Avoiding Amy Jackson

by N. A. Alcorn

  I manage to get us to her apartment in record time, with only a few minor complications. Amy screaming out of the window that she’s about to get stuffed with a big dick tonight was one of them. Again, her words, not mine.

  I get her upstairs into her apartment, and she grabs my hand as she proceeds to drag me to her bedroom. For a petite woman, she’s got some serious strength. We reach her bedroom and she pulls me inside. The door slams shut behind us.

  “Take off your clothes, James,” she commands as she slides out of her skirt and then her panties. Then, next thing I know, Amy is standing in front of me, completely naked. She’s stealthy like a ninja—a little drunken ninja.

  God, she’s beautiful.

  I can’t stop my eyes. They roam down her body and take in every perfect inch of her petite and curvy frame. Her soft, luscious skin. Her devastating curves. Her perfect tits. Her long, toned legs.

  I shake my head and attempt to bring myself back to Earth. “Where are your pajamas? I’ll help you get ready for bed, sweetheart.” I start to frantically rummage through her dresser drawers as I look for any article of clothing that will cover up her nakedness. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here in such close proximity with a very naked Amy without doing something I’ll regret.

  “I don’t wear pajamas, James. I sleep naked.” I’m frozen in place and my eyes close shut from discomfort at the idea of Amy sleeping naked every night. Maybe I can just sleep next to her tonight; I won’t touch her. Okay, maybe I’ll only touch her a little bit…

  No. No. No.

  “James…” she purrs from behind me. I hesitantly turn around to see Amy stretched across her bed. Her brunette hair is splayed out around her pillow, her eyes thick with want and her full, pink lips parted. Her creamy thighs are spread open and she is lightly touching herself. She watches me watch her.

  This might be the most painfully erotic moment of my life.

  I drag my hand down my face and take a deep breath. This situation continues to get worse by the second, and my cock now stands at attention, saluting her pussy like a god damn soldier. I adjust my pants, attempt to coax my dick to get his head on straight, and realize that sex with Amy is not happening tonight. Fuck, I want her. I ache at the sight of her, but I can’t. I just can’t. She’s far too drunk and I couldn’t be any more sober right now. This just can’t happen. It’s wrong on so many levels.

  It might be wrong, but it will definitely feel good to be inside of her…

  I have to think fast. I can’t just stand here and gawk at her like a horny bastard.

  “James…let me see that soup-can dick… Get it out for me.”

  Soup-can dick?

  “Yes, baby. Get that soup-can cock out for me. I bet it’s Mmmmm mmmmm good,” she moans while she continues touching herself, sliding her fingers through her arousal, rubbing gently on her clit as she continues to compare my cock to a soup can. This has got to be the most preposterous, hilarious situation I’ve found myself in in a really long time.

  I sit on the bed next to her, my steely resolve firmly in place, and pull her hand away from herself. She looks confused and slightly shocked when I stop her. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to say the hardest words that will ever come out of my mouth. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I just can’t accept this very generous offer. I mean, I want to… I really, really want to. But I think you might have had too much to drink and I just…can’t do it. If I were drunk or if you were sober, you can bet that beautiful pussy of yours that I would be naked right here with you, but I can’t take advantage of you like this. Please don’t be mad.”

  Amy’s mouth is agape and the expression on her face has changed dramatically. She is no longer the woman who was just begging for my cock. She is now a woman I’m slightly fearful of. Her eyebrows are scrunched, her forehead is creased, and I’m pretty sure she’s about to telepathically light me on fire.

  “Get the fuck out!” she screams as she throws a pillow at my face. “Out! Now! Get your pathetic cock out of my room now!”

  This didn’t go as planned. Not to script…at all.

  I jump up off of her bed and hold my hands in the air like I’m being held at gunpoint. “I’m sorry! Amy, I’m so sorry. Don’t be mad, sweetheart.”

  “Are you deaf, motherfucker? I said take your pathetic excuse for a cock and get the hell out of my apartment!” she nearly growls at me as her drunken eyes seethe fury.

