She’s a burning, beautiful, ****** tease.  When she runs her hands over my abdomen, she breaks everything familiar to me into complicated shards. My only plans were to study with the other Molly. Then she shows up, coiling herself around anyone next to her, jokes about ***, waits for me to finish homework so we can go to Nomad, says “can we pretend to be lesbians tonight?” I said “I guess”, but I’m thinking “what? Really?” A ******* tease.  She lights two cigarettes and slips the extra one out of her mouth and gives it to me. She talks to Jason, and I find a beautifully attractive 36 year old named Miles.  I let Miles run his hands down my back, then I let Molly have a turn. It goes back and forth. I’m so torn between his cute glasses and sweater, and her wild hair, and long black skirt. But Molly’s also got her dangerous eyes. The ***** gimlets came out again, and she tries to teach me how to salsa. Grabbing me tight: “I go back, you go forward, we meet in the middle”. Then as if there were a timer in them, her hands dive for me, all over me, wonderfully everywhere. Her hand slips down my shirt, but that is another tease. Her other hand pulls my shirt down off my skin, but I stop her out of instinct. She decorates my cheeks with the longest lasting kisses. She blows in my ear. She asks, “Are you uncomfortable?” I say, “No. are you?” But I’m trembling below. She hands me to Miles again, and I watch her lips eat up another guy, while he goes farther and farther up my skirt. I let Miles’s hands be rough. I let him kiss me, and then pull him outside so we can interrupt them. She says, “You speak Russian to him, I’ll speak French.” Foreign words loft from her mouth like cigarette smoke. Miles leaves after I refuse to go home with him. Molly gives the guy her number, takes my hand and drives me home. I say “so you’re getting laid tonight, I’m going home alone. Again. Alone again.” She says, “What if he doesn’t text me? Then I’m all yours.” I don’t expect her to follow me inside, but she does. I put the kitten in her arms, she says “where’s your room?” and we fall on the bed. Nothing ever escalates from careful strumming of fingers on skin. But when I complain about getting no *** again, she starts to speaking words that are sexually vicious.  “Well, we’re both wet. I’ll tell Miles how you like to be touched when I’m gone. I’ll tell him–[in her German accent]-how you’d like to be spread open.” Her hair is still wild and gorgeous, and I run my hands through it once. She’s wrapped in a vintage plaid coat. Then she leaves. Says she’s tired. Hugs me, bites my ear, and says she loves me. And by standards of a miracle, I was not left alone feeling miserable. But now I have to do something about her.

If you’re going to tempt me like that, then I’m not letting go of you until I get what I want. Or more likely: “Molly, I really like guys but then there’s you. You show up, and your hands explore more and more of me, but you always stop an inch before you’ve gotten to all of me. Molly, congrats, you’ve got this control over me now. Why don’t you take it further? It doesn’t have to mean anything. We don’t have to tell anyone. If you don’t, you’ll have to watch me go ******* crazy. You drive me. Crazy.