The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky

by Summer Heacock

  Best not to risk it. I don’t think getting caught by a stranger with my pants around my ankles would be particularly conducive to a calming atmosphere.

  I peel off my clothes and quickly fold them in the basket. I tuck my bra inside my T-shirt, because it’s a thing women do. I’m not even sure where I learned this trick, but everyone I know does it. There’s got to be a science there.

  Quickly, I climb under the sheet and wait patiently for Tamara to return. It’s odd to me that this is the first of two people I am intending to get purposefully naked for today, thus breaking my streak of being naked for no one in a very, very long time.

  I’m on a damn roll.

  My stomach flops a little at the thought of my evening plans, so I quickly change my mental subject. I’m supposed to be centering or something. Deep breathing.

  A gentle knock on the door sounds out and I say, “Come in.”

  Tamara enters the room, and thanks to my lying mostly naked on a table under a sheet, I can’t really see much of her as she moves around the room. Some tinkling music starts playing from the general direction of the cabinet by the door and I hear the gentle clatter of plastic bottles moving around.

  Tamara walks over and holds a bottle close to my face. “How is this scent?” she asks. “If you’d prefer something more citrusy, I have other options.”

  I smell lavender and something else, which I assume is perfectly fine, so I say, “It’s great.” I figure if it’s not, I can always take a super fast shower before Ben gets to my place.

  Tamara squeezes some goo into her hands and rubs them together to warm it up. “Before I begin, are there any muscle areas you’d like me to pay special attention to, or anywhere you’re having pain or trouble with?”

  Completely without meaning to, I snort. “Yeah, my special,” I say.

  “Your...your what?”

  I freeze on the table and look up at her awkwardly. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I really did not. “Um. My uh, well...that’s what I call my lady bits.”

  Tamara’s hands go right to her hips, one eyebrow cocked up, and she looks more like an annoyed lunch lady than a massage therapist all of a sudden. “Sweetie, we aren’t that kind of place.” Gone are her dulcet and soothing tones. “If you want that kind of rubdown, try the Golden Hands on Cathedral.”

  16

  “You’ve got a nice place,” Ben says, surveying my living room.

  “Thanks,” I say. I swing my arms in front of me and press my lips together tightly. “Thanks for, you know, um, coming over. And stuff.”

  “Not a problem,” he says, pulling at his tie. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  We are standing near my front door, just at the entrance of my living room, and we can’t seem to move beyond this point. I could give him a tour. I could offer him a seat on the couch. I could take him back to the bedroom and ravage him.

  I could do a million different things, but no, I’m standing at my front damn door more awkwardly than anyone has ever stood anywhere ever.

  I didn’t know how to prep for this evening. If it had been a date thing, I would have spit shined the joint up, put out a few candles maybe, turned on some music.

  But this is a therapy session. So I made sure there weren’t any dishes in the sink, no errant bits of laundry on my bedroom floor, and my prep ended there.

  “It’s a really nice night,” I offer.

  He nods. “Yep. It’s getting really warm out.”

  “Yes, it is. Oh, can I take your jacket? Wait, do people do that? You don’t take suit jackets, do you? Or do you if it’s hot out? Why do I not know that? I have absolutely no idea what proper etiquette is regarding suits.”

  He sort of squints at me and pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I... I don’t know.”

  I lean back on my heels and stare at the carpet. He puts his hands into his pockets and looks around the room silently. This is miserable.

  “Drinks!” I yelp suddenly, startling us both.

  “What?”

  “Drinks! I’m offering to make us drinks! I should have opened with that.”

  He presses his thumb into his temple. “God, yes, drinks. Drinks are awesome. Let’s have drinks.”

  I ditch him by the door and flee for my kitchen. It’s only about ten feet away, but I take the retreat anyway. “Wine. I have wine. How about wine?”

  “Wine is great,” he says, joining me by the counter.

  I grab a bottle of white out of the fridge. “Can you get glasses out of that cabinet?” I ask, pointing to the door by his head. He does as instructed and reaches inside, pulling out glasses as I fetch a corkscrew from the drawer. “See? This is fine. We have wine. Can’t go wrong with wine.”

  Okay, I definitely have to stop saying wine.

  I yank the foil off the top and get the corkscrew in. Then, for the life of me, I can’t get the cork out. I pull as hard as I can, but the damn thing isn’t budging.

  “Can I help?” Ben asks.

  “I’ve got it,” I lie. What the fuck is with this bottle? I take the very classy approach and put it between my knees and give it everything I’ve got, but it’s not moving at all. The cork is starting to deteriorate.

  I’m about to throw this bottle across the apartment.

  I’m pretty sure Ben senses the danger. “Here,” he says, “you hold it.” He positions the bottle in the crook of my arm like a football, grabs the neck with one hand and the corkscrew with the other, and says, “Okay, pull.”

  It takes a minute, and we really struggle with it, but finally the blasted thing pops out and sloshes us both with wine.

  We stand there, me holding the bottle, him holding the corkscrew, staring at the cork, wine dripping off the sleeve of his suit.

