The Boy Friend

by Mika Jolie

  If someone were to ask me to describe Coriander, I’d say, she’s an artist, a flower child with a rock and roll soul.

  “By the way, I hope I didn’t cause any problems by texting you so late last night,” Cori says as she enters the kitchen.

  The fact that I have a healthy sex life is no secret, but going into explicit details with the only woman I can call a friend has never been part of our rapport.

  “You can text me anytime, Coriander,” I say and mean every word. Cori’s place is right next to my mother and Katharine on my drop-whatever-you’re-doing-and-go-to-her list. At least until her need for me is replaced by someone who can also give her babies.

  My stomach constricts into a tight knot. I shove all wariness to the side. My friendship with Cori encompasses all sorts of forms. We can discuss politics, scream in frustration, then hug each other goodnight. We laugh at each other’s jokes. She’s one of my squad I chill with—perfect example is tonight—Wine, Netflix, and chicken cutlet. No one can take these moments away from us.

  A comfortable silence settles between us, as it does with true friendship. By the way, this is where I should tell her about Red joining us in New Hampshire.

  At every moment, we have two choices in life, whereby we can ignore the big elephant in the room, or face it head on and risk being poked in the ass by their big ivory tusks. Tonight, my spirit is torn between dealing with the now and getting stuck in that moment when I disappoint Cori.

  My jaw ticks below my ear.

  Bringing a woman with me shouldn’t bother Cori one bit. We’ve been in a non-sexual boyfriend/girlfriend relationship forever, for fuck’s sake. And now she’s on a husband quest. So why the heavy feeling in my stomach over the idea of seeing any disappointment in her eyes if I do come clean?

  Deep down, I know the answer. No matter how I slice it, our yearly ski trip has always been about us. Our friendship.

  Guilt gnaws at my chest. I should tell her, but coming clean doesn’t feel right. Not tonight, not when she just prepared my favorite food. I straighten myself militarily and swallow, but the gigantic lump doesn’t go down easily.

  “So stiff.” One of her hands squeezes my tense shoulder, and I nearly jump. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I carry the salad bowl and the plate with the cutlets to the dining area. Cori follows. “What are you in the mood for? Romantic comedy, horror, or drama?” I ask, pushing aside my pang of conscience.

  “How about your all-time favorite Tom Cruise movie?” she asks, as we sit facing each other at the round dinner table.

  A girl after my own heart. Already, I’m grinning. She needs to say no more. I discovered Top Gun during one of our family movie nights, and ever since, I’ve been in love with the best bromance movie ever made.

  “I can kiss you right now.”

  Her gaze darts to my lips, lingers for a bit before looking away. But not quick enough for me not to catch the blush that crept across her cheeks.

  Wait. Let’s stop here for a moment.

  Does that mean Cori has thought about kissing me? I want to ask, push a little, but the logical part of me knows better than to even entertain the idea.

  “I don’t think I can get tired of watching Top Gun,” I say in the silence. Say what you want about Top Gun, call it cheesy, you can say it’s overly homoerotic, but it’s a hell of a film. Elite fighter pilots. Male camaraderie. Kelly McGillis as the fierce flight instructor. The first time I watched that movie with my Dad, I admit, I jacked off to Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Blackwood later that night.

  Yeah, I think Kelly McGillis came out as a lesbian a couple of years ago. Doesn’t bother me one bit. I’ve had the gratification of being sandwiched by two women, then watched them pleasure each other.

  “Dreaming of Charlie Blackwood again?” she asks with a knowing glint in her eyes. Listen ladies, no matter how close you are to someone of the opposite sex, don’t ever tell them your jack off stories. I made that mistake only once. Cori teases me about it every chance she gets.

  “My lips are sealed when it comes to my sexual fantasies.” Some of them include Cori, but that has already been established. Nothing crazy. Usually, the thought is along the lines of, “Oooo, I bet this one thing would be fun with her,” or “dang, she looks good enough in that outfit that I want to rip it off her,” or “she’s really sexy after she works out.”

  She puts some salad on her plate then passes the bowl over to me. “How many times have you watched this movie?”

  “I’ve lost count.” I know what she’s thinking. The first time I watched Top Gun, I yanked it three times, picturing Charlotte walking in those black stilettos. I couldn’t be more than fourteen. The perfect age. “But not to jack off.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t say that, but . . . ”

  “Just say it.”

  “Say what?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement.

  “I’m a guy. My favorite activity is sex.” I think about sex morning, noon, and night—and every second in between.

  She shrugs. “You said it, I didn’t.”

  I cut a piece of my cutlet, chew it down then speak again. “You were thinking it.”

  Ladies, let me clue you in on a little secret. Men think about sex a lot. Every second might be a gross exaggeration, but it’s not too far off. If we were dying and had one wish, we’d ask for our favorite meal—mine is chicken cutlet—and then sex. If a guy tells you otherwise, dump him. He’s lying.

