Kissed for a Cause

It’s night fifty-seven, and I’d be lying if I said it was the first I spent listening to her through my wall with my hand down the front of my sweats.
Tallulah Lane is my best friend, and ever since the tree incident of Waterland Isle back in September, she’s also my roommate. But that story isn’t the one on my mind as I lie here, dick in my fist, tingles dashing up my spine. Nope. It’s the night in college when we met and I agreed—like a dumbass—to be her friend, nothing more. I spent that night with my dick in my fist, too. Should have learned my lesson then.

“I love college,” a female voice screams out a car window.
“Freedom!” another cries.
I look at Ben to see if he has any idea what in the hell the group of overly excited girls are doing any more than I do, but when he shrugs, he doesn’t have the answer, either.
“I love hot guys!” yet a third girl calls in our direction.
Standing on the lawn of the football house on the street that houses the athletes, Ben and I watch as the driver slows the car and shoves it into park, inches away from where we’re standing.
Ben and I play on the Division 1 football team, hoping to be drafted into the league after graduation.
“They have to be drunk, right?” Ben asks. “Girls don’t just yell at guys from cars in college, do they?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess.”
It’s the first night the non-athletes are on campus and our street is filled with college kids, each house—baseball, basketball, hockey, lacrosse, and ours—throwing a party with a different theme. We pulled the short stick and had to host the toga party, hence why Ben and I are standing on the lawn in sheets wrapped around our bodies that barely cover the important goods.
I watch as the back door of the little car opens and a girl in a pink tutu falls out and lands face-first on the grass, ass end up in the air.
“Holy shit!” Ben laughs as the girl eats grass.
“I guess you have your answer. Definitely drunk.”
I rush to the girl’s side to make sure she’s alright and hear her groan, “I’m such an idiot.”
“Hey,” I ask the girl’s ass. It’s not my fault, it’s the part of her closest and not plunged into the lawn. “You okay?”
She rolls over, takes one look at me, and says, “I’m only talking to you because I’m a cheerleader and you’re a football player.”
But she doesn’t speak another word. She pukes on my shoes instead.

And that’s where her nickname originated. That damn tutu was ruffled up, exposing her pink panties and the perfect globe of an ass I knew I’d never erase from my memory banks. It was solidified before I even knew her name would match it.
Tutu.
Tallulah ended up in my bed that night, but not like it sounds. Not like I wanted then. Not the way I still want now.
As friends. Just like we’re friends now. Best friends. B fucking FFs.
She was drunk and her so-called friends, the other drunk girls screaming out of the car windows, had used her status as a cheerleader to gain entry into the party and then left her for dead to hook up with the first jock that gave them the time of day. Little did they know, all hot girls had access to the parties at the sport houses. It was the guys who needed to be on a team to get in.