  “This is going really well,” I say, panting slightly.

  “Maybe pour,” he suggests breathlessly.

  I do, and we drink. This is a nightmare. I wasn’t nearly this nervous the night I lost my virginity. It was my freshman year of college, there were some tepid wine coolers involved, and I’d known the guy for only a few weeks. But he lived in my dorm and he was nice and I’d made the decision to not spend one more week as a virgin. At the time, I hadn’t met anyone I was interested in spending the rest of my life with as of yet, and it was time.

  Okay, so the parallels are a little more real than I’d like to admit.

  “Did...” I look at my empty glass. “Did we just chug our glasses?”

  He’s staring at his own empty glass with the same look of confusion. He looks up at me with a flash of desperation. “Pour faster?”

  And I do.

  Within ten minutes, we have a second bottle opened and poured, and we haven’t even moved out of the kitchen.

  “I feel like we are making really good choices here,” I say after another lengthy swig.

  “Me, too,” he says, wincing down another gulp. “I think the fact that we just swallowed down a bottle and a half of wine in three drinks isn’t a bad sign at all.”

  I serve out the rest of the second bottle. “Totally,” I say, raising my glass. “My doctor did say relaxing would help, so. There ya go.”

  He pauses mid-drink. “You’re talking to your doctor about this?”

  I swallow hard. My stomach is not impressed with the last ten minutes. “Yes? Why?”

  He shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s good! I mean, I was actually a little worried you were maybe rushing into things. But if you’ve got your doctor in on it, that makes me feel better.”

  I scoff, “Excuse me, Cleary, but I’m a grown-ass woman, and I don’t need you or my doctor to give me permission to do anything.”

  He blinks really hard. “That’s not what I meant, Kat. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was ju
st worried I wouldn’t be doing things the right way. I’ve never actually heard of therapy sex, and I don’t want to make things worse, you know?”

  “I...” I sway slightly and realize the room is spinning a bit. “I think we should sit down now.”

  Like a child clutching a security blanket, I grab another bottle of wine and carry it to the couch with me. I don’t even bring my glass. I flop down on one end, and Ben drops down beside me.

  Was Ryan this nervous on his date with Alice? Did he have to get stumbling drunk to make it through the conversation?

  Or did he glide through it and go on to more dates?

  It’s been over two weeks. He could have had a new date every day for all I know.

  We haven’t sent so much as a single text message since we started the break.

  My head feels sloshy, but even still, while the thought of Ryan on a conveyor belt of hookups doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy, it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as I feel like it should.

  “That was really stupid,” Ben says, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.

  “I regret that, yes,” I say, already fiddling with the cork on the third bottle.

  He slowly starts pulling off his jacket, as if he finally realized the sleeve was wet. He gets it peeled off and flings it onto the chair adjacent to the couch. “You seem really, really nervous,” he observes.

  “Shut up,” I say, popping the cork. “So do you.”

  “Of course I’m nervous!” he says, waving his arm around as though my apartment as a whole serves as evidence. “I’m terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing. And it’s almost guaranteed I will say something completely wrong and piss you off. I’ve never seen you so not-composed. It’s very unsettling.”

  “We all have off days,” I say with a shrug, and take a sip of wine. Smaller this time. I hand him the bottle and he takes a drink. In my defense, I’d intended to be extra relaxed for this, and instead, I think I narrowly missed being arrested for solicitation. That really threw a wrench in my soothing game.

  “Kat, what are we doing?”

  “We are preparing to have medicinal sex. By getting blind drunk, apparently.”

  “And you’re sure you want to do this?” He passes the bottle back to me.

  “Yes, I am very sure I want to have sex, yes.”

  “And the rules?”

  “Those still apply, right?”

  “Do you want them to?”

  I nod. “Yes. Because I am hoping what’s happening right now will in no way be a reflection of either of us for our friendship and whatnot. I think you’re very nice.” I take another drink and realize I’m now drinking red wine. I didn’t even know I had red wine.

  He smiles. “I think you’re very nice, too. And we made a deal. This is therapy...stuff. This is weird therapy. Definitely not what I do at the office.”

  I give him the bottle again. “Okay. So. Rules.”

  “I can’t remember them all.”

  I close one eye. I don’t know why. “No smooshy kissy stuff. No foreplay. No romancey things. Just...stuff. Sex stuff.”

  He frowns. “I kind of feel like a prostitute. I’m not allowed to kiss you?”

  “You’re not getting paid, so that’s not accurate. And since this isn’t official therapy, I don’t think my insurance would cover it. As for the kissing, we talked about that, remember?”

  He takes another drink and closes his eyes. “Oh, right. That was a good point. That’s not how I’d want our first kiss to go.”

  “See? Rules. Rules are good.”

  He takes another drink and nods. “Rules are very good. That’s a good rule.” He tips the bottle my way and looks at me with sleepy eyes. “But I really do want to kiss you, you know. Very much.”

  My stomach does a little flippy move, and I take a nervous sip of wine. “I’d let you.”

