With Sam he's been vetted, broken in, is a known good time, and I can reach him whenever I want. But if I'm forced to choose, there's no contest between keeping the best friend and keeping the benefits.

I give it one last try.

"Friends with benefits, Sam. No strings. Just," I lower my voice, "brilliant bow chicka wow wow."

I waggle my eyebrows at him. Which I can't believe I'm doing. Probably my behavior stems from being somewhat addicted to his particular brand of pheromones because I'm deviating from being the dominant one and skating perilously close to submission, i.e. "take me."

"Obviously there's this new side that we enjoyed," he says.

"Absolutely."

"But if it's going to affect the friendship then it's got to stop," he finishes.

"Why would it?"

"You did run out on me yesterday."

"That wasn't about friendship." h.e.l.lo? I was following your rules.

"It is when you know we'd normally hang out. You treated me like some random hookup," he complains.

"You can't b.i.t.c.h about how chicks want more and then demand special status," I shoot back.

"It is the status quo. Between us."

I pretend to think it over. "Hmm, movies, dinner, nope. No o.r.g.a.s.ms."

That last bit is said into a suddenly silent diner. Matt and Vic perk up, very interested.

Matt stares at me, clearly telegraphing he's waiting for me to dish. I throw him my best "no way no how" scowl. He rolls his eyes at me but returns to his card game.

"Forget it," Sam grumbles. "Are we going bowling or what?"

An hour later I'm rolling off of Sam in his bedroom. Again. Both of us are barely covered by the sheets.

"Not that we're going to do this again," I lie to him, "but I think it would be best if we keep it between us. If Rach and Ian found out, well, you know what they're like."

There's no way those two could understand that this is purely about s.e.x.

No answer. I prod Sam with my foot.

"I'm not going to tell."

"Good." I scoop up my clothes and glance at my watch, trying not to come off as too smug. "There's still time to go bowling if you want."

I watch Sam fixated on the ceiling, perturbed. "Sure."

Guess I'm not getting round three.

Today.

Chapter seventeen.

I get my frustration out in a friendly pickup game with about eight other guys.

I motion to a teammate that I'm open. Ian guards me.

"You look like s.h.i.te, pal," he tells me.

Eye on the ball, I jog left. Ian stays on me.

"I'm tired from all the exercise I've been getting."

"Which department are you trolling your way through now? Arts? Business?"

"Working on the sciences."

"I hear chemists do it on the table," he jokes.

"Biology, actually."

"Ah. Impressive command of organisms."

"You have no idea," I front.

He responds with a "way to go" nod.

Wrong.

Ally was a huge mistake. Before I had s.e.x and friendship. Separate, on call, no conflict. This new mashed up combo is messing up the natural order of things.

I've truly created a monster. Save me from f.u.c.kenstein. Sure, I'm happy to be her best lay ever (but seriously, look who the compet.i.tion was), but her crack-addicted jonsing for my expert abilities messes with what I want. Which is to be able to hang out with my friend. Fully clothed.

Even though the s.e.x is insane, it's not like I can't get really good s.e.x elsewhere. On a regular basis. But our friend stuff, that I only get from her.

So either I've got to branch out, which is a lot of work, I mean, I've invested a lifetime in this one, or she needs to start behaving properly. We can have s.e.x but when it's friend time, it's friend time.

Besides, let's be real. How long can Ally keep this up before she reverts back to her true nature and falls in love with me? Which is going to mess everything up.

Big. Mistake.

Also, thinking about her has me spanking the monkey so much lately that I'm chafed. Mega painful.

I'm one justifiably p.i.s.sed off mother.

I jump, s.n.a.t.c.hing the ball out of mid-air. Ian rams into me and I drop the ball.

I swear. Loudly.

"Just a game, Sam," Ian says. He looks at me a bit closer. "Oh. Not the b-ball."

I fake then pa.s.s but Ian has antic.i.p.ated this. He grabs the ball and runs toward the opposite side of the court. I'm hot on his heels.

"Brilliant," he tosses out, pleased.

"What?"

"Meaningless s.e.x is wearing thin. You're starting to realize you want more."

Ian shoots. Close but no cigar.

Another member of his team takes off with the ball.

