Best Friends Become More_(0)

Best Friends Become More

SUMMARY: Two girls stranded in a hotel during a storm on Nude Day…create their own Nude Day with shocking results.

NOTE 1: Thanks to Estragon for copy-editing and catching a couple of plot flaws in the original draft and LaRascasse for plot suggestions.


Best Friends Become More

They saw “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” and Zoey argued the same theory while we were in Amsterdam. “Seriously Mia, stop being such a prude, you only live once.”

I shook my head. “You got to be kidding me. You want to go to a nude beach?”

“What else should two hot ladies do on Nude Day?” she shrugged, finishing her third free drink, courtesy of three different guys trying to get in her pants.

Zoey was a twelve out of ten. She had black as night hair, emerald green eyes, ruby red lips and dimples that made her look both innocent and seductive at the same time, an oxymoron that seemed impossible, yet true. If her face was beautiful, her body made men drool even more. Her 40D breasts defined gravity, and just as much as her breasts showcased her upper half, her curved, toned ass perfected her bottom half. Although she was short, only 4’11, her legs were enhanced by her obsession with stockings and five inch heels. She was a goddess and she knew it. She had used her looks to get through high school, get out of speeding tickets, get us upgraded to first class on the flight here and a trillion free drinks for her and her wallflower friend.

While Zoey was the outgoing one who was up for anything, I was the conservative one who was always there to protect her from herself. I wasn’t ugly, a solid seven, but when sitting beside a Picasso, I looked like the picture a grade one made for Mother’s Day…cute, but forgettable. I have dirty blonde hair, brown eyes and at 5’8, I am a giraffe when compared to Zoey. While she wore heels to make herself taller and accentuate her legs, I always wore flats and usually jeans or shorts. My breasts were non-existent, never blossoming like my grandmother said they would…at twenty-one I was still wearing an A-cup. My ass was my best feature I was told, especially in volleyball shorts.

Now many would wonder how Zoey and I became friends, being so different in almost every way, but isn’t that always the case?

She was an extreme extrovert, while I was an extreme introvert wishing I was an extrovert.

She was sexually promiscuous while I had exactly three boyfriends, two who I had slept with (three if you count a blow job at a party when I was really drunk…so drunk I don’t recall the encounter).

She dresses like a high class call girl while I dress like a jock.

She barely graduated high school and if it wasn’t for a couple blow jobs to nerds who wrote her essays she may not have, while I finished with honors in every class.

She was a cheerleader while I was a volleyball and basketball player.

That said, we did have some things in common: we both loved to travel (we spent at least two weeks every year travelling, although this was our first foreign trip together), we both loved eighties movies (Sixteen Candles being a favorite of both of us), we both loved the Backstreet Boys (it was our first concert), we were both sarcastic and we both believed in fate (the belief that things happen for a reason.). Of course, after what happened the next day, we assumed the Goddess of fate was smiling down on us.

Sarcastically I quipped, “Why don’t we find some sexy stud and spend Nude Day in a sweaty threesome?”

Ignoring my sarcasm, as she was apt to do when it was aimed at her, she purred, “Now you are talking.”

“I was kidding,” I sighed, before adding, “there is no way in hell you are getting me to go to a nude beach, especially with you.”

“Well, I am going,” she announced, in the decision is made and that is that tone, before adding, “It’s on my bucket list.”

I snapped, “Everything is on your bucket list.”

She countered right back, “Better than having no bucket list.”

The sarcastic exchanges going full throttle. “I have no time for a bucket list, I live through yours.” Once I said it I realized that, sadly, that was the case.

“Well then,” she suggested, “it is time to create your own bucket list.”

“No way,” I protested, but she was already pulling out a piece of paper.

“Let’s see,” she pondered. “Write a best selling novel.”

She pulled me in with my actual goal in life. I demanded the addition, “Yes, but without selling out.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “Now what else?”

In machine-gun fashion, while finishing a bottle of wine, the two of us created a realistic list of over fifty things to do before I die (including meet my ancestors in Italy, be the guest speaker at major event, meet John Green my favourite author, etc…), before she shifted the suggestions to the gutter. “Fifty-seven, get gangbanged.”

“Fuck off,” I shot back, “isn’t that your number three?”

“Seven actually, three is sex in every major city in the world.”

“Amsterdam is a major city,” I pointed out, instantly regretting it.

“Exactly why we need to go out for Nude Day,” she countered.

“Like you need to go anywhere to get laid,” I replied. “Just go to the bar downstairs and you could be horizontal in no time.”

“Actually, I like to be on top.” She smiled, before saying, “I am going for a shower. I expect at least five sexual things added to your incredibly boring bucket list.”

Being factitious, I made an absurd list:
1. Get fucked by all five members of the Backstreet Boys (although that one I would probably actually do if the opportunity presented itself)
2. Do a live strip show
3. Have sex in public
4. Be blindfolded and used as a sex slave
5. Dyke out

Looking at the list, I laughed to myself at how absurd my suggestions were, even though each had been a fantasy of mine at one point or another. I flipped on the TV and was shocked to learn a storm warning was being issued for Amsterdam for later tonight. I suppose it made sense it was sauna hot today and such heat often is followed by a storm.

Zoey came out of the shower, the hotel towel doing very little to cover her body, “So what did you write?”

I kept watching the TV and pointed to the table. After a few seconds, I turned to look at Zoey and saw my list had surprised her. She said, with a smile I had seen many times that usually meant trouble, “A pretty impressive list, Mia, a very impressive list.”

I stood up and attempted to clarify. “That was a joke, Zoey.”

Ignoring my clarification, Zoey continued, “I will help you make those happen Mia, although the Backstreet Boys are old men now.”

“The early thirties is not old,” I countered, pointing out, “Isn’t Harrison Ford on your list?”

“He is so fucking hot.”

“You live in double standard world.”

“Whatever,” she flippantly replied, implying she was done with the conversation. Shifting thoughts, she ordered, like I was hers to order around, “Go shower, we are going out.”

“Where?” I asked, dreading the thought, as I was still exhausted from the long day.

“I don’t know, but I need to check off one more city on my bucket list,” she announced, her intentions clear. My job, as she no doubt was about to get really drunk, when her standards dropped exponentially, was to make sure her choice was not some serial killer.

“Can’t we just stay in tonight, I am beat,” I countered, really not in the mood for babysitting a sure to be irresponsible Zoey.

“Stop being a prude, Mia. This trip was about getting you out of the shackles your Daddy has had you cuffed to your whole life,” she surprised me by saying.

“What?” I questioned, although I knew exactly what she was implying. When I told my Dad about my trip plans he freaked. He forbade me to go to the city of sin and he especially forbade me to go with, as he called her, ‘that bad apple Zoey’. I never told Zoey about this conversation with my Catholic priest of a father, but she knew my father disapproved of her.

“You have always been such a good girl, Mia. This trip conservative, shy Mia is being put away and being replaced by sexy, outgoing Mia,” she decided.

“I am pretty sure that Mia does not exist,” I countered, scared of what Zoey had in mind.

“Go shower,” she demanded, as if I was her child.