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It started as a harmless game, when they were girls: bet I can hold an ice cube longer than you. Bet you you’re more ticklish. Bet you I give a better back rub. Bet I’m a better kisser.

As they got older, it became a more serious rivalry–and more focused on their growing awareness of their bodies. Bet you I can win at strip poker. Bet I can pin you down. Bet you can’t keep quiet. Bet I can make you wet.

They only see each other over the summer and on breaks, now, but she braces herself every time, a mixture of pride, fear and burning anticipation. She’s not going to lose this year. There are more consequences at stake than just a momentary triumph. Whoever loses the stakes loses the day: she’ll have to do whatever her best friend says, anything her best friend says, until the next morning.

It’s how she lost her last two boyfriends. It’s how she got that belly button ring. It’s how she got that speeding ticket, and those rope burns, and that constant nagging need.

They don’t have to say the wager aloud anymore. It’s always the same. One of them stares at the other across the room, cold challenge in her flushed face, and starts to undress. The other hastens to catch up. They slide onto the bed, bodies just barely touching, not showing a sign of weakness even though they tremble every time.

Bet you come first.

It’s hard to want to win.

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