Free 32aa by Michelle Cunnah

with Tish—so I suppose he qualifies as nearly being a close, personal friend. And he did make my cake, lovely man.) This is an especially nice gift, because Rufus wrote this book himself. Can you imagine it? I can now add “famous author-chef” to my list of close personal friends. And none of us knew about his achievement until tonight. A dark horse, Rufus. Much more to him than meets the eye.
Rachel. A gift voucher for Donna Karan. (At this moment I love Rachel the most out of all my dear friends—the voice of realism amidst body enhancing chaos, because everyone knows that really good clothes can cover a multitude of sins.) “Body-enhancing shakes,” she tells me, with a dangerous glint in her eye. “Breast-enhancing pills.” She shakes her head in disgust. “You don’t need todo this, Emma, because you will be pandering to society’s stereotypical values that a woman should look a certain way in order to get a man.”
    “I don’t want to do this,” I say a little while later to my lovely friends, collectively seated around the table. They collectively protest, and I feel like a wimp.
    “Don’t be a girly wimp,” Katy says, offering me the salt. “Show us what you’re made of.”
    I take it and gingerly pour some onto my hand.
    “I don’t like the idea of worms in drinks,” I moan. “It’s unnatural.” It surprises me that no one else seems to mind, but apparently it wouldn’t be real tequila without the worm.
    “Come on,” Rachel urges me. “Live for once.”
    She’s right. Although this—from a woman who lives with three cats and maniacally detoxifies her apartment at least twice a day—is saying something. Still, if Rachel doesn’t mind drinks with worms in them—if she hasn’t thought about where, exactly, the worm might have gone to the bathroom for the last time in its life—then neither will I. Or is it already dead when it gets put in there? Yuck. Neither option holds any appeal.
    Time to try something new.
    So I lick my salt, throw back the tequila in one swallow and gulp madly at the lime.
    11 P . M .
    “Lovely party,” I say to David, kissing him sloppily on the cheek. “You and Sylvester are the best friends in the world. Apart from Tish. And Rachel. And Katy and Tom. And Rufus.”
    But through my drink-hazed brain I remember that Adam isn’t here.
    “Wish Adam was here,” I wail, getting ready for another major blubber. “I bet they skipped dinner. I bet they called room service instead, so they didn’t have to get dressed, because they’ve spent the whole evening having hot, screaming sex. And right at this moment they’re getting ready to have even more hot, screaming sex in some luxury hotel room…And you know what?” I slur rhetorically, not really waiting for anyone to respond. “Bastard Adam never took me to the bloody Bahamas.”
    Our sex has not been hot and screaming just recently, either, but I don’t mention this.
    “Darling girl, you must stop torturing yourself. You’ll only make yourself feel worse.” David pats my hand.
    “But it must be something I did wrong,” I wail. “I mean, what has Stella got that I haven’t? Apart from the boobs, and money…”
    “Zere’s nothing wrong wiz you, chérie, ” Sylvester says. “If I were straight, I’d fuck you in an instant.”
    “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I sniffle, wondering if only gay men find me remotely attractive.
    “Although it has to be said, Adam is very attractive in a macho kind of way.” David sighs dreamily.
    Now if my significant other were to say that about another woman while I was there, I’d probably have a major anxiety attack that he preferred the other woman to me. I wonder why David is doing this? He and Sylvester are perfect together. Doesn’t he realize how lucky he is?
    Then David catches Sylvester’s glowering expression.
    “But only if you go for that sort of thing. Which I don’t, of course. You’re much better-looking,