Me and Torr making out on the most expensive car in the parking lot at halftime -- oh, hell yeah. She bends the hood ornament back with one hand and pulls me down with the other. She gives me her bullfighting grin; she reduces me to a slither and a pornographic disdain of this hundred thousand dollar machine. She feels like a million bucks grinding against my hand, so I pull back and flutter her further. She's slipping, maddened, over and out.

I hitch her back up and she bucks like a colt once hard, falling back down the car and me up close in this sly, school-spirit rhythm. She bops along to Whitney and Courtney like it's fucking instinct. She's letting them play with her toys now that we're back from nationals -- fucked if I care, let them lead the crowd. Feels so good to have all of this cheerleading stuff dwindle down to a joke; she's moaning "Go, team, go" like for the first time in her life she really means it.

We've got to get back. She stumbles as she tries to walk away, but I'm so vain -- I lean her back one last, long, superstitious time. Can't leave a kiss unkissed on the hood of some dumb football player's daddy's Bentley. It's worse than sugar in the gas tank. One for the road and away we go. Roll our eyes and straighten our skirts because it's back to the varsity boys trying their damnedest to do *anything* half as well as we do just about everything.