  She laughs. “Are you thinking about sex now?”

  The question throws me off balance. I put up my index finger, chew down my food then answer. “Yes, but not because of Top Gun.” Tonight the object of my sexual desire is my best friend. A thought I don’t even dare entertain.

  She stares at me for a long time, clearly mulling over my answer. I wait, hoping she’ll push. Instead, she says, “Then why do you watch the movie?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask in an incredulous tone, both relieved and a little disappointed the topic has moved to a safer territory. “The love between these characters, even two as contentious as Maverick and Iceman, is genuine. And the film celebrates masculinity, while simultaneously embracing the more sensitive aspects of friendships.” My voice takes a softer tone. “Like our friendship.”

  “I see.” She pulls the elastic band from her messy bun. Her hair falls softly around her shoulders.

  For a split second I am filled with the desire to walk over to her side of the table and slide my hand into her hair. I shift in my chair, willing myself to focus on why I am at Cori’s house tonight.

  We’re friends.

  Two heterosexual people of the opposite sex who love spending time with each other without complicating it with sex. We have a platonic love. You know, love from the neck up.

  I need to get a grip on my thoughts. “What exactly do you see?”

  “You say the male friendship in Top Gun reminds you of our friendship.”

  I nod.

  Her gaze drops to her handful of perky breasts for a brief second, before meeting mine. By the way, I love a nice set of tits. And I bet you naked, Cori’s are magnificent.

  “Except I’m not a dude,” she says, looking amused.

  The stiffness in my pants agrees wholeheartedly. “Believe me, I’ve never mistaken you for a guy, Coriander.”

  Another splash of red races across her cheeks. This time, she doesn’t hide her face or look away. Instead, she says, “Be careful, Dean Conrad Morello, you’re going to make me think you’ve checked me out once or twice.”

  This is a new territory in our friendship, this flirtatious banter. A part of me likes it. A part of me doesn’t know what to make of it. Should I reach over and snog her, eat her out?

  Probably not a good idea. Shit might get awkward.

  “While you’re safely tucked in the friend zone compartment, I’m still a man.” By the way she’s biting the edge of a smile, a vain attempt to keep her creeping grin at bay tells me she’s enjoying this banter, j
ust as I am. But before this goes too far, and my boner gets out of control, I steer the conversation back to our neutral ground. “Tell me about your day.”

  And for the next hour, we discuss safe topics, like her classroom of crazy seven-year-olds. I tell her about work. We drink wine, move over to the couch, where we drink more wine and watch Top Gun.

  Because it’s a school night, I don’t linger after the movie ends. At her door, I bury a hand in the back of her hair and tug her close for a quick kiss on her forehead. Ignoring the butterflies wanting to come alive inside my stomach, I whisper, “Thanks for tonight.”

  “Ditto,” she says with a wide smile, then closes the door behind her.

  Hands stuffed in my coat pocket, I head to my car. Outside is silence, peppered only with my footsteps on the moon-bleached stone path and the wind whistling through the bare branches of the trees that line the sidewalk. I glance up into the night sky, a blanket of black velvet with scattered stars, flickering. My eyes catch one of the stars, and it twinkles, just for me, it seems.

  Guilt rolls over me. My steps halt. I need to go back there and come clean about Red. My gaze swivels to Cori’s house which is now pitch black. The frigid night air slithers up and down my body. I let out a long exhale, my breath shows as a stream of white steam in front of me.

  Tomorrow. I’ll tell Cori about Red tomorrow.

  “My guy friend tells me the truth.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, I’M sitting in my office with my face buried in the computer screen, when my phone buzzes. My initial instinct is to ignore it, but I have a date with this hot chick I met last night. We texted this morning and confirmed. My dick is ready for a few rounds. There’s nothing else to discuss. But let’s be real, women love to talk about shit.

  My phone dings again. I peek at the screen. There are two selfies from Cori in two different outfits. My stomach lurches, adrenaline pumps. If she were here, I’d be screaming to her how fucking gorgeous she looks.

  Picking up the phone, I study the images a little closer. In one picture, she’s in a brown embroidery sweater dress with over-the-knee fuck-me boots. The second picture, she’s still in the same fuck-me boots and a chambray dress with peekaboo holes on her shoulders. For the briefest second, my mind ventures there . . . again. Cori bending over in front of me wearing nothing but the fuck-me boots, my hands on her ass as I thrust my hips and sink into the cleft between her legs.

  My cock springs forth, rock hard.

  Ignoring the aching bulge in my pants, I headbutt the hot desire thrumming through my veins and read her text.

  This or that?

  One thing is certain. No matter which dress she picks for her date with Bendover, she’s wearing the boots. My fingers hover over the keyboard of my phone for a moment. My mind debating if I should talk her out of wearing the boots. Slowly, I type my answer.

