Hot Toot
by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Coco’s bathroom is the most extravagant bathroom I’ve ever been in. Everything, from the floor to the ceiling, is covered in Italian tile. All white. The only pop of color comes from her luxurious towels, which right now are teal. She buys new ones whenever she feels the need for a change.
After her channel got monetized and she started raking in some serious dollars, she bought sunflower yellow. “For happiness, and how bright the future is,” she said. Then, six months later, deep purple. Coco didn’t say this, but I figured it was because she was feeling like royalty. Now, she’s on a yoga and meditation kick, always talking about her core as if it were an actual person. I don’t know what the color teal has to do with that, but I’m sure there is a connection.
Anyway, the reason I’m in Coco’s bathroom is that she has finally carved out some time to hang out with Jazzi and me, and we’re all barricaded in here, primping for a girls’ night out that is long overdue.
“God, it’s bright in here,” Jazzi says as she paints her lashes thick with mascara.
Coco wears a skintight red dress. She chooses lipstick of the same shade, strokes bright red onto her lips and rubs them together. “It has to be. I need this light to match the lights in my studio.”
“Your retinas are going to end up with holes in them,” I say, reaching into the plunging neckline of my little black number. I hoist my breasts up and out and check myself in the mirror.
Coco gawks at my chest. “God, Pier. I swear you have the best boobs. Are you sure they’re real? Because no one gets those naturally.”
I smile. “I’m sure they’re real. But you did notice I had to lift and separate, right? The girls are all right, but they do need some help sometimes.”
“Can we not talk about boobs?” Jazzi interrupts, still working on her lashes. Her mouth is open as she switches from one eye to the other.
We drop the topic. Jazzi has nursed a child. She wears a beige dress with a high neckline, but short hem. Motherhood may have ruined her breasts, but her legs are still damn fine.
The gleaming countertop is littered with tubes, compacts, brushes and champagne glasses. On a napkin, in that small space between the faucet and the bottom of the mirror, rests a half-eaten slice of sourdough topped with a decadent lobster spread. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I grab it and stuff it into my mouth. I’ve already eaten half a dozen of these, and I knew with the first bite the potential for danger. Too rich. But I’ve already decided the tummy ache I will suffer later is worth it. I chew and close my eyes; the deliciousness is almost orgasmic.
We are all feeling good from the champagne and pampering, and now we are ready to hit the town.
“Wait!” announces Coco. “Before we go: shots.”
* * *
I can tell the Uber driver is annoyed. He keeps glancing in his rearview mirror, like he’s waiting for us to say or do anything that will give him reason to kick us out of his car. I lean across Coco, who is sitting in the middle, and close the space between myself and the driver.
“I know we’re being obnoxious,” I tell him in my most sympathetic voice. “We haven’t gotten together in a while, and we’re excited to go have some fun.”
His dark eyes, blanketed by thick, bushy brows, meet mine in the mirror. He gives no reaction and goes back to staring straight ahead, fingers gripped around the steering wheel at ten and two. He drops us off in the middle of the city, where we are free to flit from one nightclub to another as much as our hearts desire.
Jazzi seems uncomfortable in her high heels. She’s used to wearing sensible shoes, but she’s forging on like a champ. Coco glides over the concrete as if she’d been born in stilettos. I’m not worried about my shoes, because the tequila shot — on top of all the champagne — has made its way to my head, and I’m enjoying the wonderful euphoria. But that creamy, decadent lobster spread is sitting like a rock in my stomach.
From the sidewalk, we can hear bass beats pulsing behind a neat, brick storefront. Strobing lights flash through the windows, signaling a good time. Jazzi begins to twirl around a lamppost, flinging her hair from side to side. She’s on her way to being trashed. It’s a good thing that her mother has the kid tonight.
“Let’s go in,” shouts Coco over the music, and she walks up to the open door, expecting Jazzi and me to follow, which we do. The bouncer, who is tall but on the thin side, asks for our ID. We dig our drivers’ licenses out of our clutches, and Coco flirts with him unabashedly.