  So I do the only logical thing. I turn on my heels and walk straight out of her apartment, leaving a very naked and more than pissed Amy in her room.

  How in the hell did I go from being called Mmmm mmmm good to pathetic cock? She went from begging me to fuck her to boiling with rage in a matter of seconds. Amy was like a teeny, tiny drunken version of the Incredible Hulk. When she didn’t get the D, she got very, very angry.

  There are a few things I’m certain of now.

  1. I don’t like Amy when she’s angry.

  2. If I hadn’t left her apartment when I did, she probably would have gone Hulk Smash on my balls.

  3. Amy referred to my dick as an eggplant, salami, and a soup can in the span of twenty minutes.

  4. Amy is a big fan of my cock.

  I know tonight was a bust in terms of getting on Amy’s good side, and unless she wakes up with some sort of drunken amnesia, I’ll probably have a lot of making up to do in order to get off of her shit list, but I think it’s pretty obvious that we can go ahead and add a victory for Seabiscuit. Next time—and there will be a next time—I can guarantee that this horse will be ready to stud.

  Chapter One

  “Nothing makes a vagina happier than sex, porn, and lots of masturbation.” - Amy

  My vagina has a first name and it’s p-u-s-s-y. My vagina has a second name… I’m screwing with you. I’m not going to sing the entire Oscar Mayer Weiner song and insert quippy words for vagina. My plan is to encourage deep philosophical thoughts on the entire issue that is the female reproductive organ, vagina.

  Okay, I’m still messing with you.

  I don’t always talk about my vagina.

  Okay, maybe I’m still kind of fucking with you.

  I’m fully aware that I’m highly inappropriate and seem to make a career out of having a good time. When you work in the emergency room day in and day out, you have to find a way to relieve stress, a way to take your mind off of the high-pressure situations you’ve dealt with throughout your shift. Don’t get me wrong, I love working in the ER, but being a nurse in the emergency department of a hospital that receives the majority of trauma victims in the area is a lot to deal with some days. I have shifts where my body feels like it is in a constant state of adrenaline, and believe me, this can take a toll.

  My stress outlet tends to revolve around bars, nights out with friends, alcohol, and the occasional one-night stand. Yeah, it’s not the healthiest way to deal with things, especially since I tend to take a college sorority girl approach to drinking.

  My full name is Amy Lucille Jackson. My father wanted to name me Lucille after his beloved grandmother, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting, but my mother would only settle for Amy Lucille. She refused to give me a surname that would remind most people of a redheaded comedic actress from the fifties. My closest friends call me Am, my one-night stands most likely call me greedy cunt, and everyone else probably enjoys calling me an asshole. I won’t deny that the latter two are warranted.

  I’m twenty-nine years old and a seasoned ER nurse with a propensity for word vomit. I’d also consider myself someone who enjoys sex. It’s a release that aids in my one-woman act of careless avoidance. I joke that I’m an obsessive masturbator, which may or may not be true, and I take a hell of a lot of pride in my well-versed knowledge of porn gifs. The Cliff Notes version, I avoid emotional attachments with sex. I have my reasons. I may not necessarily be proud of the selfish bitch-like qualities my personality tends to gravitate towards, but I definitely own that shit like it’s no one’s b
usiness.

  I love the release, the moments of mind-numbing pleasure that sex gives me. And my vagina, well… she fucking loves it too. She’s greedy and obnoxious, and she has no qualms with letting you know what she wants. She will take and take and take, and when she’s done taking, she’ll drunk dial your ass at 2:00 a.m. and attempt a late-night booty call to take some more. She’s a dirty little slut who encourages me to do filthy, vile things my mother would be ashamed of.

  So that’s me, the greedy c-u-n-t you will either love or hate. There really aren’t any in-betweens. I’m a balls-out, in-your-face kind of chick. I haven’t always been this much of an asshole. Okay, that’s a lie. I guess I’ve always been kind of an asshole, but everyone has reasons for being the person they are today. Everyone has past mistakes and life lessons that shape them, that turn them into someone they may or may not like. I have my mistakes, my regrets, my accomplishments, and life lessons. I have flaws. I have weak points, but who doesn’t?

