“Come on, now who’s bullshitting. You’re way hotter than I am. I’m guessing you didn’t have boyfriends because, well, you’re a hater, but with your looks you had to have been asked out all the time.”
This time it’s her turn to laugh. Unfortunately, she did have liquid in her mouth. It gets everywhere. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“No worries.” I look down and my shirt is soaked in a mix of water and spit. “I’m taking that as a no, you didn’t get asked out a lot?”
“Wait, let me dry you off.”
“It’s all good, don’t worry.”
She gets up from her side of the table and starts patting at my chest with her napkin. At first, I’m a little embarrassed because everyone’s looking over at us, but then something else happens—my pants get a little tighter and my dick starts to twitch. I’m the biggest pig in the world for this turning me on. Crap, maybe she does have a point about us men. She’s trying to wipe her water-spit combo off my freshly dry-cleaned shirt and I’m taking it like some kind of kinky foreplay. I’m a sick bastard.
“It’s all good, don’t worry.”
“I’m really sorry. And no.” She sits back at her side of the table and I try to pretend we’re not getting looks from everyone around us. “No boyfriends. Not until college. And even then, just one.”
“How come?”
“Believe it or not I was a little hard to get along with.”
“No!” I say sarcastically. “Not you, Ms. Warm and Fuzzy. I won’t believe that for even a second!”
“Shut up,” she jokes. “Look, I’m sorry, I am who I am. I have a well-honed bullshit detector and really high standards. I can’t apologize for that.”
I notice that the more we talk about this the more she’s nervously sipping her wine. The same thing happened when we went to the bar that night. Outside of then and now, I’ve never really seen her drink at all. “No one’s asking you to apologize for anything. We’re all who we are. But there has to be something else to it. Forget high school, a lot of people don’t have relationships in high school. But college? Why only the one guy?”
There it is again. Another sip from her glass. Granted, it’s only wine this time, but still. This must be a bad topic for her, but I’m still interested.
“Can we talk about literally anything else?” she asks.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” Cue another sip of wine. “It’s just. . . a time I’d rather not remember.”
“Bad experience?”
She looks at me with a little more intensity than usual, and even through glassy eyes I already know the answer to my question. “Let’s just say that the guy—he wasn’t exactly what he presented himself to be.”
“You mean he was really a woman? Oh my God, are you a lesbian and didn’t know it? Now everything is making sense.”
“You’re such an asshole. I’m gonna spit this wine all over you just like I did the water.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Try me.”
“Alright, alright, I tap out.” I pause before I continue. “Can I ask you one more thing without getting spat on?”
“Only because you used the correct past participle of spit correctly.”
“Is that the time when you. . . how do I ask this? Is that the time when you. . .”
“Started to be a little distrustful of men? Yeah, it is.”
“Just because of one douchebag?”
“No, not just because of him. I mean, yeah, because of him at first, but it went deeper than that. I started to see and hear about other girls around me experiencing the same kind of things I had with my ex. One after the other, to the point where I started wondering about guys in general. How could so many women have so many bad experiences and there not be some relationship to the fact that it’s always with a guy? I figured that there had to be something there.”
“You know what I’ve been meaning to ask you? How did the whole podcast and YouTube thing happen? How did you become the person our server almost fainted at when she met?”
She takes a deep breath. “So you know how you called me out on never having been in a real relationship?”
“I think I remember that,” I say jokingly.
“Well I was in one—a serious one—in college. High school stuff doesn’t count.”
“God, I hope not. Lord knows I don’t wanna be judged by my few high school girlfriends.”
“Me either. But I had the one really serious boyfriend in college.”
“And let me guess—it didn’t end well?”
“That’s the understatement of the century. It ended bad—like, real bad.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t want to tell me any of the details?”
“It’s not even that I don’t want to tell you about it, it’s that I don’t want to think about it myself, and it doesn’t matter anymore, right? It happened. What matters is what happened to me after.”
“And what was that?”
“I changed. Big time. But not just that—every relationship should change you, right? For good or for worse. But what happened was that I started seeking comfort from other women—hanging out with Shoshana and some of the other girls at the dorm way more than I was when I was with him. And that’s when it started to happen.”
“What?” I ask.
“I started listening to other women’s stories. I told them what had happened to me, and they told me similar stories. I realized that we were all around twenty and still had horror stories of our experiences with guys that went back to middle school.”
“Yeah, I was a dick in middle school. Kids can be mean, guys especially. I’ll give you that.”
“At lease you didn’t give me the ‘we mature later’ line. I hate that one.”
“I was thinking about it, then I realized it’s a piss poor excuse for being an asshole. Immature doesn’t have to mean being a bad guy.”
“Exactly. And the stories ranged, obviously, from really dumb stuff to some really intense things I can’t even repeat.”
“Jesus.”