Even from the doorway, we can see the club is full. Not just full but crammed with people. Coco whispers in the bouncer’s ear. He looks her up and down in a way I — and probably any woman — would consider insulting, but Coco just smiles and cocks her pretty head. The bouncer talks into a mic near his shoulder and tells us to please wait. We step back and lean against the entry wall. People behind us show their IDs and file in to find a spot on the dance floor.
Soon, another man appears. He’s shorter and more muscular than the bouncer at the door, and he leans close to the taller man as he shouts over the music. The shorter man looks at me, then Jazzi, and finally at Coco. He smiles and tells us to follow him. He creates a trail through the masses, like an icebreaker in a frozen sea, and we follow in his wake. As if by magic, a vacant booth appears, a black leather horseshoe behind a velvet rope. The man unfastens the clip and doubles-back the rope, clipping it to a hook on the wall. He gestures for us to sit and says he’ll send someone right over to get our drink order.
“First round is on the house,” he says with a wink.
“Wow,” I say, scooting into the booth, my bare legs squeaking on the leather. “How did you manage the A-list treatment?”
Coco smiles. “I’m kinda famous,” she replies, and it doesn’t sound like bragging, but a fact. “It’s okay if you haven’t noticed.”
I stare at her, trying to put it all together in my swimmy head. “Wait... you told me your channel was doing well, but... I guess I don’t know much about that type of thing. You can get famous by telling people how to put on makeup?”
She nods.
Jazzie is tugging at her dress to make it longer. She crosses her legs. “Coco is killing it! She’s got, like, a gazillion subscribers.”
“Not a gazillion,” laughs Coco.
“You know what I mean,” slurs Jazzi. “Anyway, you’re doing a great job.”
Coco tilts her chin in a slight bow. “Thank you very much.”
I can’t argue with Coco’s success; she just got us premier seating in a maxed-out club and free drinks. Why am I schlepping overpriced pieces of dirt when I could sit in my house and show people makeup tricks? But I know there’s more to it than that. It wasn’t too long ago that I was picking up all the tabs and Coco was eating nothing but ramen. Even though I don’t know much about channels and subscribers or how any of it translates to fame and money, I do know that Coco has worked hard. And I’m happy for her.
A woman with slick black hair and a nose ring comes to take our drink order. When she sees Coco, she becomes animated, and they start talking about foundation. Finally, the woman says she’ll be right back with our bottle of champagne and tequila shots. She wrinkles her nose and comments that it’s a weird combination. Coco smiles and says, “It’s working, so we’re sticking with it.”
Coco, Jazzi, and I scooch together at the toe end of the horseshoe booth, gazing at the throbbing crowd. The DJ is good, and people are having a great time. The dance floor is packed and buzzing.
The pop of the cork can be heard over the music, and people cheer the way they do when someone opens a bottle of champagne. Coco pours out but stops Jazzi and me from drinking.
“Uh uh uh! Shots first!”
I narrow my eyes. “Who put you in charge? You’re getting pretty bossy, now that you’re... famous.” I meant it as a joke, but by the expressions on my friends’ faces, I can see it didn’t come across that way.
“Pier!” gasps Jazzi. She has already exchanged her flute for the shot glass. “That wasn’t nice.”
Coco is staring at the table.
My insides zing and I reach for Coco’s hand. “Oh, God! I’m sorry. I meant for that to be a joke.”
Coco raises her eyes but not her face. “You think I’m bossy?” She sounds genuinely hurt.
I wrap both my hands around hers and shake my head. “No! You’re not. I seriously was trying to be funny... I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Coco smiles weakly, and I don’t know if she’s going to shake it off and forget it or if she’s just going to pretend she’s okay to save the rest of the night.
“It’s okay,” she says. “And you’re right. You can drink whatever you want. I didn’t mean to dictate that.” She grabs her tequila.
A part of me wants to drink the champagne, but that would be like a slap in the face to Coco, so I take up the shot glass and hold it out. “Cheers!” I say, coaxing them to click glasses. The tequila goes down easy, but my stomach starts to churn. A sharp pain flares in my gut, and I feel like I need to go to the bathroom. But I don’t want them talking about me, so I sit. I’ll let some time pass, just to make sure we’re all okay with each other. Then I’ll go.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
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