I used to think, what's so wrong with a little white lie? My best friend Blair liked to brag about her boyfriend, he's so handsome, so romantic, and she thinks he's the one I felt a little jealous about when she showed me pics of him on her phone. I bit my tongue, like a good friend, and listened to how talented and smart he was. I told her how happy I was for her. The next thing I know she is divulging intimate details, "He put his hand under my top, unhooked my bra," she whispered to me, "he felt my breasts and I had my first orgasm just by him touching my nipples!" Oh, goddamn Blair. She told me the following week they were having sex! It "just snowballed" into sex, she gushed. That's when I let out my white lie. "I've got a boyfriend too!" Her eyes lit up in happiness and probably in jealousy too. I know she secretly loves to be the only one in West Valley High with a boyfriend in college.
"His name is Mark," I lied, "he's a football player; he's tall, dark, and handsome." Blair hugged me with enthusiasm. Her touch usually feels warm and friendly, but not this time, this time it was dripping with false happiness for me. I started to hate my best friend. I know it's wrong, deep down inside of me I understand it's not right, but, ugh.. She has a boyfriend, and she's fucking!? Must she do everything better than me? She's better at soccer, her skin is like porcelain, eyes are green like mine but bigger and brighter like emeralds, and her hair is raven black, and her body shape is like an hour glass, just like a pin-up girl from the 50's. She's better than me, and when she brags about blowing and fucking her boyfriend, it's almost like she's rubbing my face in my late-bloomer status, "I'm more woman than you are," she silently tells me. I stiffen my spine and tell her wickedly, "Blair, you may be better at soccer than me, but let me tell you, 'I am' better at blow jobs."
Watch as the story unfold.