Girl on girl, beads, and keeping my boobs in check.

My best friend P.J. and I spent an entire weekend making out for charity.

By charity I mean a foundation we created on Bourbon Street.

In the middle of Mardi Gras.

An organization dedicated to the promotion of more beads, if you will.

Specifically, more beads for she and I to merrily don around our necks as we swam along with rest of the crowd.

If her husband is reading this, I’m sure he’s intrigued.

Approximately twenty minutes after landing at the airport, she and I were whisked away to the apartment of our French friend.  He was living in New Orleans, decided we had to give the festival a try, and invited us down to the booze-infested mess.

It was awesome.

Except that I didn’t want to flash anyone.

I know, I’m lame.

So when the first group of guys on the crowded street came up asking to reveal our racks for the beads around their necks, I turned to P.J. and loudly proclaimed:

“I’ll kiss her for your beads”

Just for a frame of reference, P.J. and I were not in the habit of kissing each other.  At all.  She had no idea I was about to suggest we lock tongues for beads.  In fact, I had no idea this was my plan.  It just seemed like a good move at the time.

So, quite rationally, this statement threw her off guard.  Staring at me with huge eyes she blurted out:

“What?! You want to kiss me?  Here?! I don’t think I can…. Isn’t that weird?”

I bet you can’t guess what kind of audience we were collecting at this point.

Forever egged on by a crowd, I grabbed her hand, gave her a coy smile and said:

“Come on, it’s no big deal.  I swear I’m good.  It’ll be soft.  And gentle.”

Her expression now completly confused she nervously looked at the growing crowd of testosterone surrounding us and said:

“With tongue?  Like French kissing?…”

At this point a burst of chanting broke out around us.  Frat boys, men, and other creatures began pulling beads off their necks while hollering:

“kiss her! kiss her! kiss her!”

So, doing what any menace in my situation would do, I grabbed her face and kissed her.  With tongue.

It was really good actually, as far as kissing goes.  Far better than some of the other smooches I’ve experienced in my time.  It was soft and nice, and there was no tongue sword-fighting, just gentle twisting and turning.  Our rythm was incredible.

When it was over, we had many, many beads.

So it became the game of the weekend.

One of us would shyly announce to men who requested flashing, that instead we’d make out for beads. The other would instantly become offended and appalled at such a suggestion.  We’d discuss it as the crowd formed.  Eventually, we’d give in.

At some point someone said the kissing had to last at least a solid minute, but considering we both know what we’re doing in the lip department, that didn’t bother either of us.

At the end of the weekend, I had more beads than my little neck could bear.

What can I say, P.J. is the greatest best friend a girl could ask for.

Long. Live. Her. Smooches.

P.J., a twin bed, and too much Parisian drinking…

My best-friend P.J. and I once woke up in a Parisian twin bed with a boy neither of us was interested in smashed between us.

Before your minds start wandering towards threesomes, let me just preface by saying that the major concern upon awakening had nothing to do with who had potentially made out with whom.

We had an entirely different battle on our hands.

She and I awoke before the boy, who remained passed out during the next twenty minutes as in fits of hysterical laughter we attempted to piece together the evening before-and properly identify the culprit of the ‘bed-wetting’ scene in which we had found ourselves.

That’s right, my jeans from the night before were wet, the boy appeared soaked, and P.J. was suddenly wearing her p.j. pants-which she had most definitely NOT fallen asleep in.

That’s correct dear readers-P.J. had wet the bed, well-primarily the boy, and myself before drunkenly stuffing her pants in a hamper and then throwing on p.j. pants and crawling back onto the TINY mattress.

So it was we found ourselves in a fit of hysterics as the sun woke up and we attempted to prepare ourselves for morning classes.  I remember laughing so hard that I fell over while trying to change pants.  P.J. couldn’t breath from fit of hysterics as we managed to devise a plan to ‘cover-up’ the unfortunate-urine situation.

So it was that I poured a bottle of Sprite over the boy, and we left him there as we scampered off to class-hoping he would assume that he was covered in only the sugary-sweet beverage, and not-the unfortunate bodily fluid in which he was currently snoozing.

This was ten years ago-and I have to say-to this day I love P.J. so much, were she to do it again-I’d laugh just as hard and come up with some way to fool the boy.

Though it could be more challenging considering that the adorable man she sleeps next to now is about to be her husband-and would likely know something was amiss.