by Avery Aster
“No,” I say in fake French accent.
“You want to be on top?”
I nod. “Let me ride you.”
Eyes wide, he agrees and slides the condom effortlessly over his erection.
I choose to be on top for selfish reasons. Let’s face it: Yves is hung like a horse.
I’d watched a porno once with Vive where the girl was so terrified of the man’s junk that she got on top, slowly taking each inch, getting more and more conformable.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Feeling the lubrication from the condom, I slowly let me body align with Yves.
Tight. Full. Numb.
“Breathe, Poppy, just breathe.” His tongue dances over the flesh of my neck.
I come up. Then down. Getting more comfortable with him inside me.
Up. Down.
“This feels so good.” I arch my back, staring up at the sky. The white noise of traffic from Central Park West is in my right ear. The sound of the birds chirping in trees is in my left. My body picks up speed, tightening my cunt muscles—then relaxing them. Yves whimpers helplessly that he’s going to come.
And so am I.
“Me first,” I boss, and grind my hips into his flesh. I shut my eyes, pressing my hands against his hard muscular chest. I ride him short, hard and fast. It’s a good feeling. A burn. Like a workout that you know in the end will leave you high from the endorphins.
Bright colors burst behind my closed eyelids as I cry out in bliss.
Just as I’m about to finish, he thrusts upward, deep inside me, packing that condom with his seed.
We lay there for a minute. Wiping the sweat from my upper lip, I laugh. I love every second of this togetherness with him.
After I pull my sweater back on, I get to my feet, and suddenly notice the NYPD sedan. It’s blue and red lights flashing. The siren comes on.
Yves face goes white. “Quick. Let’s go.”
He tosses me the helmet and jumps onto his bike.
Before I can on, the cop car has blocked us from pulling out.
“Yves Remy,” shouts the officer as he jumps out of the car with his gun toward us.
My lover nods.
“On the ground now. Both of you!”
Unsure of exactly what’s going on, I fall to my knees.
“Je suis sincèrement désolé,” he apologizes to me.
“Why are you apologizing? Yves, what did you?”
Before he can answer, he is taken away by two officers, and placed in the back of the squad car.
A third officer, a female, comes up to speak with me.
“Are you going to arrest me too?” I ask, searching her face for an answer.
My Dearest, Dolores
Dorm Room
Poppy
Days after Yves arrest, a detective dropped off all three of my notebooks along with my passport and a ring that belonged to Vive. I’d been made aware of exactly what had happened with Yves from the producers at my talk show. They’d wanted to run a special program on him and Jesse and how they’d tried to save their friend Colton from some mob king known as The Bear.
Yves wasn’t interested in going on TV. He pled guilty to the charges and is waiting his court date. I’ve gone to visit him in jail. Is it wrong that I still have feelings for him? Yves isn’t a bad buy. He just did a bad thing.
Grabbing my journal I write:
Entry #2,947
Dear Dolores,
Never thought I’d see you again. You’ve missed all the action this past week. Funny thing is I have no regrets. I was a girl on a mission to give up my v-card to someone special, different, and extraordinary. And I did.
Coming from Pittsburgh, I’d never met anyone like Yves before. And perhaps I never will again. My Manhattanite besties have been somewhat sympathetic to Yves and his cause for Colton. So much so, that Vive has set up a ‘free Yves and Jesse’ fund to pay for their legal expenses. Don’t get me wrong; Vyes is a criminal, a gorgeous one at that.
Next Semester, Thor and I have decided to study abroad. And no we’re not going to France. We’re heading to Buenos Aires. I’ve been working overtime at the talk show, taping my segments back to back, so I can get the time off. The programs will air later next year. It’ll be nice to go someplace where no one knows my name. Where I can be anyone I want to be. Thor had suggested we take on an alias. I told him that was silly. If anything, they can just call me, Poppy.
Well, I better run. I promised my besties we’d go out dancing tonight. They want to try a new place on the Lower East Side. I hear the men there are really hawt.
