Avoiding Amy Jackson

by N. A. Alcorn

  “Will that include a night of you in your pajamas jumping around on your bed, having a pillow fight with me?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “James!” I hurl out in what feels like anger, but there may also be a small part of me that likes the idea of being on my bed with James. Shit, forget I said that.

  He holds his hands up. “I’m kidding, Amy. Don’t get pissed at your friend.”

  I can’t hold back the small giggle that involuntary falls out of my mouth. “Fine, but I wish my friend would stop being such an asshole. And when we go for coffee, he’s buying.”

  “Deal. Your friend James is happy.”

  “My friend James sounds like an idiot when he talks in third person.”

  “Your friend James is sad.” He fakes a pout and I poke him in the chest.

  “Knock it off and go see that patient.”

  “Your friend James would do anything for his friend Amy,” he adds as he grabs the chart and winks at me.

  “You talk in third person one more time and I’m going to shove my foot up your ass,” I warn him as he walks towards bed four I hear him laugh the entire way there.

  My friend James is an idiot.

  Chapter Seven

  “Orgasms are awesome, so get to rubbing, bitches.” - Amy

  “I’ll take an extra-large espresso with skim milk and two sweeteners, heavy on the foam. Oh, and he’s paying.” I nod my head towards James, who is standing next to me at the counter. The barista seems to be enamored by him and hardly seems to notice that I’m directly in front of her. I can’t really blame her. James looks infuriatingly attractive today; he’s dressed casual in a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. And holy denim, his ass is wearing those jeans.

  “Just give me a large coffee, black.” He flashes those pearly whites, and I think I just heard the barista sigh. Please stop stroking him. I glare at her in annoyance. She’s putty in his hands and he fucking knows it.

  To my satisfaction, James pays and we take our drinks to a quiet table in the corner of this quiet establishment. The Black Bean is one of my favorite coffee shops in downtown Charlotte. The shop is quaint and intimate with decorative, artsy paintings hanging along the red brick walls.

  “I thought you were going to get a complimentary blowjob with that coffee.”

  James nearly spits his coffee all over the table. He sputters and coughs into his hand. “Can you avoid from saying ridiculous shit like that when I have scalding-hot liquid in my mouth?” His green eyes lock with mine and a slow, sly smile spreads across his full lips.

  “Well if you’re going to be friends with me, you’re going to have to get used to the fact that I have no filter and will always state the obvious.” I pin him with a knowing look.

  A loud, barking laugh escapes his throat and his gorgeous eyes shine with amusement. I can’t help but notice that his eyes seem extra green today. Those orbs are practically emerald—the perfect combination of light and intensely bright with almost a faint bluish hue interspersed throughout. I really wish my new friend wasn’t so damn good-looking. Why can’t he just have a sudden outbreak of herpes spread across his lips? That might help squash down this attraction I feel for him. The attraction I will continue to avoid like the plague.

  “I love your non-filter. Keeps me on my toes.”

  “I think you might be the only person on Earth who finds my predisposition to blatantly state the obvious endearing. You’re a strange man, James Williams.” My lips start to quirk up at the corners, threatening to show James that I actually enjoy his company. “So tell me about yourself. Trent said you’re a military guy?”

  He nods his head in one fluid motion. “Yep. Marines. I enlisted right out of high school and did several tours in Iraq before I chose to enroll in college and then go to med school.”

  “Wow. Impressive. I’m surprised you didn’t go into trauma surgery like Trent. That seems like something you would have probably gained a lot of experience with when you were active in the Marines.”

  His mouth looks grim and uncharacteristically sad as he runs his hands through his dirty-blond hair, making it even more messy and disheveled. And sexy—don’t forget sexy.

  “When I got back from my final tour in Iraq, my head wasn’t exactly straight. I was diagnosed with PTSD by one of the docs at the VA. A doctor with PTSD and specializing in trauma surgery just didn’t seem like a very safe combination…” He takes a heavy sigh as he trails off, his eyes focusing intently on his Styrofoam coffee cup. “I lost one of my closest buddies on my last tour. That was actually one of the motivating reasons for me not to re-up. I just couldn’t do it anymore and decided that maybe I would make something of myself, so med school seemed like the best option.”