"No. I definitely want less." Because what he's missing since I'm not going to spill is the fact I'm talking about Ally. He'd never understand that this is just about s.e.x.

And how it's throwing everything out of whack.

Ally is not some random chick and she should know better. Her desire to be all s.e.xually evolved should not be s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with the friendship.

The ball travels closer. I see my chance and steal it but am stuck dribbling, searching for a way to pa.s.s it with Ian blocking my every move.

"If you don't like it," he says, "don't go there."

I look at him like he's an idiot. "Are you on crack? Great. s.e.x. Of course I like it."

With a sudden burst of speed, I whip past him and am immediately knocked sideways by this huge *roid monster on Ian's team.

I lose the ball and rub my sore shoulder.

"Yeah," Ian smirks. "You're aglow."

The week goes from bad to worse. This stupid Marketing cla.s.s chocolate a.s.signment with Monica keeps getting snagged on a billion different issues she has with my idea.

She's the client from h.e.l.l and totally not going along with how I'm laying it down for her. But I'm playing nice since a big part of this grade depends on our teamwork.

What is so tough to understand?

Monica has just raised her fortieth protest about this campaign. Of course, she has yet to come up with a single replacement idea.

"What's your problem?" I ask, out of patience.

I can tell she's plucking up her courage to speak. Just say it already.

"My chocolate is about love," she whispers. She clears her voice and speaks up. Meaning I can barely hear her. "All this *reframing its context'? It goes against chocolate's nature."

"Chocolate is chocolate," I reply. "It doesn't have a nature. It doesn't have to be about love. It can be about divorce. Or hemorrhoids. That's up to the individual user."

"I think I want to embrace the love."

Save me from females and their love c.r.a.p. Time to inject a little hard truth into her world. "And I think if you do, you'll be like everyone else, fighting for sales, boring in your thinking, which will translate into a product that was once unique and delicious but now could be any old dusty box nubbin with a cloying strawberry center no one wants."

Her eyes widen. Guess she didn't expect that.

Well, the truth hurts.

Chapter eighteen.

Thongs itch. It takes me forever to get the stupid eyeliner on properly and I don't always feel like primping my hair to look like I just stepped out of a salon.

Guess the thrill is wearing thin. Or more accurately, the upkeep is.

I really enjoyed everything about my makeover at first. It was fun to play with makeup and clothes, I loved the looks I got, and my hookups have been pretty cool.

But it's complicated some parts of my life too. Like most of my cla.s.ses are honors level. Nerd city. Which is fine, because I'm a geek and our tribes get along just fine. We are equals on an intellectual playing field.

But now, the guys in my cla.s.ses don't know what to do with me. Their already hampered social awkwardness has soared off the charts, which is seriously impinging on my ability to work with them in groups.

Instead of a stimulating exchange of ideas, they grunt and lurch around me like a bunch of zombies with the occasional blatant nudge to each other.

Sigh. I'm also seriously annoyed because I've had to deal with Jeremy making cutting comments about "sellouts" all through Civics cla.s.s since I've skipped a couple meetings of our city-wide teen environmental club.

Even though I'm totally committed to a better world for people and animals alike, I'm not yet ready to sit in the same room with him and Leslie while I fight for it. It's going to take time. As I can't tell him that, or, well, won't, I'm having to endure his insults.

It's more than just name-calling though. He's acting like I'm some wh.o.r.e spreading my poxied wares on the desk.

Meanwhile, I've got his douchebag friend Max trying to put the moves on me. Figures he'd be the one geek to rise to the challenge. I think I pulled a muscle brushing off old Octo-arms and his "accidental" groping.

And I don't want the other guys at my school who have suddenly noticed me. I may be new and shiny but they're still gross. They don't seem to get that I didn't get a lobotomy and haven't suddenly forgotten years of stupid nicknames and basic ignoring.

I thought that getting noticed for all the right reasons would improve my life. That being at the top of the desirability food chain was the way to go.

Actual field experience is proving quite different.

I think that peac.o.c.ks have the right idea. They're born with a beautiful plumage that requires no upkeep. Just whip it out, shake your tail feather, and you're good to go. Plus, it's the male that has to do all the work attracting the female to his lovely feathers, which I think is brilliant.