“I know. I started asking other girls — ones in my dorm, ones I was friends with or had classes with, then eventually I just went up to strangers. You’d be surprised how open some people will be when they want to get something off their chest.”
“So where did the social media stuff come from?”
“The podcast came first, and it’s still my bread and butter in terms of my income. It drives my YouTube page likes and subscriptions. It all started with the podcast. I’d heard of them before, but I started listening to one. Then before I knew it, I was listening to all the old episodes and became annoyed when I caught up and had to wait. I started seeing them blow up, but that’s not why I started my own. I’ve never been after fame or money. For me it was always about capturing these collective female experiences and sharing them so that none of us would feel like we were going through things alone. That’s how I felt when everything happened with my ex—I felt alone. I wanted to save other women from that feeling by being able to share and listen to what others are going through. It was never about fame, and it sure as hell wasn’t about hating men. If I hated men I wouldn’t be here with you now.”
Hearing those words changes everything, almost instantly. It changes how I see her book, but it also changes how I see her—she’s not some man hater, she’s a woman who wants to help other women.
“Wow,” I say. “I um. . . I didn’t realize that’s why you did all this.”
“It’s not totally your fault,” she says. “I got cutesy with the name. I mean, “Women on Dicks” probably sounds like a porno you’ve seen.”
“More than a few times.”
She laughs. “But when you get the meaning—that it’s about women talking about exes and things they hate about guys and relationships—it all makes sense.”
It does all makes sense, and I’m glad she finally felt comfortable enough to
tell me. “I hope that maybe—just maybe—I’ve shown you a different side than what’s his name. Experiment or no experiment, I don’t want you walking around thinking we’re all like that guy just ‘cause there are a lot of bad apples.”
“I don’t think you’re like him, Cormac. Not anymore.”
“Good.” I look deep into her eyes, and for the first time I see vulnerability. “’Cause I really don’t want to get spit on again.”
“Well I’m getting a little buzzed now, so you never know.”
“Please cut it off after that—I can’t take another night of worrying you’re gonna pull a Janis Joplin on me in the middle of the night.”
“I’m NEVER doing that again, don’t worry. I don’t think I’ve had such a bad headache in my entire life. But I am feeling it a little.”
“Oh yeah? And how much are you feeling it?”
She leans forward. “I have an idea.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Forget the food. Are you up to finish our talk for the podcast? I have some stuff I’ve been meaning to ask you—if you can handle it, that is.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It sure is,” she says. “You up for it?”
I raise my hand and grab the waiter. “I’m sorry,” I say as the guy comes over to our table. “My girlfriend isn’t feeling great, we’re gonna skip dinner. Just the check, please.”
She looks at me, and I swear for a second that I see something that isn’t just comfort or vulnerability.
I swear that I see desire in her eyes.
After we settle the bill and head back home, Tori runs right for the recording equipment. I have to hand it to her—she’s driven and focused, and I’m curious what she’s going to ask me next. After she’s set up, we get into position.
“Are you ready for me to record?” she asks.
“Ready.”
“Okay. And. . . go.”
I jump in before she has a chance to do her thing and surprise her with a question of my own. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Have you interviewed many men for your show?”
“You’d be lucky number one,” she says. I’m a little shocked.
“Really? I thought maybe you’d have a few more than me.”
“Two things with that,” she says. “We thought about having a weekly spot for guys to come and discuss their points of view on some of these issues, but we couldn’t find enough guys who wanted to participate. Also, when we did have a guy on the show, they didn’t like how bluntly we talked about things. You’d be surprised how many guys are bashful with talking about sex on record—especially for a book that’s going to—hopefully—be in stores forever.”
“Nice little pitch you did there,” I joke.
“I’m glad you appreciate it. Just remember it in a couple of weeks from now.”
“Noted. Now, back to these total pussies who don’t want to talk sex with you. . .”
“Total pussies? Please define.”
“Oh, come on, stop being a researcher for a second, you know what I mean. We all know a pussy or two.”
“Whether I know what you mean or not, just define it for me.”
“A pussy. A beta male. A soft man. A guy who’s a bitch. You know, a pussy.”
“Don’t you get the irony of being called a pussy?”
“Irony?”
“Yeah, the irony of it is that men use it to describe other weak men.”
“Right. So what?”
“So—if you want to do that, then you should call them testicles.”
“Sorry, Tori, you lost me there. What are you saying?”
“Let’s have an anatomy lesson, shall we? A pussy is probably the single strongest part of a woman. A fucking human being can come out of it, for God’s sake. That’s not weak, my friend, that’s powerful. Balls, on the other hand? Have you ever hit a desk corner, nicked your sack, and almost doubled over in pain?”
“Nice touch, Tori. And yes, many times.”
