Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Twelve: New Body

AMEL

While Cierre seductively sways to the rhythm of Gyptian's "Hold Yuh" alongside Kerani and Nayeli, I opt for a shot of tequila. The liquid leaves a warm pit in my stomach, overlaying the hearty oxtails I just devoured. The likelihood of waking up tomorrow with a persistent migraine or some other incapacitating symptom looms. That's the price I pay to match my friends' "white girl wasted" state. It's a necessary sacrifice if I want to make it through the night.

Typically, blending into a social gathering is second nature, whether I'm sober or under the influence. However, every time Cierre acknowledges me or innocently yet affectionally touches my skin, it becomes harder than those Dark Souls games she plays to compose myself.

She entered Von and Yeli's place draped in a gracefully flowing cream overcoat, wielding a Birkin bag as if it could be picked up at a local Walmart. The moment she shrugged off that coat, her body, provocative enough to erase the simplest scripture from a preacher's mind, hit me like one of my hot flashes. Clad in a light blue V-neck cardigan, she accentuates the symmetrical curve of her collarbone. The double zipper at the garment's front strategically exposes her cute outie belly button and inviting cleavage. It's as if she's intentionally teasing me, enticing me into a dungeon of regret with the subtle touch of body glitter on her supple, dark brown breasts.

As the effects of the tequila take hold, my gaze shifts past her hips to her fatty. The bouncy flesh dances to its own rhythm in her flared pants. To highlight her protruding booty like that, there must be a thong snugly nestled between her cheeks. I run my tongue along my lower lip, retracting it when laughter encircles me.

I glimpse my height-endowed homies, dwarfing my 5'7"-with-Timbs-on stature. "The hell y'all laughing at?"

"Your ready-to-risk-it-all ass," Zain says smugly.

I twist my lips sideways, swiping away the suggestion. "Mane, ain't nobody studdin' Ci."

Von wraps his arm around my sea-green Amiri varsity jacket and pats my clavicle. "Come on, dawg. You ain't gotta lie. We your niggas. Don't you know that we love you?"

Zain adds with quivering lips, "You cannot hide from your friends."

Before they can produce a masc-adjacent version of "Girl" by Destiny's Child, I semi-shout, "Ain't nobody hidin' shit!"

Instantly, Von and Zain repeat my response, but in the inflections of Riley from The Boondocks, who I do not sound like when I yell. While they're childishly badgering me, I warn them by displaying my fists. I may hit light when I play fight with Yeli, Rani, or Ci, but I'll leave Von and Zain bruised for weeks.

Zain flinches and shields their arm with their hand. "Damn, chill. You always resort to violence."

Von wags his finger at me. "You are aware that your hands have the potential to be classified as deadly weapons, right? Next time you punch me, I'm turning your ass into the law."

Kissing my teeth, I dismiss him with crossed arms. "Uncle Ruckus, please. I'll bail myself out and lawyer up."

The WNBA's leading ball-hog assists Von. "And you'll see I backed my boy up when you escape the slammer. I'ma label you as an abusive friend on social media."

I crane my neck towards Zain and blow an arrogant snicker their way. "I'm on the 'I don't give a fuck if they're problematic, I'ma still stream their shit' echelon. But you don't know what it's like to be a global superstar, C-lister."

Zain's chiseled cheekbones elevate with an expression of disbelief, forming an orthodontist-approved smile. "Oh hell nah. You 'bout to blow me," they say, shaking their head. "Don't do that. You know I'm legendary."