  I reluctantly place my hand on top of his. Seeing that look on his face and hearing what he’s been through makes me want to comfort him. I have the urge to erase his frown lines with my fingertips. I can only imagine what he’s seen, what he’s faced. When his eyes finally lock with mine, I give him a sympathetic smile before I gently pull my hand away.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

  “Thanks.” James is quiet, maybe even a little brooding. I feel like I need to steer the conversation to something a little less depressing.

  “So is it true what I’ve heard about marines?” I ask nonchalantly.

  He cocks his eyebrow inquisitively. “What exactly have you heard about marines?”

  “Once a marine, always a marine. I hear you guys even yell out, ‘Oorah!’ during sex.” I try like hell to keep my face devoid of any emotion, especially amusement.

  James’s fist slams down onto the table as he lets out a deep laugh. Our coffee cups vibrate from the motion and tiny droplets slide down the side of my cup onto the small, red table. “Uh. No,” he answers through his laughter.

  “Never? C’mon. You mean to tell me you’ve never yelled that out during sex? Even when you come?” I wipe the spilled coffee off the table with a beige napkin that proudly displays the shop’s logo.

  James’s tickled expression makes me grin.

  “God, you’re outrageous, but to answer your question, no. Never. I’m saving it for when I meet the woman of my dreams.” His face beams with hilarity. James unleashes his most impressive megawatt smile and I instantly feel needy for his attention.

  A self-deprecating laugh escapes my throat as I try to brush off the unnerving feeling that is occurring inside of me. “You’re good. Really good. I bet you have women throwing themselves at you all the time.” My face immediately flushes red when a particular embarrassing memory comes to mind.

  “I don’t turn on the charm for just anyone, Amy,” he states with a determined stare, his eyes piercing into mine.

  “That doesn’t seem like a response someone would give to their friend.” He may need sunglasses for the glare I’m giving him.

  “Sometimes, with you, I just can’t help myself, but I promise I’ll try to be better.” He holds his hand to his chest, asking for forgiveness.

  “I guess I’ll let that one slide, but if it happens again, I can’t make any promises what my reaction will be,” I warn before I finish the rest of my coffee. I’m a little concerned that I just drank an extra-large espresso in under twenty minutes. Caffeine only seems to encourage my obnoxious, sarcastic mouth. I’ve been known to get a little chatty after excessive caffeine consumption.

  Silence descends upon us, and James’s facial expression starts to appear slightly broody again. I choose to liven up the conversation with something entirely inappropriate. “How old were you when you started masturbating?”

  His jaw goes unhinged and may have hit the ground at my shamelessness. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met, but there is no way in hell I’m telling you my first experience with the five-knuckle shuffle until you tell me yours first,” he demands with a slight quirk in his brow.

  “Five-knuckle shuffle?” I question amusedly and chuckle slightly at his impressive
use of slang.

  “You heard me correctly. Let’s hear it. Tell me all about teenage Amy’s first time masturbating.” He takes a lengthy sip from his cup.

  The caffeine is ever-present inside of my veins and I decide to say the hell with it. If James wants to hear my masturbation story, I’ll give him my masturbation story. I throw up a silent prayer that I’m able to make him squirm a little by the end of this.

  “Well, I was fifteen years old when I first discovered I could give myself an orgasm. I can remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting in my room on a late Friday night. I had just gotten home from a high school football game with my friends. We won, by the way. Crushed the Panthers by at least three touchdowns. I hung out at a party with a guy named Brody Lancaster—”

  James interrupts my stroll down Masturbation Memory Lane. “Brody? Seriously?”

  “Shut up! It’s a hot name and it doesn’t even begin to describe the total package that sixteen-year-old boy was rocking. Tall, muscular, and baby blue eyes that could make a girl cream her panties. He was every chick’s wet dream.”

  James offers me an unconvinced stare.

  “Girls have wet dreams too! I’ve woken up mid-orgasm after having an all-night fuck-a-thon with Patrick Dempsey more times than I can count. Dr. McDreamy has a serious obsession with letting me ride his face.”