  I guess it’s what you do with those regrets that truly make a difference, and honestly, I’m not sure I’ve handled my regrets appropriately. I’m painfully aware that my coping mechanisms haven’t been the healthiest. I’ve made a career out of carelessly flitting through life, evading facing actual emotions. After a traumatic life experience that left a giant, jagged scar on my heart, I became agonizingly aware of the fact that I’m selfish. I learned at the very young age of fifteen that I’m the type of person who tends to put her needs, her wants, and her desires first. I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing the consequences of my egocentricity. I’ve witnessed the devastating aftermath that can occur after my selfishness wreaks havoc. Somewhere underneath all of my bitch-like qualities, I know I have yet to come to terms with this. I haven’t faced the grief I’ve managed to bury deep inside of my soul. I’ve only avoided the pain and owned my predisposition for greediness.

  I guess that’s one of the reasons why my best friend Ellen and I are so close. She’s an avoider from way back. We’re two peas in a giant avoiding pod. She’s not as bad as I am. Her circumventing was mostly due to her trust issues, her fear of getting hurt again, and more importantly, her fear of having her heart broken. Nothing shakes your confidence and trust in men like walking in on your fiancé balls deep in someone else’s meat curtains. Thank god Trent Hamilton barreled into her life with his sexy, tight ass and endless patience.

  Trent is Ellen’s knight in shining armor and unquestionably the perfect match for her. He walked into her life when she was quite possibly at her lowest. She had just left her fiancé and had been dealing with his infidelity in a not-so-healthy way. Think lots of tequila and drunken one-night stands. I know I’m partially responsible for this. My influence of greediness and self-indulgence kind of rubbed off on her for a while. I’m just happy that my best friend has found the person she will most likely spend the rest of her life with. There is no doubt in my mind that Trent and Ellen are undoubtedly meant to be.

  He not only saved Ellen metaphorically speaking, but he also saved her life from the hands of a deranged schizophrenic patient who managed to get into our apartment when she was the only one home. That was one of the scariest moments of my life. When I got that call from Trent explaining that an ambulance was on its way to Regency with a nonresponsive Ellen, my heart nearly stopped beating.

  To say she was in bad shape is putting it mildly. I will never forget that night, the awful scene that lay behind while the police took over our place to investigate the entire ordeal. That was probably one of the worst experiences I’ve ever been through, and I wasn’t even the actual victim. I still get tearful whenever I think about what could have happened, but I remember to remind myself that my best friend is alive, she’s healthy, and Frank will never be able to hurt her again.

  If it weren’t for Trent, I honestly don’t think she would be here today.

  I owe him so much. Yes, I hate that he monopolizes so much of my best friend’s time, but I seriously love that man, and I love Trent and Ellen together even more. He was infinitely patient and even uprooted his life from Seattle to be with my Ellie in Charlotte. They have the kind of love that has even me rethinking my decision to avoid emotional attachment. I’m not saying they’ve made me believe that I will find true love or my soul mate or any other outrageous romantic sentiments, but they have definitely caused me to second-guess a few things.

  Am I ready to open my heart to the possibility that I might want to share my life with someone? I’m not sure. Can I move past my one-woman selfish act, allow myself to be vulnerable, and put myself in a position where I could hurt someone again? Eh, probably not. But I’m at least open to having sex with the same man more than once…

  Chapter Two

  “Only a Limp Dick declines a chance to be with my perfect vagina.” -Amy

  “I can’t believe you’re moving in with Dr. Thrust Me.” I hand Ellen a few books off of her nearly empty bookshelf in her room—well, her soon-to-be old room. She is in the process of packing everything she owns so she can move into Trent’s apartment. I’m happy for her, but really sad to see her go. I’m going to miss living with her.