  Realizing what I just said, I clap a hand over my traitorous mouth. He grins at me, and it’s all I can do not to pounce on him and devour him from the jawline down. “There you are,” he says. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

  I’m determined to avoid another slip like that, so it’s time to get back to business. I lean forward and set the bottle of wine on the coffee table. Then I very carefully move closer to him on the couch until I’m right up next to him, sitting on my knees, looking down over him. “Should we...” I begin tentatively “...get started?”

  He looks up at me with heavy eyes, the edges of his mouth still pulled up in a smile, but his brows pull together. He closes his eyes and drags his hands roughly over his face before looking up at me again.

  “Kat, I’m not sure if I can do this.”

  I almost flinch, I’m so surprised. “What? What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

  He reaches out and puts his hand on my arm as quickly as he can in his wobbly state. “No! God, no! It’s not that! You’re...great. It’s just...”

  “What?”

  He shakes his head and gives me a very sheepish smile. “I mean, I don’t think I can physically do it. That was a lot of wine. Like, a lot.”

  I stare at him, blinking for a moment. Then I get it. “Oh. Ohh!” I drag the sound out far too long as I flop back against the cushions.

  “I didn’t plan that well,” he says, his words slurring a bit around the edges. “I didn’t even eat dinner before I came over. I was too nervous. I’m all but certain I’d fall over if I tried to stand up right now.”

  A snort-laugh falls out of me. “Oh man, I didn’t eat, either. Wow, we really did make awesome choices.”

  “The best.”

  “This is the second time tonight I’ve failed at getting naked with someone. These are spectacularly bad stats.”

  He blinks slowly at me. “I don’t understand what that means.”

  I sigh and pat him on the shoulder. “Long story. Are you going to be okay? Do we need to have your stomach pumped?”

  “I think I’ll live. I just need to maybe not move for a few minutes.”

  I nod and kick my feet out onto the coffee table. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and drops his head back onto the couch. Poor bastard. Though I don’t think I’m far behind him.

  “Want to order a pizza?” I suggest. “I’ve got Netflix.”

  17

  The blaring sound of a bullhorn erupts in my apartment.

  At least, I think I’m in my apartment.

  I flail around, trying to get upright, and realize I’m not alone. Then I also realize I’m on my couch.

  Quite suddenly, I’m not on my couch anymore.

  I’m on the floor, and the bullhorn is my phone, ringing from my end table. Oh god, the vibration against the wood is going to kill me. It’s echoing through my brain.

  Ben lurches forward and clutches his head. “Christ,” he mutters. “What is that?”

  I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “My phone,” I gasp. “It’s over there.” I point to the table by him and immediately put my hands back to my forehead, pressing as hard as I can to keep everything from throbbing out.

  He reaches over, fumbling and uncoordinated, and grabs the blasted, screaming device. He hands it to me, and I answer. “Hello?” My voice sounds like dirt tastes.

  “Kat? Where are you? Are you okay?” Shannon says, her most worried mom-voice blasting through the speaker.

  I struggle to keep my eyelids open. “I’m fine. Why are you calling me?”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. “You were supposed to be here an hour and a half ago, Pumpkin.”

  I yank the phone away from my ear and look at the time, struck by a wave of panicky guilt. At least, I think it’s panicky guilt. It’s either that or I’m about to spew on my phone. “Fuck!” I shout. “Shannon, I am so sorry! I wil
l be right there. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be right there.”

  I hang up on her before she can hit me with more questions and fly up off the floor. I regret this immediately as I tumble to the side and nearly fall over onto Ben, who only sort of catches me. He’s not looking much better than I feel.

  “Do you seriously have to go to work?”

  “I’m late,” I say, trying to rub the hangover out of my eyes. I look around the living room. The TV is still on, there’s a pizza box on the coffee table, and the third bottle of wine appears to be empty. “Oh god,” I groan.

  He’s still squeezing his forehead with both hands. “Don’t worry. We didn’t do anything. Although all of our other choices were problematic, at best.”

  “I...” I struggle to form thoughts, let alone words. “I have to get dressed.”

  Stumbling away to my bedroom, I yank my clothes off as soon as I’m through the door. Obviously there isn’t time for a shower, which is possibly the only thing that could save my life at this point. I smell like a winery. A winery and desperation. And a little bit like pizza.

  I throw on a fresh T-shirt and jeans and race back into the living room with sneakers in hand. Ben is trying to tidy up by taking trash into the kitchen.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Just leave it. I can get it later.”

  “It’s seven in the morning,” he says, squinting at me. “Do you normally have to go in at seven on Saturdays? Because it’s seriously Saturday.”

  “Buck up, sir,” I say with a grin. “I was supposed to be in at five thirty.”

  “This makes my wearing a tie for you last Saturday less impressive, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re actually still wearing your tie, you know.”

  He looks down and seems genuinely surprised. “So you’re saying we’re even?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s totally the same.”

  Looking a bit unsteady on his feet, he says, “I called a cab, by the way.”

  I frown. “You didn’t have to do that. I usually take the bus in.”