  His jaw drops as I quietly think about my favorite McDreamy fantasies.

  James clears his throat and brings me back to Earth.

  “Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Brody Lancaster. Sexy, sixteen-year-old Brody Lancaster. Did I mention that he was the quarterback of the football team?”

  “Fucking figures,” he scoffs at me. Then he gestures with his hand. “Keep going.”

  “Well, Brody didn’t give fifteen-year-old Amy the time of day. I don’t blame him. I was scrawny and quiet, and Pro-active would have been a nice addition to my personal hygiene regimen. I took a lot of mental pictures of Mr. All-American Quarterback that night. He popped my spank bank cherry, and for that, I will forever be indebted to him. I’ve since deleted several of those mental pictures, but I can’t lie to you, I’ve still got a few images of Brody stored away in my brain somewhere. Of course those are purely for reminiscing purposes.”

  James laughs loudly and appears equal parts humored and intrigued.

  I respond accordingly. “Hell, I might have a ladyboner right now from thinking about him.”

  His eyes go wide and somehow find their focus on my lips—and then my breasts. “You can’t throw shit like that out there and not expect my mind to wander to unfriendly territories.”

  I motion for him to bring his eyes back to my face. “Eyes up here, Williams.”

  He chuckles and gestures with his hand again for me to continue. “Keep going, but I do want to remind you that you’re the one who picked this topic of discussion.”

  I roll my eyes skyward and carry on with my reminiscing. “Okay, so back to the infamous night that was the gateway drug into my journey towards obsessive masturbation—”

  “Obsessive masturbation? Are you trying to fucking kill me over here?” His fingers grasp the bridge of his nose as a pained look crosses his face.

  “Sorry,” I respond with a fake wince, but in all actuality, I secretly love that he’s uncomfortable. “Okay, back to what I was saying. I watched Brody that night like a hawk. I eye-fucked his tight, toned ass every time he took his red Solo cup to the keg for a refill. I attempted to telepathically remove his pants several times just to get a glance at his dick. I was fifteen and curious, and nothing invokes curiosity in a teenage girl high off of estrogen and Midol like seeing a guy like Brody Lancaster in skin-tight spandex football pants. I remember thinking, Is his dick really that big or is it the jockstrap? Is he circumcised? How big are his nuts? What’s it like to suck his entire sac into my mouth?”

  “I swear you are the only fifteen-year-old girl who has ever thought about sucking a guy’s balls into her mouth.” He groans noisily and his head lands on the table with a thud.

  I nudge his shoulder. “Are you still with me, James?”

  “Does it matter? I have a feeling you’re going to continue whether I’m listening or not.” His voice is muffled. His head rests on the table and he waves hand, motioning for me to carry on with my story.

  “Well, I went home that night, hopped up on dirty thoughts of sixteen-year-old boys’ cock sizes, and realized for the first time that Brody Lancaster could make my little snatch drip. I remember clenching my thighs tightly together the entire ride home and hurriedly rushing into my parents’ house, making a beeline for my room. I locked myself in and decided tonight was the night I was going to figure out how to work my vagina. I had read plenty of Cosmo magazines and watched enough soft-core porn to have an understanding that my little box had magic inside of her and I just needed to figure out how to rub that pink lamp until I forced that orgasmic genie out. Are you singing Christina Aguilera in your head right now, James? If you’re not, you should be, because that song is really working for me.”

  He lifts his head from the table and provides me with an annoyed stare. “How long is this god damn story?”

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?” The idea of making him squirm gives me a thrill of excitement.

  “In more ways than one, doll. This is like the raunchy, teenage version of the Vagina Monologues and it’s making me feel like a dirty bastard.”

  A small smile makes its presence on my face as I continue with my story and ignore his sarcasm completely. “So I got myself cozy on my Hello Kitty bedspread and spread my legs out like a gynecologist was going to come in any second and perform an emergency Pap smear. I took a mirror and explored my snatch like I was on CSI, inspecting every nook and cranny, every lip and bud. I was going to find this orgasm if it was the very last thing I did. Tap. Tap. Tap. I gently tapped my fingers on my clit, impatiently waiting for something spectacular to happen. Tap. Tap. Tap. I remember thinking, Is this thing on? After a few more taps, I realized that rubbing was where it was at. And boy oh boy, did I rub.”

