mystery left ; don't trust the bitch in apartment 23 ; june/chloe ; rated pg13 for boobies
There are rules that must be established. Like, boundaries. Clarifications.
For example, "Just because I left my toothbrush out on the bathroom counter does not mean I'm inviting you to use it as a sex toy."
Or, "Please do not delete my DVR recordings of Say Yes to the Dress just beceause The Devil Wears Nada is on the HBO porn channel again."
Or even, "If you're going to have sex in my bedroom, at least leave your room unlocked so I can cry in there."
But lately the recurring clarification has been an exchange somewhere along the lines of:
"Hey Chloe, what do you think of this incredibly tight, low-plunging new black dress?"
"I think I'm kinda gay."
(A sigh, and) "No, Chloe, you're not gay, you just want to touch my boobs."
(Here Chloe puts on her pleading puppy dog face, which works on everyone but, like, so totally doesn't do it for June. Like, totally not even a little bit.) "They just look so sah-ha-haft!" Chloe whines, and June rolls her eyes and tells Chloe to touch her own boobs.
"They're not as big," she laments as June stalks past her into the kitchen. (She's wearing Chloe's King Kong heels, so the walk's not as, like, sassy as she'd hoped. More on the wobbly side.) "Or as blonde."
"Boobs can't be blonde," June reminds her.
"They so totally can," Chloe insists, stalking past June in heels twice as tall. It's like a competitive catwalk to the refridgerator. (Wait, why are they even doing this. Why is this a question June finds herself asking in an endless loop nowadays.) "Blondes always have better boobs."
June huffs out a breath. "While I appreciate the compliment, we really can't have you groping me or identifying as gay just because you've taken such a liking to my bosom."
"First off, never say bosom again," Chloe orders matter-of-factly. June's just now made it into the kitchen, and Chloe's already seated plaintively at the table with a cup of pudding. (How does she do that?) "It makes you sound like an aging Christian prostitute."
"Is that even a—"
"Secondly, I wouldn't be groping you. That makes it sound like I don't know what I'm doing."
"You don't, Chloe, because you're not gay," June sighs, resisting a foot-stamp at the fact that there's no pudding left. Mostly because she's pretty sure she'd topple over in these heels. (God, why is she even wearing these? She's not even going anywhere, this doesn't make sense.)
"But I'm me, so I would rock your world," Chloe informs her, flicking her spoon and making a duh face. "Not that it would be very hard, considering you don't have many points of comparison."
"Hey!" Chloe half-heartedly defends, mouth full of Jell-O. It's the green kind. It isn't that good.
"And thirdly, I didn't say I was gay," Chloe reprimands with a roll of her eyes as June slides into the seat across from her. "I said I was kinda gay. Like, just gay for you."
June sets down her spoon and swallows her Jell-O. Maybe it's just that this dress is causing a lack of oxygen to her brain but she is, like, genuinely touched.
"You're gay," she whispers earnestly, "just for me?"
Chloe sets down her spoon as well—an act of the deepest reverence—and stares straight into June's disproportionately large eyes.
"June," she replies gravely, "I would go so gay for you, women's prisons would be renamed Straightville."
June claps a hand over her heart. "Aw," she purrs, "I have no idea what that means, and yet there are tears welling up in my eyes."
"I'm glad," Chloe hums, patting June's hand. "So can I touch your boobs now?"
"Grope away!"
Chloe lunges across the table with, "I told you, it's not groping."
June's distracted anyway. "Oh my god, do you have magic hands? Good lord!"
"I said I would rock your near-virginal world, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but this is beyond rocking, this is like—like—blowing my world—"
"No blowing tonight, girlfriend."
"Yeah, so like, my bedroom?"
"Yay, the one time I can have sex in there and you won't cry about it!"
no subject
There are rules that must be established. Like, boundaries. Clarifications.
For example, "Just because I left my toothbrush out on the bathroom counter does not mean I'm inviting you to use it as a sex toy."
Or, "Please do not delete my DVR recordings of Say Yes to the Dress just beceause The Devil Wears Nada is on the HBO porn channel again."
Or even, "If you're going to have sex in my bedroom, at least leave your room unlocked so I can cry in there."
But lately the recurring clarification has been an exchange somewhere along the lines of:
"Hey Chloe, what do you think of this incredibly tight, low-plunging new black dress?"
"I think I'm kinda gay."
(A sigh, and) "No, Chloe, you're not gay, you just want to touch my boobs."
(Here Chloe puts on her pleading puppy dog face, which works on everyone but, like, so totally doesn't do it for June. Like, totally not even a little bit.) "They just look so sah-ha-haft!" Chloe whines, and June rolls her eyes and tells Chloe to touch her own boobs.
"They're not as big," she laments as June stalks past her into the kitchen. (She's wearing Chloe's King Kong heels, so the walk's not as, like, sassy as she'd hoped. More on the wobbly side.) "Or as blonde."
"Boobs can't be blonde," June reminds her.
"They so totally can," Chloe insists, stalking past June in heels twice as tall. It's like a competitive catwalk to the refridgerator. (Wait, why are they even doing this. Why is this a question June finds herself asking in an endless loop nowadays.) "Blondes always have better boobs."
June huffs out a breath. "While I appreciate the compliment, we really can't have you groping me or identifying as gay just because you've taken such a liking to my bosom."
"First off, never say bosom again," Chloe orders matter-of-factly. June's just now made it into the kitchen, and Chloe's already seated plaintively at the table with a cup of pudding. (How does she do that?) "It makes you sound like an aging Christian prostitute."
"Is that even a—"
"Secondly, I wouldn't be groping you. That makes it sound like I don't know what I'm doing."
"You don't, Chloe, because you're not gay," June sighs, resisting a foot-stamp at the fact that there's no pudding left. Mostly because she's pretty sure she'd topple over in these heels. (God, why is she even wearing these? She's not even going anywhere, this doesn't make sense.)
"But I'm me, so I would rock your world," Chloe informs her, flicking her spoon and making a duh face. "Not that it would be very hard, considering you don't have many points of comparison."
"Hey!" Chloe half-heartedly defends, mouth full of Jell-O. It's the green kind. It isn't that good.
"And thirdly, I didn't say I was gay," Chloe reprimands with a roll of her eyes as June slides into the seat across from her. "I said I was kinda gay. Like, just gay for you."
June sets down her spoon and swallows her Jell-O. Maybe it's just that this dress is causing a lack of oxygen to her brain but she is, like, genuinely touched.
"You're gay," she whispers earnestly, "just for me?"
Chloe sets down her spoon as well—an act of the deepest reverence—and stares straight into June's disproportionately large eyes.
"June," she replies gravely, "I would go so gay for you, women's prisons would be renamed Straightville."
June claps a hand over her heart. "Aw," she purrs, "I have no idea what that means, and yet there are tears welling up in my eyes."
"I'm glad," Chloe hums, patting June's hand. "So can I touch your boobs now?"
"Grope away!"
Chloe lunges across the table with, "I told you, it's not groping."
June's distracted anyway. "Oh my god, do you have magic hands? Good lord!"
"I said I would rock your near-virginal world, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but this is beyond rocking, this is like—like—blowing my world—"
"No blowing tonight, girlfriend."
"Yeah, so like, my bedroom?"
"Yay, the one time I can have sex in there and you won't cry about it!"
"Wait, how many times have you—"
"Sshh, magic hands, remember?"