New York, Thursday, April 20th, Early Morning
Georgia: Good Night from Bora Bora!
Ah, Georgia. My beautiful, sweet, funny, newly married, currently annoying as fuck best friend.
Her lovely text included a photo of her and her hot husband, lounging in the tropical sun, on a private beach in Bora Bora. They’d been on their honeymoon for no more than three days, and I’d already received fifteen nauseatingly happy messages.
Me: You. Are. An. Asshole. Another picture of you and Big Dick at the beach, and I’ll drop Walter off at the Humane Society.
Georgia: If you fuck with my cat, I will disown you.
Me: Your cat is Satan. Seriously. I think the devil was reincarnated inside him. He’s evil.
Did I fail to mention that while Georgia and Kline were on their honeymoon, I had been given the responsibility of taking care of Walter? And not in the cool way that a mobster would. Georgie actually wanted me to look out for his well-being. Well, Thatch and I had been given that task, but I was the one at their apartment, spending time with their asshole of a cat.
Georgia might’ve thought he was a big sweetheart, but he was the opposite—a big feline dick. That cat’s life mission was to make everyone else’s life a living hell. And he did it often. So far, in the span of forty-eight hours, he’d pissed on my favorite pair of Chucks and left a generous gift of his shit—yes, his actual cat shit—inside my overnight bag.
Which explained why I was tits out, standing around in only my thong and rummaging through Georgia’s closet. Fresh out of the shower, I needed something to wear that didn’t smell like feline feces.
“Thanks a lot, douchenozzle,” I said out loud, looking directly at Walter—who was currently lounging on their bed, licking himself. “Nice. Real classy, Walnuts.”
He just stared back, irritated and completely aloof, all at once. I guess that’s the look you get when a good fifteen hours of your day is used up by licking the rim of your own asshole. He eyed me for a solid ten seconds without a single blink and then strode out of the room, kitty paws tip-tapping across the hardwood floor. I couldn’t put my finger on the exact reason, but everything about the way he moved screamed fuck you.
“Yeah, walk away, buddy! Walk the fuck away!” I shouted toward him as my phone vibrated on top of the dresser next to the closet.
Georgia: He is not evil! He’s just a little hesitant with new people. He’ll warm up to you.
Me: Ohhhhh…so when he pisses on my shoes, that’s just him being “hesitant”? Or is that him “warming up to me”?
Georgia: Another 24 hours and you guys will be buddies. I promise.
Me: He shit inside my overnight bag, Wheorgie. This tells me that your promises mean nothing. I hope you don’t mind me going through your closet. Because I already am.
Georgia: You can wear anything but my favorite LuLaRoe leggings.
Damn, she makes it too easy. Looks like hot dog leggings will be worn today.
For all I knew, those leggings were an inside joke about Kline packing a foot-long in his pants, but whatever. I’d make those stretchy pants my bitch. Hell, maybe I’d take a leisurely seventy-mile jog in Central Park just to make sure my twat left her mark.
But should I remind you her cat has been using my personal belongings as his litter box?
Georgia: Wait. Why did you bring an overnight bag to my apartment?
Me: Because I’m watching The Asshole.
Georgia: That still doesn’t answer my question. We just asked you to check in on Walter and feed him twice a day, not move in.
Me: Yeah, but I can’t rummage through your kinky sex box at my apartment.
This was me calling Georgia’s bluff. I had no idea if she had a freak-a-leek box of goodies, but I was real curious. She had always been a bit reserved when it came to sex. I mean, she was a virgin up until she let Big Dick inside. Which honestly surprised the shit out of me. It was how I knew, when she gave it up to Kline, he would become a permanent fixture in her life.
To quote Phoebe Buffay, Kline Brooks was Georgia’s motherfucking lobster.
Okay, so the profanity was all mine. The lobster part was a la Friends.
Needless to say, I was the over-sharer in our relationship. Georgia had nailed down the “I don’t kiss and tell” role from the very beginning. And I couldn’t deny the enjoyment I got from pushing her boundaries and making her blush.
Georgia: Do NOT go through my shit, Casshead.
Me: But this vibrator looks really cool. And a ball gag? Shit, G, I didn’t know you had it in you. Color me impressed. Kline’s dick looks good on you.
Georgia: Shut. Up. I’m done with this conversation.
Holy mother of awesome. My best friend had a stash full of sex goodies somewhere in her apartment, and I was going to find it.
Me: I was kidding. But now, I’m not kidding. Canceling my “get rid of Walnuts” mission. New mission: Find Georgia’s box of freak. I’m so proud of you.
Georgia: Greetings from Bora Bora, asshole!
Attached to that text? A lovely picture of Georgia flipping me off while she stood on a deserted beach, twinkling water and her fucking beaming, handsome husband behind her.
Me: One question before I start my search in your closet. Do you clean your bag o’ dildos after each use? Because if you don’t, you’ll need to pick up a new box of magnums on the ride home. I don’t have any latex gloves, and one of these isn’t big enough for my whole hand.
Georgia: You’ve already gone through Kline’s nightstand?!
Me: Oh, come on. That’s the first place you ALWAYS look. Does Kline really fill the entire magnum? Because if he does, I’m convinced his cock is a mythical unicorn.
Georgia: I’m not discussing my husband’s penis with you.
Me: Haha! I could literally hear you say the word penis like a schoolmarm. “Peeee-nis.”
Georgia: I’m disowning you when I get back from my honeymoon.
Me: Just remember to pick up milk too on your way home. You’re almost out.
Georgia: Since you’ve made yourself at home. House rules: NO sex in my bed.
Me: Okay, but those rules start right now, right? Yesterday shouldn’t count.
Don’t worry, I’m not that much of a weirdo. I don’t make a point of using my best friend’s bed as my own personal brothel. But it’s too funny not to make her think that.
Georgia: WASH MY SHEETS.