  James lifts his head, groans, and goes back to his favorite face-to-table position.

  “I rubbed and rubbed and I rubbed some more. I fingered my little glory hole and dry humped my Justin Timberlake pillow until I eventually had myself trembling so bad from climax that I had a fleeting moment of worrying if my mom was going to have to call 911 because I’d just masturbated myself into a seizure. Another wave of an orgasm rolled through me and that fleeting thought was replaced by blissful thoughts of scheduling my next masturbation session around my school schedule. I decided that four p.m. was the preferred time of double mouse-clicking, seeing that this gave me enough time to get home from school, watch Days of our Lives and Passions, and then get my mental spank bank pictures of Brody Lancaster in order before diving finger-first into my little honey pot.”

  A few moments of silence descend upon us. James slowly lifts his head up, looks around the coffee shop, and then locks his eyes with mine. “You… I… What…” He stammers a few more times before running his hand through his hair. “That story seriously just happened in the middle of this coffee shop, didn’t it?”

  I nod my head confidently. “Yep.”

  “I’m completely speechless right now. And I can’t believe you had a Justin Timberlake pillow.” He raises his eyebrow, apparently questioning fifteen-year-old Amy’s musical taste.

  I point my index finger in his direction. “Don’t you dare say anything about J-Tizzle.”

  “Stop.” He holds his hand in front of my face. “Do not say any more and never say J-Tizzle again.”

  I swat his hand away and focus on my demands. “Fine. Now it’s your turn. Let me hear your first-time masturbation story.”

  He smirks and responds immediately. “So this is what friendship with you is like?”

  I nod enthusiastically in response.

  “I was thirteen and woke up one morning after having a wet dream
and found out that jerking off was fucking awesome and that was all she wrote. It became a daily ritual for me.”

  “That’s it? That’s your masturbation story?” I question dubiously, my nose crinkling in aggravation.

  “Yes, that’s it, my friend. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not as loquacious as you are when it comes to storytelling. And I gotta say, it will take several cold showers for me to get your Vagina Monologue out of my head.” The corners of his mouth crest into a grin and that one perfect dimple is front and center. I have the urge to lick that stupid dimple.

  I laugh loudly and work towards steering the conversation to something less sexual and more on par with being friendly. We continue to converse about our lives, giving our friendship and this whole getting-to-know-each-other thing a real shot. I tell James about my parents in Louisville. My dad is a recently retired police officer and my mother used to be a kindergarten teacher. She retired a few years ago, after I graduated from nursing school. I have a strong feeling she’s praying I give her grandkids soon, seeing as she and my father have a lot of free time on their hands these days. I just hope she realizes that, in order for me to provide her with grandkids, I’m going to have to do a complete one-eighty in terms of how I feel regarding the whole idea of marriage and family.

  I have James damn near roaring in laughter when I reveal a few stories of what it was like growing up with a father who was a cop. He frequently made a point of cleaning his guns in front of my dates, and he wasn’t afraid to threaten to track them down and beat them to within an inch of their lives if they didn’t have me home by curfew. To say I didn’t date that much in high school would be an accurate statement. I did, however, enjoy sneaking boys into my bedroom for a little extracurricular dry humping session when my dad was working the night shift.

  Was I ever caught in the act? Yes, and that night ended with my five-foot-ten dad dragging my six-foot-two flavor of the week out of my house by his shirt. I found out that night that, although dry humping and tonsil hockey are enjoyable, sometimes the risk of getting caught by my Italian father, who has a temper that resembles a raging lunatic, wasn’t always worth the sub-par orgasmic reward. Because, let’s face it, it’s pretty rare in high school to find a boy who actually has the skills to bring out your O-face. And honestly, most of my dry humping sessions ended with me all by my lonesome, lying spread eagle on my comforter and shucking my clam to dirty thoughts of Brody Lancaster. Yes, good ol’ Brody Lancaster was a staple in my spank bank up until I went to college.