I met Anna at the beginning of my sophomore year of college. She was pretty: long, brown hair, tattoos up and down both arms, glasses. She had a perfectly thin layer of fat that, along with her broad hips, gave her a luscious ass. She seemed nice, at least at first. She liked film, literature, and art; in other words, your standard liberal arts girl. But in terms of attitude, she was a suburban white soccer mom interrogating an H&M manager about a pair of yoga pants that don’t stretch enough. She did not like me and nor I her. She would constantly criticize me, and she talked incessantly. I tried to get away, but at the beginning of that year, she started dating my best friend, Mark. I fully sympathize with Mark for dating her, and I commend him for sticking with the relationship for as long as he did. She made him fucking miserable.
I would like to say that Anna’s personality spoiled her looks for me, and that I hated her so much that the thought of even touching her repulsed me. In reality, the only thing that kept the thought of undressing her in the middle of a crowded party and fucking her on the floor was that my best friend was dating her. She was, truly and honestly, very hot.