CHRISTINA
“Come on Tina,” said my friend Maggie. “Let’s roll!”
I groaned a little but hauled myself up. Maggie was right – it was time to head out, seeing that this was going to be our last night on the town together. Tomorrow we were being packed off to different finishing schools, or what my friend and I privately refer to as “princess training school.” Our parents want us to find husbands at these places, and rich men were known to come by and pick off a girl or two regularly, making her mom swoon, her dad beam, and the girl? Well, who knows what was on her mind, because she was nothing but an afterthought in the process.
But for tonight, Maggie and I had one last chance at freedom. We’d just graduated from Castilleja Prep in the center of town, and excitement ran through our veins, our freedom, however brief, making me giddy.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Grantley, Lucy, and Aggie are meeting us at the Old Dog,” chattered Maggie excitedly. “It’s going to be so fun.”
I internally groaned. The Old Dog was a dive joint, the kind that served 20 ounce tall boys with whisky chasers. Not exactly the type of place wannabe princesses hung out at. But okay, I shrugged. It’d be good to see my girls one last time before we spread out all over the Continent.
Because my friends and I aren’t your average girls. We’re minor nobility from a small country called Andorra. Our families are distant relatives of the King, and we’ve been living the high life since birth. In fact, Maggie wasn’t actually Margaret. Hell no, nothing so plebeian. Maggie was Magdalene, Lucy was Lucinda and Aggie was Agatha. Me? I’m Tina aka Christina, but just like everyone else, my parents are hoping that I can score a prince, or at least someone really, really rich.
So I shrugged. Heck, once I arrived at the finishing school in St. Venetia, I’d probably be attending balls and fancy-attire parties non-stop. So hanging at the Old Dog one last time was a last hurrah of sorts. It was a chance to get our hands dirty before they were shoved into elbow-length white gloves.
“You think this looks good?” I asked Maggie, skeptically looking at myself in the mirror.
My friend rolled her eyes.
“Oh Tina, you always look good, and you never even have to try. It’s so not fair,” she huffed, her bangs blowing off her forehead. “Why can’t we all be gorgeous and curvy?”
But I rolled my eyes because it’s not true. I’m curvy yeah, but no one thinks I’m gorgeous because that’s wishful thinking. The descriptors I got most often are “pleasant,” “nice-looking,” or the one I hate most, “not ugly.” Uck. Why “not ugly”? Why use a negative to describe a woman’s looks?
But I try to do my best most days, dressing in clothes that flatter my figure by emphasizing the good while deemphasizing the bad. And tonight, our last night out, I pulled out all the stops. I’m not usually like this. I’m usually more of a bookish type, complete with good-girl librarian outfits consisting of comfy turtlenecks and long skirts, but tonight I decided to go for it. So I struggled into thigh-high boots, long leather shafts with a skinny heel that caressed my legs snugly, the material velvety and soft. Plus, the bustier I had on was so tight that my boobs were pushed up and out. They resembled creamy ivory pillows, soft and beckoning, and it was all complemented by a mini-skirt hugging my generous hips. The total effect was electric. Actually, probably a littletooelectric because it kind of looked like a hooker get-up.
“You think this is ok?” I asked my friend doubtfully, looking one last time in the mirror.
“Oh yeah,” said Mags without even glancing over while reapplying her fire engine red lipstick. “Live free or die boring,” she sang, and I giggled, grabbing my purse before we headed downtown.
Within moments, we were at the bar, and The Old Dog was exactly as I remembered. The bouncer, some grizzled dude with a bunch of tattoos, took one look at us and snarled, “IDs.”
Damnit, it was going to be one of those nights.
But Maggie had it covered. Without missing a beat, she pulled open the vee to her sweater, flashing the burly man and letting him get a momentary look at her big boobs.
“Hey big guy,” she purred, shimmying a bit so that the orbs jiggled and shook. “It’s so hot tonight. Won’t you be so kind and let us in?”
It didn’t matter that her words didn’t make sense. Mr. Bouncer was transfixed, looking at all that wobbly flesh and wordlessly, he backed off, motioning us inside. As we swept in breathlessly, I whispered, “Mags, oh my god, what were you thinking? You’ve never done anything like that before.”
My friend giggled, adjusting herself so that her cleavage hung just right.
“I know, but it feels so good to let go. We’ve been so repressed, Tina. I swear, our parents put so many expectations on us: how to look, what to wear, even who we marry. I have to let go once in a while to blow off steam, you know? And this might be my last chance before I get shipped off to France,” she pouted.
Ah yes, my friend was headed to the South of France, to the newest type of finishing school – École au Bateau, also known as finishing school on a yacht. Evidently, this new type of institution would sail around the Mediterranean for a year, stopping at major cities so that their girls could participate in various balls where they’d be introduced to eligible men. It sounded dumb if you asked me, but heck for two hundred thousand dollars a pop, I’d put together a school on a yacht as well.
Anyways, my friend had already skipped ahead, and I could see our girls waiting for us, clustered at a small table against the wall.
“Hey Tina,” gestured Aggie, waving for me to come over. “Here, I’ll make some room.” She scooted over and I joined them in the booth, looking around. Oh yeah, we’d all gone all the way. Every single one of us was wearing some hoochie get-up, complete with brassieres that pushed you out to there, high heels, short skirts, and faces full of make-up. At least I’d gone easy on the contouring because some of my friends looked a little witchy, with visible stripes running along their noses and cheeks.
But hey, at eighteen, you can still look alluring even with make-up caked on. What the hell. Maggie raised a glass of beer and shrieked, “Cheers!”
We giggled in return, clinking our glasses before sipping our drinks which consisted of pink cosmos and fizzy glasses of champagne. We were a fun bunch, attractive, sexy, all bouncy female flesh and big smiles.
It didn’t take two minutes before a guy sauntered over to us.
“Heya,” he whined, his voice high-pitched. The boy was nothing to look at. In fact, I was surprised he’d made it past the bouncer since he didn’t look a day over sixteen. Pimply and oily, with a terrible haircut, the only thing that made it worse was that he was dressed like an IT guy in khakis and a blue button-down. Oh god.