“You’re proving my point. Women can have babies, and men can’t even tap that area without wanting to go to the hospital and complaining that their stomachs hurt. Pussies are powerful, balls are weak, end of story. You’re using the wrong word to describe each other.”
“Alright. I’ll give you that one. You earned it.”
“Why thank you, Kylo, you know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Don’t you mean ‘woman’? Don’t want to demean yourself by using sexist terms like ‘girl.’”
“Eh, I’m okay with it. I’m taking that one back, like ‘bitch’—we should own our own words. I can call myself a girl if I want to—but you can’t.”
“So, since I’m lucky number one, what would you like to hear from a guy’s perspective?”
“I think our female audience would like to know about sex. How often do you think about it?”
“You mean like, per day? Per hour?”
“Let’s start with per day and then we’ll scale down if we have to.”
“Oh, we’ll have to, trust me. And I’d say I think about sex. . . at least ten times a day. Probably north of that, I’ve never actually counted.”
“Wow.”
“But you have to remember what you’re asking. Thinking about sex can mean any time the subject comes up. That can be talking to a beautiful woman, such as yourself, or listening to another guy talk about it, or seeing a sex scene in a movie I’m watching, or listening to a sexy lyric in a popular song. There’s context, is my point. It’s not like I’m just sitting at my desk watching porn on my phone.”
“Nice transition,” she says, smiling. “I was just about to go there.”
“Go where?”
“To porn—that was my next question.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“What kind of stuff do you watch? What do you like?”
“My tastes vary. It depends on my mood.”
“Okay, fine, you don’t want to reveal your fetish porn favorites. I get it, people are listening. So how about this—tell our listeners what it feels like to walk around with a hard on. I think every woman has wondered about that one.”
“Walk around? Like, literally?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t walk around with a hard on. In fact, the last thing you do is walk around.”
“You know what I mean.”
“So the question is ‘how does it feel to have a hard on?’ Is that more accurate?”
“Sure.”
“It feels amazing. Until it doesn’t, that is.”
“And when doesn’t it?”
“After about ten minutes, if you don’t take care of it.”
“I’m sorry, ‘take care of it?’”
“Yeah, you know? Take care of it—like, yourself. Or, preferably, with a woman lying next to you. Either works. The problem is when you don’t take care of it. That’s when you get a wicked case of blue balls.”
“I always thought that was a myth. Something guys said to get girls to. . . take care of them.”
“Trust me, it’s very real. And it fucking hurts after a while. Like a soreness.”
“Interesting. So, that’s a pretty seamless transition to what I really want to ask you about, and what we’ve been dancing around this entire time. Sex.”
“Yes! It’s about damn time we got to the good stuff. Lay it on me—figuratively speaking, of course. Or maybe literally. That’s totally up to you.”
“Keep dreaming. I have some pointed questions, if you don’t mind entertaining me.”
“I live to entertain you. Go ahead.”
“Number one: why do so many men skip foreplay and try to jump straight to sex?”
“Not all men skip foreplay. I love it, myself, so maybe I’m not the right guy to ask.”
“No, actually. That might make you an even more interesting guy to ask. Tell me the opposite, then. What is it about foreplay th
at you like?”
“Even though I’m not ever going to try to speak for all men, I can at least take a stab because I have a lot of friends and two younger brothers, and we all talk about the girls that we’ve been with. I know a lot of guys see foreplay as a waste of time—they just want to get to to the good stuff, you know?”
“You and euphemisms. ‘The good stuff?’”
“Most of the guys I know see the other stuff as things you do in high school with your first girlfriend before you actually start having sex with grown women. But like I said, that’s not how I feel at all.”
“I appreciate you trying to offer an explanation, but now tell me how you feel about foreplay—why you feel so differently from the guys you know?”
“For me, it’s almost all about the foreplay. And trust me, I’m not just saying that to sound like the best guy ever—I mean it. Look, don’t get me wrong, the sex is the best part of the whole thing, but I almost love the build up just as much.”
“Interesting.”
“You’re saying that a lot, you know. I thought you thought of me as some caveman.”
“I do. You are. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t have a moment or two of being interesting here and there. Right now is one of those moments.”
“What’s interesting about what I’m saying?”
“Who’s interviewing who here?”
“Just asking.”
“You answer me and maybe I’ll answer you. Be specific. What do you like the most about foreplay? Don’t leave out any details. And before you go into your euphemisms again, use any language that you like. Be as vulgar as you like.”
“Okay, just remember you said that, Tori.”
“Noted. Go ahead.”
“To me, a woman’s body is one of the most beautiful things in the world. Her shape, the feel of her, the smell of her. And being with a woman uses every single sense—sight, touch, smell, all of it. Foreplay is where you get to experience each of those at the same time. I love the taste of her mouth—the way her lips and her tongue make their own sort of flavor, and how that flavor passes from her into me. I love to savor that taste.”
The Three Kiss CLause Page 17
