June 21, 1985

It seems both symbolic and unbelievable that I met her on the first day of summer in the first year I was officially an adult. So yeah, she was a bit – okay, maybe a lot – younger than me, what with my being twenty-one and her being eighteen, but she was legal and she had a nice ass.

As far as I understand, she was Collins and Roger's friend in high school. When they all graduated, they needed a place to stay, and Maureen and Roger hung out in their suburban hell while Collins ran around the city looking for an apartment. He got kicked out of his house, actually, not for being gay (like I would have if I were gay, which I'm definitely not) but for keeping it a secret for an obscenely long time. Apparently his free-spirited parents were offended by his lack of trust in them.

So Collins, who graduated a few years late because of some behavioral problems, tried to hit on me in a bar in the West Village. (He said later that he was just drunk and couldn't tell me from the hot redhead next to me, who even I could tell was hot even though he was male, but I think that's a crock of shit and he probably knew it too.) So, I offered for him to stay with me in my apartment, and he was really thrilled, even though I made him sleep on the couch. When I woke up at around two the next day, there were two more people sitting with him, and he announced that everyone would pay a portion of the rent. I had no say in it, but hey, they were kids and I couldn't afford the whole rent anyway.

Maureen and Roger. Those are their names. These two eighteen-year-old kids from the suburbs. And even though they're artsy and rebellious (as far as suburban kids go), they didn't fit in right away. Mo and Roger were making out all the time, Roger was dishwashing at some shitty diner so he could eventually buy a guitar, and Collins was printing out fake papers on someone's computer that made it look like he graduated from college and had a teaching degree. Oh, and Maureen – she was singing at Ellen's Stardust Diner by Times Square every night, saving her tips for who-knows-what. She was ambitious from the start, sauntering by the tables of people who she thought might be directors or producters and flashing her breasts at them. On the nights when she didn't come home, Collins and I speculated that she was either sleeping with people she met at work or just wandering around bars and all-night theaters.

Well, today is only a week since I've met her. So I can't claim to know every fucking thing about her, but I know her well enough to understand a few necessary things about her. Like the fact that she's pretty good about adapting to her surroundings – unlike some other girls I know, she doesn't bitch about where people put their shit, and she doesn't insist on having her own room. She shares a room with Roger, and that's it. They can fuck all they want, but she's pretty good about keeping it to a low enough volume for me to bring home whoever I want – usually girls that resemble Maureen in the face and eyes. When Maureen wakes up in the mornings, she leaves the coffee pot on the lukewarm "hot" plate and doesn't make sarcastic comments to the Mo Johnson look-alikes until after they're gone.

So Maureen and I get along pretty well.

It's Roger's nineteenth birthday, but he looks older. Collins insists upon taking him out drinking and not wanting the rest of us "kids" along, even though I am of age. So I have nothing to do. A certain brunette is equally bored, I know. So when she approaches me with a deck of cards in her hand, I inquire pleasantly, "Poker?"

She shrugs. "Not enough people," she tells me.

Which is fine, because at that moment, two extremely intoxicated loftmates of ours fumble their way into the apartment. Maureen hoists Roger up and shoves him into a chair, declaring that "We're playing poker. Actually, since you guys are drunk, it's strip poker." She smirks as Collins shoves his way onto a chair and settles down between myself and Maureen. "So, yeah." She deals out the cards expertly, with the hand movements of one who has been dealing cards all her life. As her violet nails flick cards under my clasped palms, I'm impressed. I'd say as such, but it would sound stalker-esque and weird. Besides, she likes Roger. (Not that that's ever stopped me before.)

It isn't my fault that Maureen sucks at having a poker face, and it isn't my fault that Maureen doesn't really wear a lot of clothes. Therefore, it isn't my fault that after three rounds, she is down to her mostly-transparent bra and underwear, waiting in the obscene heat between rounds while Roger vomits in the bathroom. (Turns out he drank one too many glasses of Jose Cuervo.) So I'm right next to her, and of the maybe hundred people who have seen Maureen Jonhson naked, I'm probably the first to be so blatanly teased. Her legs hang apart like that, and god, I could go into so many details if my brain was capable of putting into words the flowery lyrics that Roger is capable of.

Then again, there's a reason I'm not Roger. And the kid's eighteen, but he gets this gorgeous girl, so he must have something. Maybe I could get it out of him while he's this drunk.

No, okay, focus. Maybe I could scoot my chair closer to the edge of the table and let Maureen not see what my jeans are hiding. But she's pretty astute, and according to Roger's detailed description of his and Maureen's first meeting, she spotted his erection on Day One. Maybe Roger's is just bigger than mine, though, and that would explain a lot –

"Hey, Benny?" comes a cheerful voice from beside me.

"Yeah?" I ask, expecting the worst.

Maureen, bright and smiling as can be, inquires, "Are you planning on jumping me anytime soon?"

I blush. Maybe color doesn't appear on my cheeks as well as it does on Roger and Maureen's pale faces, and that can only be a blessing. "No, I'm not," I tell her almost mournfully, and when she sees my almost sad eyes, she grins and informs me that Roger's no hotter than I am, particularly now that he's puking his guts (and Jose Cuervo) up in the bathroom.