Looking for in all the wrong places,
Poppy
Avery Aster
This summer, I'd planned to celebrate my eighteenth birthday in Europe with my fellow Manhattanites--Taddy Brill, Blake Morgan, and Vive Farnworth--until I caught my boyfriend screwing my mother. According to the police report, this vomit-inducing incident happened around the same time I'd supposedly blown-up my mother's penthouse. Like I'm walking around Soho with a stick of dynamite in my Louis Vuitton purse--not! Now, my besties and I are in jail.
Officer Ford Gotti, the Harley-wheelin' biker cop who arrested us, keeps sticking his perfectly-sculpted nose into my case. His inked body is built like a superhero, and he says I can trust him. He wants me to fess up. I won't. Not again. Why should I? My friends and I had a previous stint in juvie that nearly destroyed us. I gotta protect them and keep my mouth shut. Right? --Lex Easton, women's studies major, motorcycle enthusiast, and virgin.
Copyright 2015 Avery Aster
Foreword
Cast of characters
Part One: Riding a motorbike is just like sex, right?
Prologue: From the Desk of Manhattan School for Girls
Chapter One: Thanks, Mom, aka Birdie Easton
Chapter Two: Mister Softee
Chapter Three: Oh My Friggin’ Gawd
Part Two: Orange isn’t the new black
Chapter Four: Worse Than Reality TV
Chapter Five: Sweet Motor Cop Jesus
Part Three: Man Candy
Chapter Six: Fuck-it Buckets
Chapter Seven: The Ride of My Life
The End
Get Undressed
Dedication & Special Acknowledgments
Belle Aurora
Contemporary romance today comes in many subgenres. New adult and coming-of-age tales may speak of angst and darkness while others are sweet, light, and fluffy. Avery Aster’s new series The Undergrad Years touches on a theme near and dear to my heart—panty-melting wittiness!
When I wrote Tina Tomic and her cast of pals in my novel Friend-Zoned, I let “quirky” lead the way in my storytelling. Tina and Nik’s romance was packed with suspense, hot sex, and, from what fans have told me, many laugh-out-loud moments. Giving readers humor is one of the greatest gifts for me as a writer because when the funny works, it sparkles.
From the insanely quotable dialogue and outrageously hilarious, larger than life characters, Love, Lex is a modern OMFG drama featuring a heroine who you’ll make your best friend forever, or as Lex Easton would say, your BFF. I know she’s already my book bestie. Enjoy!
My books are escapism in the purest form. They are romantic, snarky, and a lil’ cray-cray. The dialogue is written based on how the characters talk. Events mentioned in this story took place in 2002 and are a figment of my imagination. Have fun!
Alexandra “Lex” Easton: (17) Motorcycle enthusiast and daughter to famed rockers Eddie & Birdie Easton, Lex intends to party the week away in Paris, France by giving her boyfriend, Kelle Sterling Dolley her virginity.
Tabitha Adelaide “Taddy Brill” Brillford: (18) Emancipated from her parents, Taddy is Lex’s best friend forever and lives with Vive at her apartment on the Upper East Side.
Blake Morgan: (17) Prada fanatic and ‘out’ of the closet since the day puberty struck, Blake is the clique’s gay bestie. He’s also very close to Lex’s mother, Birdie.
Viveca “Vive” Farnworth: (18) Lhaso Apso lover and heiress to Farnworth Firewater Liquor Company, Vive is a party girl who met Lex, Taddy and Blake while in boarding school.
Officer Ford Alessandro-Vollero-Gotti: (21) NYPD motor-cop Ford is inked, jacked like a super hero and eager to make Lex tell the truth about her wrongdoings.
Birdie Easton: (39) Lex’s pill-popping, addicted mother, she suffers from sexual compulsive disorder, is an ‘80’s Playmate and heavy metal icon.
Kelle Sterling Dolley: (18) Lex’s high school sweetheart who’s promised Lex they’d make love just as soon as she lost a little bit of weight.
Riding a motorbike is just like sex, right?
“Lex rode her Suzuki scooter with a helmet. Her Chanel fashions were always pressed. After graduating from Avon Porter she got into an Ivy League university and was still a virgin. She didn’t do drugs or get drunk. So how could my very best friend (VBF) be the daughter to two of the world’s most infamously eff’d-up partying icons and not be an utter mess? The answer is obvious, you ninny. It’s because of us. We’re her besties.” —Vive Farnworth, wealthiest teenager in New York, socialite and aspiring gossip columnist.
