CAUTION: NC-17 rating for sexual content and strong language
She’s the awkward one, the bystander in her own crowd. Everyone loves her for her wit, her willingness to “go with the flow” and her ability to bring the group together for a social outing, such as tonight’s concert; but it’s rare that anyone notices her absence, nor is she the first one they invite, even though they never intentionally leave her out. Her legs, her arms, her body, a little too heavy and doughy; her clothes on the cusp between fashionable and matronly, but everything about her is forgettable. Her hair is too curly or too limp, depending on the weather; her face, while not ugly in any way, is quite featureless. No one would ever comment on her appearance maliciously because she is too nice, too easy going to ever think ill; besides, she’s the only one in the group no one could possibly envy. Why be catty when there’s no reason to be?
She stands to the side of the crowd, expecting no one to see her, but if they do, she feels it is about time, damn it! She doesn’t know where to place her hands, so they alternate between her hips, her hair, her neck, her face. Check to make sure it’s all in place, that it’s all OK. She’s grateful for the drink she’s been given so she has somewhere to place her hands – one surrounding the glass, one pulling on the tiny straw as she sips the sweet alcohol.
He, too, doesn’t know what to do in these social situations. Does he sway to the sound of the guitar and the beat of the drum with the bass too low, or does he stand there looking out at the band, hoping someone here can see him, too? Thumbs hooked in his back pockets, his jeans hanging just low enough to be acceptable to his peers, he wants desperately for the music to take him away, but he’s too self-conscious to let himself go. Ever so slightly, he sways from left to right, until the beat is too much for him to ignore. He catches himself before anyone notices the way his head and hips have betrayed him in favor of the band’s hypnotic rhythm.
She’s easy prey for any frat boy in the bar. Don’t even tell her your real name, she won’t care. She will be thankful you gave her the worst sex of her life. Sneak out silently before your brothers notice your indiscretions. You won’t have to suffer the humiliations of them knowing what you brought home last night. She was born for this, with her plainness. She doesn’t have the fortitude to withstand the rejection of going after the cute ones herself, so she waits on the sidelines for someone to (hopefully) notice her; but they never notice the beauty inside. Not here. Not at a place like this. Not with all the other girls in the bar who are at their peaks. She’ll wait. Wait. Wait. When she’s 30, 35 maybe, she’ll be perfect. She will then be able to afford the gym membership and the personal trainer, the dietitian to rid her of her genetically inferior physique; the stylists to help her with her unmanageable mane; the doctors and professionals who can finally turn her into what she is meant to be.
He glances to his right and notices her plainness. Potential, he thinks. But he won’t make a move. Too many people. Her friends are all around her, too close. Why can’t I make a move? The little college girls in front of him – WAY out of his league – make him hum in anticipation, but the brunette, the plain one, is who he could get. If only he’s take his damn thumbs out of his fucking pockets and ask her name. Fuck me! Why am I such a fucking pussy?
She eyes the dorky one to her left, the one swaying self-consciously. Sort of cute in a Rivers Cuomo way, well, if he were talented, famous and rich, that is. Glasses, a rough stubble from his nose to his chest – is it red? Strawberry blond? Ha! Irish, she’s sure. Shit. Did he just look my way? I might actually have a chance with this one.
She smiles to herself, thinking he just caught her glancing, too. Poor guy, she thinks. He is even too geeky for me. But he looked. If he asks… and my friends don’t notice… maybe.
Too many people. Not enough courage. God, her friends are magical.
Her friend, the petite blond in the strapless see-through sundress, is screaming at her, “Ohmigod! The lead singer is sofuckinghot! I’m totally going to talk to him after the show! You should talk to the soundboard guy! He’s totally your type!” What? She looks at the sound board. Even grosser than the nerd beside her. What is my type? Is this how my best friend sees me? Only good enough for the one too ugly to be on stage? Fuck that!
“Hey!” She says loudly, moving to her left. “This band rocks, huh?”
“Yeah! They’re great!” What the fuck? Is she talking to me?
“Mitzy.” She puts her free hand out.
“Ben,” he shouts too loudly, spittle hitting her face. She wipes it away without wiping the smile from her face. She’s sort of cute when she’s smiling. A dimple punctuates her rosy, freckled cheek. “Want to get out of here,” he asks as the music lulls. Did her friends hear? She doesn’t seem to care much.
“Sure.” She taps her friend on the shoulder and waves as they walk away from the crowd toward the back doors of bar.
The last song echoes on the street outside as he leans into her and against his rusty Toyota. Her breath is beer and bubble gum, lip gloss and cigarette. It’s a taste he finds strangely exotic and his jeans tighten.
She touches his chest as he kisses her deeply. He’s more muscular than she had thought at first. He’s pressing against her hard and she wants him more than any frat boy she’s every crushed on before. He wants her, and she won’t have to crawl silently from his bed in the morning.