"Well, thanks," I mumble, and I don't know what else to say.

She giggles. "You want me to get the Smirnoff?"

I acquiesce, just as aware as she is that there's probably going to be at least thirty minutes before the next round begins, considering the fact that I think I hear snoring coming from the couch – where Collins is. When a bottle of faintly blue vodka is set beside me on the table, I take a swig from it and offer some to Maureen before she can take her own.

"You know," I tell her, "it's weird that a gay guy like Collins managed to get such a gorgeous friend."

Wiping her lips on her arm, Maureen tells me, "I thought he was straight at first. Made up this bet where supposedly, my friend thought Collins was gay and I needed a picture of him kissing a girl in order to prove so-and-so wrong. He should've known – back in sophomore year, before I met him and Roger, I didn't have any friends." But before I can pity her and share my high school trauma, Maureen adds, "You know what, though? If he was straight, he wouldn't be half as interesting."

"Well, that's definitely true," I drawl. "And Roger, you know, would make life so much more interesting if he were gay."

"For you, maybe," she replies, not missing a beat. "Well – when you say things like that while staring at Roger's girlfriend's breasts, you know, it's hard for me to take you serious."

"Roger's puking," I inform her. My eyes dancing in a way that I might be able to convince her I'm kidding in case she's horrified, I suggest, "You wanna… you know, bedroom's over there…"

Maureen takes my hand in hers and tells me, laying her other hand on my shoulder, "Benjamin. You are sexy, don't get me wrong, but you are also tactless." When I gape at her, she explains in a near-whisper, "You'd think that you'd at least wait until Roger's out of the apartment before propositioning his girl, huh?"

Abashed, I tilt my head and strain my ears. "Uh-huh," I muse for a moment, and then jerk my head towards the bathroom door. "I think I just heard a head hit the ground. Think he passed out?"

Maureen swings her leg over the chair and prances into the bathroom. "Sure enough," she calls back to me, "he's unconscious."

We make our way into my bedroom (still mine, even if Collins stays in it when I stay at girls' apartments) and while I fumble with the lock that's been broken since three tenants ago, Maureen does something that involves the rustle of clothing. By the time I turn around, a completely naked girl is spread-eagled on my bed, and were I to go into the details here, I'd have cops banging on the door to check her driver's license and make sure she's really eighteen – which she is. Even if she doesn't look it, she must be, because no way could anyone underage manage the sultriness that Maureen pulls off without a hitch.

Sure, I've been with girls before, in case that's not already obvious. I've been with just about every hot girl in Alphabet City, and probably in Greenwich and Chelsea too, although there aren't that many straight girls in those neighborhoods. Before I make my way over to any other subdistricts of Manhattan, however, I should probably check out this mysterious suburb that Maureen's from. Because oh my god, the girl is fucking incredible.

After, we lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I throw on a pair of sweatpants, but Maureen obviously has no modesty – either that, or the seventy-nine degree weather is hitting her really hard. New York, for those ignoramuses that don't know, has obscenely hot summers and unbelievably cold winters. This first day of summer is already boiling, cooking us like turkeys in our un-air-conditioned East Village loft.

I know girls like Maureen. She's the kind of girl I fuck all the time, with her dramatic actions but no romanticized thoughts. She knows about the world, even if she's from the suburbs, and understands exactly what she is getting into by growing up. She also knows how to use her beauty to make herself look sexy; the girl could pass for a real beauty, but instead, she wants to be hot, wants to turn men on rather than cook up flowery thoughts about relationships.

So I'm not getting any romantic notions about a relationship. None of these girls ever want a relationship. They want a quick screw and hard lips against their own, prodding their tongues until their makeup blurs enough for them to look thoroughly fucked when they go home to meet their boyfriends. And there are guys like this too, the ones that flex their muscles and wear pants that are tight (but not quite tight enough to scream I'm gay) and wear dark eyeliner while dancing in clubs. Those are the guys like Roger, who can maintain a relationship if absolutely necessary and can be loyal for just about ever as long as the girl is a good fuck and quiet about her affairs.

I'm not like them in every way. I lay low, bringing girls home from bars – never clubs – and found our one-night-stands on not boredom or attraction, but craving. Maureen seems compatible with just about every guy that fucks well, so I'm secure in this bed, arm touching hers, praying that Roger's not going to wake up until long after I leave for work. (It's probable; he's never been drunk before, and according to Maureen, most first-time drinking experiences have the victim out like a light until long past noon.)

This girl is sexy. She's mischevious, gorgeous, and sultry. She trails her hands down her body with the passion and lust of someone who knows how to use her body. She is amazing, and if not entirely trustworthy, she's at least sweet and friendly and charming. A behind-the-scenes affair with a roommate never quite crossed my mind, but there's nothing wrong with one, is there?

Except that Roger punches pretty hard, so I might want to at least be cautious.

Around the age of twenty, most guys don't give teenagers another glance. Maureen is eighteen, but god, if every other guy in the world knew how amazing she can be, there's no way I'd have a chance with her.

Thank god for human ignorance, because I think this affair is exactly what I need right now.

And maybe she needs it too. Roger's posessive and jealous and angry a lot, and I think it's about time Little Miss Girlfriend-Of-A-Rock-Star had some fun drama in her life.