From the Desk of Manhattan School for Girls
October, 14, 1988
Dearest Mr. & Mrs. Easton,
I am a huge fan of your music and films. We are honored to have your only daughter, Alexandra, at our school. However, it has come to our attention, that she eats gummy bears and drinks chocolate soda for breakfast. This may be the cause for her outbursts in class which disturb other students. Enclosed is a high-protein, low sugar nutritional handout for a kindergartener of her age and….size.
Yours fondly,
Principle Rooney Belding
March, 10, 1993
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Easton,
Today your daughter rode a motorcycle to school, all by herself. While we applaud her independence, a 5-speed Yamaha dirt bike is not permitted. Since Alexandra is ten and not sixteen, she broke the law. Authorities have impounded her wheels. Child services will be in touch.
Take Care,
Principle Rooney Belding
June 1, 1996
Mr. & Mrs. Easton,
Alexandra ‘Lex’ is articulate and reading at the college level—outstanding for a thirteen-year-old. Regardless, after the recent physical altercation where she punched another student who admittedly called her fat, coupled by your continued failure to work with Lex on her behavioral issues and the ongoing paparazzi trespassing on our grounds in an attempt to take her picture, she poses a threat to our entire student body. We simply cannot invite her back for the fall term.
I’ve attached a recommendation for Lex to board at the Avon Porter Academy in Connecticut where she’ll be out of the spotlight and protected. Her humor and wittiness in class will be missed.
Goodbye,
Principle Rooney Belding
Thanks, Mom, aka Birdie Easton
August, 2002
Soho, New York
“Fuck me!”
Ugh…
Loud, perverse words came from Mom’s bedroom as I stepped off the penthouse elevator into the foyer.
Carrying my Louis Vuitton over my arm, I hooked my motorcycle helmet, a purply fiberglass, biker-chick, must-have accessory, on the wall near the entryway.
“Come to mama, lover boy.” Mom’s words echoed throughout the ten-thousand square-foot floor.
Looking out the window at the sunny, blue skies, I couldn’t believe my mother, Birdie Easton, hooked up again, and so fast. Only gone an hour, I was at the pharmacy stocking up on nicotine gum. Three different Duane Read and two Walgreens later and I’d finally bought some at a bodega. And here I thought I looked over eighteen, so why they’d kept asking me for my ID was infuriating.
Did I, Lex Easton, smoke? Heck no! This gum suppressed my appetite. Only ten or so more pounds to go till my BF and me would be making l’amour in Paris for my eighteenth birthday party with my BFF, VBF, and GBF. Wait let me clarify. Only my BF and I are doing it together. My BFF, VBF and GBF are staying in separate rooms down the hall. Gross.
I sure hope I can shed the weight in twelve-hours before we go. I have to. Losing my virginity, more commonly known amongst my friends as Lady V, depends on it.
While removing my riding gloves, I tried to think back to whether Birdie had a dude stay over last night or not. The piney, ammonia stench of marijuana in the air hinted at her dealer, Don Juan Escobar, as today’s possible “lover boy.”
My father, Eddie Easton, didn’t give a flip who or what Birdie spread for. He was in Asia touring for his new album. Think Elvis Presley meets Gene Simmons, that’s Daddy. Their marriage had been “open” long before they’d had me. But did I have to hear her?
The Prince Street penthouse was more Mom’s place than mine. I’d moved in with her after graduating from the Avon Porter Academy back in June. Although up until a few weeks ago, I’d called boarding school more my home than here. I’m sure Taddy Brill, best friends forever (BFF), Vive Farnworth, very best friend (VBF), and Blake Morgan, gay best friend (GBF), would agree with me.
I’d only been here a few weeks, and already I’d caught her lighting the cashmere sofa on fire while trying to clean out her pipe. Then she’d entertained the New York Fire Department after they’d put her mess out.
Well, the mess was still here, people. Hello!
One might say I’d forgotten about Birdie’s insatiable appetite for the company of men, sometimes women, and yes, many inanimate objects.
Maybe I was in denial. Alright, I was in complete and utter denial about what a reckless, sexually compulsive, whacked-out celebrity Mom had turned into.