  We’ve been friends since college—nursing school, to be exact. We met during our freshman year at the University of Louisville. She bumped into me at a frat party and caused me to spill my red solo cup of beer down the front of my cleavage-revealing shirt. I immediately called her a dirty whore, and to my surprise, she scoffed back with, “Takes one to know one.” We’ve been attached at the hip ever since.

  We’ve seen each other through everything. Impossible nursing exams, moving to a foreign city together, breakups, one-night stands, and drunken embarrassing moments—her more than me. See, Ellen has a propensity for pelvic thrusting and getting herself into awkward scenarios. For this, I love her, and I have made a point to record every one of these wonderful moments.

  I feel like we’ve been friends my entire life. I have seen Ellen at her lowest, her highest, and vice versa. I would do anything for her, and the fact that I moved us out of our old apartment while Ellen recovered in the hospital from the injuries she had endured after her attack is proof of that. I knew if she had to come back to the very place where she’d almost died that things would have been too hard. Our new apartment is really nice and even farther away from Regency to ensure that nothing like that will ever happen again. My drive to work is three times longer and our rent is twice as big, but our safety is worth every penny.

  But now my best friend is leaving me for some hot surgeon who still shoots fuck-me eyes her way on a daily basis. Trent Hamilton. A blue-eyed, dark-haired man who is an undeniable force to be reckoned with. He managed to get a very distrusting Ellen to fall head over heels in love, and honestly, I’m not sure any woman would have been immune to his charm. Trent has a true gift in the ways of wooing women. That man has some serious persuading capabilities, and he wooed my best friend right out of her panties—and now, straight into his apartment.

  Lucky bastard.

  I won’t deny that I’m a little envious that Trent gets to dominate so much of Ellen’s time, but my happiness for her far outweighs the jealousy. My Ellen is happy in the most extreme form possible. The giant grin that’s constantly plastered on her face is evidence of this. She’s a walking romance cliché. Someone should write a book about her, because seriously, her love story with Trent could be a romance author’s perfect inspiration. And then that novel could become a movie and I would be played by some hot actress with a dirty mouth, fantastic tits, long legs, and amazing sex skills. Someone like Megan Fox. She would be absolute perfection in the role of Ellen’s hot, sexy, hilarious, beautiful, best friend Amy.

  Fuck it. I’m hot enough. I could totally play myself in a movie.

  “First of all, stop calling him Dr. Thrust Me. Secondly, hand me the rest of those books.” Ellen’s voice stops my thoughts on becoming a famous Hollywood film star after starring in an adaptation about her life. She glances up from the c
ardboard box she is currently packing, flashing her pretty green eyes my way.

  “You’re lucky I’m even helping you right now. I should be out getting hammered and finding a hot piece of ass to take home.”

  “You know who you should take home?” She raises her eyebrow, silently challenging me.

  “If you even say Dr. Limp Dick, I will throw this stack of books at you,” I threaten as I hold the books in my hands.

  “You are so fucking stubborn, you know that? James is a good guy. A really good guy. He’s super hot too. This you cannot even try to deny.”

  “Who’s super hot?” Trent stands in the doorway of Ellen’s bedroom, smirking like an asshole.

  “Ellen was just trying to tell me that your friend James, better known as Dr. Limp Dick, is a hot piece of a—” I’m brusquely cut off when packing tape is thrown at my head; I dodge that shit like I’m on the Matrix and give Ellen the middle finger.

  “Is this going to turn out like that one night I caught you two dry humping on the floor?” Trent waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “We were not dry humping! Amy tackled my half-naked ass to the ground!”

  “Well I wasn’t dry humping, but I felt like Ellen was doing a little more than wrestling if you know what I mean.” I waggle my eyebrows back at Trent and he lets out a loud laugh.

  “Remember that time you had my cum on your forehead? That was good times, wasn’t it, Amy?” Ellen is back to challenging me again. My best friend is truly a dickhead.

  “Oh yeah… I’m pretty sure that was after you got your rocks off from me watching you masturbate.”