The Coolest Pig on the Planet

My best friend had breasts so small and tight they might as well have been a rumor. The first time I touched them—basement party, house across the street, someone’s parents out of town—I felt nothing but skin and two nipples. I still wake up years later in a cold sweat with a hard-on just thinking about her, which has almost nothing to do with the chest.

She was the coolest person I have ever known. Half-Italian, hit like Chuck Norris when provoked, ate cheeseburgers with the commitment of someone who had never encountered the concept of a diet, and smoked chain in a way that suggested she’d been doing it since the womb. Playing Super Nintendo with her beat most things I can think of—certainly more fun than being a filthy-rich rocket tester at Disneyland. She drank, we kissed, nothing was complicated.

We lost touch the way you lose touch with people from that era—gradually, then completely. Last I heard she was bartending at a nightclub and sleeping with women, which surprised me not at all.

I’ve never forgotten her. Not because of the chest, or not only. Because she moved through the world like it owed her nothing, because she was more fun than anyone I’ve known since, and because she remains permanent proof that every model, every fashion blogger, every woman who wasn’t blessed in the fat department has absolutely nothing to apologize for. Small tits are cooler. Maria proved it.