Her last album had dropped when I was like twelve. So she has too much free time on her hands to get into trouble. Come to think of it, there was no “turned into” anything. She’d pretty much always been this way. Uh-huh, I’m growing up, seeing things for how they’ve always been. It’s sad.
Thankfully my Daddy had turned down MTV’s offer last year for a reality show. If a camera crew had filmed what went on in this place, my life would’ve been o-v-e-r. Last I’d heard, the network had asked my Father’s music bud Ozzy to do it with his family, the Osbournes.
Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell out of my stretchy-jeans pocket and noticed the time.
12:10 pm on Saturday.
My boyfriend, Kelle Sterling Dolley should be here soon. Today we are going back-to-school shopping in his new Ferrari. He lives down in the Financial District and claims since we’re going to be starting college up in Morningside Heights, he needs wheels.
Kelle thinks he is too good for a yellow cab, let alone the subway. Pretentious as white trash winning the lottery or my parents once their albums had struck platinum, I told Kelle I wouldn’t be caught dead in his tacky-ass racer. But he got himself one anyways.
He should’ve invested his father’s money wisely—on a motorcycle. That’s how us Easton’s rolled. I wouldn’t have minded if Kelle’s wheels had been new or an antique. It could’ve been a Harley, Ducati or even a freakin’ Honda, just no pussy sports cars.
Vamp is what I named her, my Suzuki scooter. Mechanically speaking, Vamp is not a motorcycle. She’s a single-cylinder, sporty thing with a seat that fits my bum and painted in my favorite color, think dried blood meets dark purple. She coordinates with my short nails.
Whenever I’d beg Daddy to buy me a motorcycle for my eighteenth birthday, he’d reply, “Baby girl your mother and I will get you a new set of wheels after we see your first semester’s grades at Columbia. ‘B’ or higher on all subjects. We clear?”
Please let my first semester go well.
Pretty cray-cray considering how messed up my folks were to be projecting academic righteousness. I’m not their Pollyanna Voodoo Doll, although I’d grown used to it. Those who can’t do, preach.
After Vamp, my dream bike was the Honda VFR400. Birdie had hers custom made in Japan and nicknamed it af
ter her vibrator, The Pocket Rocket. I rode her as often as I could. I’m talking about the bike, not my mom. Ugh, totally gross!
Oh…that throttled feel, such a heady mix of power and diesel fuel pumping through the engine, between my legs, purring at my innocence. After I’ve lost my virginity, Lady V, I imagine future sex with Kelle will be similar to riding The Pocket Rocket. Hopefully minus the constant stop and go between traffic lights.
Back to Kelle—I admit that, when one looks as yummy as him, he could peddle a pink Huffy bike along the West Side Highway and get away with it. So I’m sure he’ll be fine in his Ferrari.
Vive always jokes, “Lex, your Kelle is total gorgeousness! Give ‘em your Lady V already. Or Blake will snatch Kelle’s juicy booty from behind and I’ll take his ding-a-ling from the front.”
And according to The Manhattanite Times, Kelle was the hottest teenager to have hailed from an American political family. Granted, most of the boys I’d met over the years, who’d been born into politics had not…been attractive.
I’ve dreamt of, lusted after, kissed on, and doted over Kelle Sterling Dolley since I was like fourteen.
Wouldn’t it be nice if Kelle felt the same way about me? He didn’t. I was working hard to change that. Take this gum, for example. The more I chew, the more I lose, and then the more I’ll win at l’amour with Kelle.
“That’s it. Right there. Tap it hard. Ah-huh. Harder,” Birdie shouted in her drunk or high voice.
Usually, I could tell the difference. Today? Not so much. That meant she was probably a mix of both.
Unzipping my bag I took out a piece of that gum, popped it in my mouth and rolled the wrapper between my fingers. The directions had clearly stated not to chomp all day. So I’d spit it out in a few.
Aside from the excess salivating, that made me appear to be Cujo, the rabid dog, followed by bloating—which I corrected with Gas-X and a spritz of Diorama perfume—the gum wasn’t half bad. Shhh. I didn’t read the second half of the warning label where it had listed the other flu-like symptoms. Seriously, I can’t freak myself out about chewing this stuff. It’s mind over matter and right now my mind was focused on getting skinny and getting laid.
