It’s common knowledge that when girls get together, all we talk about is lip gloss, guys, and fashion. Right?


Not my girlfriends. When we get together, we talk about the finer points of life: blow jobs, farts, and personal grooming habits of our lady bits.

We’re a classy bunch.

I was lucky enough to meet these ladies about a year and a half ago when I caught an ad on Craigslist for a book club. Really, though, the group was made up of a hodgepodge collection of girls who had recently transplanted to California for a variety of reasons, all of whom were really only looking to make some friends.

It seems I was the only nerd actually looking for a book club.

Anyway, fate threw us together, and a shared love for all things taboo took care of the rest. The “book club,” while still technically operational, quickly dropped in importance and gave way to weekly girls’ nights and the occasional drunken fiasco.

It was truly the best of times.

Alas, for everything there is a season. One of those skeezes up and moved back to Boston six months ago to be with her family. Another followed suit a few months later, trading California for Oregon. Still another is scheduled to flee the country to Greece this coming June.


Needless to say, when we do manage to get everybody back together in the same place, magic happens. Which is exactly what went down last weekend. We had a full four days of everybody back within the same general geographic location. So we made the most of it.

We ate our weight in deliciously crappy food. We had a slumber party. I busted out my lip-syncing skills. We held an impromptu dance-off. We did things in front of each other that no girl should *ever* witness her girlfriends do.

Frankly, I am uncomfortable with the level of comfort we have reached with each other.

But I’m grateful for it. My socially awkward self has found a niche in which my inappropriate and lewd comments are not only accepted but encouraged.

Exhibit A:
(sitting around smoking hookah in a hookah bar – because, yes, we are rebellious 18 year-olds – and discussing the relative merits of anal sex)

Me: Boston loves anal sex.

Boston: Totally, I do.*

Me: I think it’s overrated.

Boston: You finally tried it?

Me: Yeah. Not so into it.

Hookah Guy comes over to refill our hookah, a fact to which I, clearly excited over all this talk about anal, am completely oblivious.

Greece: Maybe that’s because you did it while you were camping.

Me: (offended, and therefore even louder and more boisterous than usual) Dude, we didn’t do anal in a tent in the woods. (pause) We were at a resort!

Awkward silence ensues when I realize to my horror that Hookah Guy is standing in front of us. My friends erupt into hysterical laughter as Hookah Guy gives an amused half-smile and lingers for much longer than necessary, clearly hoping for more dirty details.

I know you’re wondering how these girls could possibly want to move away from all this goodness. Also, Hookah Guy wandered by every 5 minutes for the rest of the night. I am pretty sure I have my picture on their wall now.

* I may be taking creative liberties here. That’s maybe not exactly how her portion of the dialogue played out. But it’s my blog and I do what I want.