"Eat my pussy, you pipsqueak cunt," Noreen said. "You're supposed to be my friend, Jacquette-but you're not."

"Never have been, you fucking dyke bitch," Jacquette snorted. "Not if a friend's someone who goes around lapping your asshole all day. Listen, Noreen. I'm trying to help you."

"You call insulting my body help?"

Noreen had removed her sweat-soaked leotard top and tights.

She snapped her panties off.

Ran her hand down her slick titflesh.

Scratched between the asscrack.

And jagged a fingernail at the itchy cut.

"You're supposed to be a pro, Noreen.

"They don't think so."

"A gymnast. An athlete. A competitor."

"Not anymore. I'm supposed to be gone."

Noreen tossed up her nose. Arched up her ass. Threw her tits out.

She dipped down, rose up curtly. Like a bird sipping water.

"See that, Jacquette? Last time I'll ever do a gymnast's fucking bow."

"Don't shit me, Noreen. You're tough. Don't try to put on a soft-puss act now."

"You said they'd think of me as a cow-an old sow. That's fucking mean!"

"They are fucking mean, Noreen. I know how they think. And I'm telling you."

Noreen turned sideways to the full-length mirror. The naked bod she saw reminded her of someone else-not herself.

Not the body of a sylphlike nymphette. No longer did Noreen's figure conform to that of a miniature wraith-with the deceptive fragility of appearance that all the judges seemed to demand with respect to current fashions among them of form and-the resultant subjectivity as applied to the scales used for scoring.

Noreen examined her newly emergent mounds of titflesh. Saw the rise of assmeat about her haunch. The Mound of Venus was now a mature and forested hillock-furry and furrowed.