few seconds, as if she's weighing in with herself how insecure she feels today. I see her eyes linger down to her breasts, and then her reflection shifts to mine.
I know what's she's doing, so I brace myself for it.
"God, Needy, you're such a shitty friend." And there it is.
Her head shifts slightly as she watches me, as if I'm a foreign being that she just can't quite seem to figure out. But I guess from the dry swallow of saliva that I attempt, and the wrinkle of my forehead, she gets the RSVP that her little comment delivered.
"I wonder if this necklace has a return policy," she says, a devil smile in place as she runs her pink manicured hands along the shiny surface.
"Well, if it does, it's long expired now," I say, pushing my glasses further up my nose, even though I know she would never trade me.
She smiles slightly, and when her eyes look up at me with something that I could only label as insecurity, I completely forget that I'm annoyed at her.
That's something that I can say is unique to Jennifer. She can get me raging so easily, but it never can last long. Mostly because I know to take things at face value, and not so god damn seriously.
"Why were you crying?" I ask, even though the obvious answer would be the fact that she got runner up in the competition that she's allowed herself to be defined by. Sure, I knew she'd be bummed when they announced her as second place winner, but I didn't expect tears.
Jennifer is a class A bad ass. She doesn't cry over pageants, even if she wants to. She thinks tears are for babies that can't communicate that they're constipated, or my personal favorite – tears are the reason why women get wrinkles.
"Calm down Nancy Drew, it was no biggie," she says with annoyance, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she gets up from her position in front of the vanity.
"Then why did you text me to come over?" I ask as I watch her walk towards me, even though I know why.
When she finally sits next to me, I can tell that she's having an inner battle with herself as to how she should handle the situation.
See the thing about Jennifer that's ironic, is the idea that everyone thinks that she's the most simple girl in the world. In all reality, she's the most fucking complex person that I've ever met. It's like she's all of these people, wrapped into one, because sometimes its easier to hide behind lies and stereotypes than show everyone who you really are.
I don't even realize that she's been staring at me for the last few seconds, until I see a small, genuine smile creep across her face. It's contagious - it's always been - so it's not even a choice when I smile back at her.
I watch as her hand reaches toward my face, but I do nothing remotely close to stopping her. She's had me in a trance since she sat next to me.
Her finger tips are cold when they touch my cheek, and instantly, I can feel the goosebumps that creep up my spine as her fingers cascade toward my neck. I try to tell myself that my body is reacting this way because of the cold from her body, but I know better. I can feel the wetness between my legs that Chip can never give me.
"You're beautiful," she murmurs, her hand resting on the crook of my neck, as her thumb rubs lazy circles over the surface.
My eyes race from her lips up to her eyes, and I can't help the wide eyed expression on my face. This is the first time that she's ever complimented me. Sure, she's told me I looked good before, or that she did a totally banging job on my makeup, but never that I was pretty. Never that I was beautiful.
She smiles softly at my expression, and I can see her red rimmed eyes begin to pool with tears. I've never seen this look on her face, and all I can think is that she looks absolutely beautiful. There's a depth in her eyes that I've never seen before.
Oh, God. How corny and lesbotron. Someone kill me.
I watch a tear trickle down her cheek, and wipe it away once it reaches her chin. My hand lingers there, and I can feel the warm breath escape her lips and rest on my hand.
Every breath sends a rivet of pleasure up from my crotch and through my spine, and I can't take it much longer.
"Needy, I need you," she whispers against my knuckles, grabbing it with her free hand as she presses it to her lips, and begins to dot it with kisses.
She looks up from the sensual act, lips still pressed to my fingers, as two more tears roll down her cheeks. She looks so innocent then, so vulnerable, that I can't stop myself from kissing her cheeks until all of the tears have been kissed away.
When I finally reach her lips, I finally understand why Jennifer uses the word salty when describing something sexual. The left over tears linger on my lips, and as her tongue moves across mine, all I can think about is how deliciously salty it really is.
I would do anything for my best friend. She's my other half, literally. That's why that night, I kissed her until she felt pretty. I touched her until she forgot all about her second place crown. I held her until her sniffles died down, and the smile on her face was a permanent one.
We never talked about that night. Sometimes, I wonder if she forgot that it even happened. I think back on it from time to time, always over analyzing every kiss she gave me, or every moan she made.
That's one of the memories of Jennifer that I never want to forget. She seemed so human that night, so jaded. It was the first and only time that she ever let me see the real Jennifer. It was the first and only time that she ever showed me how broken she truly was inside, and how badly she needed the only person she ever loved to fix it.
I didn't cry when I killed my best friend. I didn't cry when I was locked up for stabbing her to death. I didn't even cry when I killed the bastards that killed her.
I cried the evening I was locked in my ward, days after the murder, and I remembered the sparkly tears that ran from her eyes that night. I cried when I realized that when I stabbed the monster, I stabbed the insecure, sad, beautiful girl that hid deep inside.