I remember reading her pretty cursive writing, Meet me tomorrow in the girls bathroom at exactly 10:30, I’ll be wearing a pair of black heels. Don’t be scared. I promise, you won’t regret a thing. I looked at that note at least seventy times, wondering what the hell she was talking about. Don’t be scared? Did I have something to be scared of? What won’t I regret? Why did she want to meet me, of all people? The questions ran through my head plenty of times, but the answers were all unclear. I wondered how she even knew my name, but I never got to ask. Her french manicured fingernails touched my cheek gently, and I shivered. I wasn’t a lesbian. I have never even kissed a girl before. The only reason I had gone to the bathroom was to figure out what she had wanted. It was clear, after her soft caress, what she was really after. ‘Ever been fucked by a girl?’ she asked. I was shocked. No. No, I’ve never fucked a girl. I don’t like girls. I like boys. Megan smiled when I told her that, as. Sheila had always emphasized what she had to offer below her waist to distract from the deficiencies of her chest. Ever since adolescence, she had complained about it to her mother. "I've got no boobs!" she would cry.Her mother tried to reassure her, saying that they were small but would probably grow. "Besides," she said, "You've already got enough for the boys to play with. Remember what your father says: anything over a handful is wasted."That was easy for her mother to say, she with her 38C's. She could wear those low cut tops and her cleavage made it look like she was going to spill right out of her bra, while Sheila tried to get by padding her little A-cup titties out to a B-cup. Life wasn't fair.Tonight, she was wearing a black A-cup shell clearly visible beneath a lavender see-through blouse. Provocative, but modest by her standards. There was a slight whirr and the passenger's side window slid smoothly down revealing—what the hell?—a girl. A pretty one, too. But young, maybe.
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