Better car. Better money. Better body. Bigger dick.
There was always more, and I never had to settle. It was like online shopping with a little more sweat and slightly worse lighting.
But women?
Women are a whole different goddamn universe.
I didn’t even realize I was gay until that one sleepover at Taylor’s. My best friend, my cheer captain, the girl with the perfect hair and a whole drawer of matching pajama sets. We were watchingBurlesque, and I remember beingobsessed withChristina Aguilera. Like… not in the “wow, I wish I had her waist” kind of way. More like, “holy shucks, I would ruin my life for that woman” kind of way.
I think I said something about her ass. Twice. Taylor noticed.
Two experimental makeout sessions and one fake ID later, we snuck into a lesbian bar in Dallas.
And let me tell you—everythingmade sense after that.
All the half-hearted boyfriends, the confusing hookups, the constant sense that I was faking it through my own love life.
Gone. And right when I decided I was going to live my life at Haven University just how I wanted, I see the coolest girl in my entire life.
Jasmine Rivera is…shoot. Are there even words that do her justice?
She matches me—word for word, beat for beat. Like we’re fluent in the same secret language. She makes me laugh without even trying, and the way she looks at me…like I’m everything she’s ever wanted in life. Like I am the center of her universe.
Even when she’s mad—especially when she’s mad—there’s something in her eyes that sees me. The real me. Like she’s dissecting all the layers I’ve spent years armoring myself with and still deciding,yeah, I want that one.
And don’t even get me started on the way she looks. She’s a rockstar-coded wet dream. Full stop. Those red highlights in her blonde hair catch the light like fire when she tilts her head just right. Subtle curves that she doesn’t play up—but damn, does she own them. And that smile? That tiny, guarded, teasing little smirk she only ever gives me?
Yeah. I was a goner from day one.
And it doesnothelp that I’ve changed my outfit six times like a lovesick teenager stuck in a sapphic fever dream. I’ve tried polished, chill, rich-girl casual, effortless-thirst-trap,I just threw this on but I totally didn’t… and nothing feels good enough.
Because how the hell do you dress for someone who makes your heart beat like a bass drop and your brain forget how to form full sentences?
I glance down at my current outfit: skinny jeans, my trusty brown cowboy boots, and a slightly-too-cropped crop top. Totally not me. I want to scream. BecauseGod as my witness, this cannot be the look I go down in.
I mean, to go from stealing someone’s wallet to being dumped for looking like acountry popsicleis not the way I’m getting kicked to the curb.
“Taylor,” I groan into my phone speaker, flopping backward onto my bed, “please tell me this top makes me look hot and not like I should be selling beer at a rodeo.”
On the other end of the call, Taylor snorts. “You look like a queer rodeo Barbie, and I mean that as a compliment. But no, you’re not wearing that. Try the mesh top with the black jeans. Andaccessorize, slut.”
I groan louder. “Why is dressing for girls harder than boys? I used to just flash a little cleavage and boom—done. Now I’m obsessing over neckline symmetry and whether or not myaurais coming off too needy.”
“Because womenseewomen,” Taylor says. “And you’re used to men who only see boobs.”
“Um…what does that say about you, hetero?” I snap, sitting up sharply and pulling off my t-shirt.
“It says I am fine with sexual manipulation, because these bad girls,” she says pulling up her boobs higher on her chest. “They could end wars and start revolutions.”
I kick off my shoes as I start to unbutton my jeans. “I’m sorry, are you seriously comparing your country bumpkin self toHelen of Troy?”
“No comparison necessary,” Taylor says with a smug grin, sliding her hands down her sides like she’s on a runway. “Baby, look at me. I amdelicious.”
And, to be fair, she’s not wrong.
Taylor looks like she time-traveled out of a '90s supermodel campaign—long legs, lean build with just the right touch of curves, and an ass that older women in our neighborhood have definitely paid surgeons to replicate. Her naturally highlighted chestnut hair falls in those effortless waves influencers try to fake, and her big brown doe eyes? Deadly.
One trembling lip and I swear she could convince half of Texas to secede just to name the new nation after her.