  Brown with flowers.

  She looks radiant in both dresses, but at least the sweater dress has a turtle neck and thick long sleeves. Trevor is not only a prick, he’s also very touchy. My phone dings again.

  Think it’s sexy enough?

  Cori would look sexy wrapped in a brown bag. Bendover knows that. He’s had his eye on her since high school. My insides curdle like milk with lemon. I text her back.

  Definitely sexy. Behave Moonchild.

  Her answer comes quick.

  Always. Talk later.

  SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE OF the night, I’m awakened by the rattling of my cell phone. Half asleep, I pick it up, tap the screen awake, and read the text from Cori.

  Date #1—major fail. Men are assholes.

  Immediately, my gaze shifts to the time. It’s a little past eleven thirty, an early night to end a date. Then again, my date ended about one hour ago, right after she asked the three dreaded questions:

  Do you want to get married?

  How many children do you want?

  How much money do you make?

  My answers:

  Live in Alpine. Marriage, not on my radar. Neither are children.

  My stance on marriage and children turned out to be deal-breakers. We still banged.

  Back to Cori. My mind darts to the worst-case scenario, which involves Bendover’s slimy hands on her. I know where the asshole lives. It’s easy to pay him a visit and smash my fist into his nose. Holding my breath, I send Cori a text.

  Did he try anything?

  She responds.

  No. But he doesn’t understand first date does not always include sex.

  The tension slowly leaves my body. I rub my eyes and read the text again. You know, just to be sure I’m not dreaming. Because deep down, I was praying the date with Bendover didn’t work out. Why, I’m not sure. Nonetheless, I’m relieved and grinning like a fool as I text her back.

  Not all men.

  Another text arrives seconds later.

  Tell me one who’s not?

  Without a second thought I respond.

  Me.

  It’s the truth. I’m fucking nice as hell—family-oriented, quick-witted, personable, and easy going. Those qualities make me a nice guy. In case you’re wondering, there’s no rhyme or reason for my response to Cori either. I’m not looking to get out of the friend zone and start banging my best friend.

  My phone dings with another text from Cori.

  We’re friends.

  Something roots in my chest. Wishful thinking maybe. I shove the thought aside and write back.

  I’m glad you’re not going to have babies named Bendover.

  Another message from Cori pops up.

  LOL. Funny. Thanks Dean.

  Smiling, I type back.

  Anytime, Moonchild.

  After the screen of my phone goes dark, I lumber to the bathroom, take a piss, wash my hands, stroll back into my room. The light on my phone is blinking, indicating a message. I flop on my bed, key in my code to unlock the phone, and see a flurry of smiley faces, along with the sweetest goodnight note.

  Every girl needs a guy friend. Thanks for being mine. :) :) :) :) :)

  My text is short and one hundred percent from my heart.

  Forever.

  “A friend is always good to have,

  but a lover’s kiss is better than angels raining down on me.”

  DID YOU KNOW KARAOKE MEANS empty orchestra?

  A brief history of the word that means sing-along to us. The word Karaoke is a blend of two words—kara, which means empty, and oke, which is short for orchestra. There you have it, a quick, painless, lesson on one of Cori’s favorites pastimes.

  Tonight, we are letting loose at Sepia—Cori’s most cherished Karaoke bar in lower Manhattan. The whole place looks like a big garage. We’re sitting in a booth, not too far away from the stage. A large plate of nachos is in the middle of the table. One bottle of wine already consumed between Cori and Kate, another popped open ready to go. Lucas and I are nursing our beer slowly. On the stage, two girls with NYU jerseys and skintight jeans are singing their worst impression of “Elastic Heart.” Next to me, Cori is rocking side to side, softly singing along to the lyrics.

  The corners of my lips twitch with amusement. I’m glad we’re here. I love it. For one, Cori seems happy. Second, Sepia carries the best beer selection. The crowd is a bit young for my taste, students from NYU for the most part. If the female selection was a little riper, I’d be here pickin’ every weekend.

  No need to question my intelligence. I don’t think riper is a word but...ah hell, you know what I mean. Anyhow, tonight I’m not chasing tails. The reason we’re here, on this blistering cold Friday night, is to take Cori’s mind off the dating game.

  “Dating is like riding a bike,” Cori says over the hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with the rock music that dominates the atmosphere.

  “But the bikes are on fire,” Katharine adds with a nod.

  Tonight marks Cori’s first week back in the dating scene. She’s been kissing a few frogs in her pursuit to find her pr
ince. Her mood the last few days is what you can best describe as ‘meh.’ After one too many late-night text messages of ‘major fail,’ or ‘joining a convent tomorrow,’ I decided my Moonchild needed a break.

  “And . . . oh—” Cori snaps her fingers. “—the ground is on fire.” Her words are stumbling over one another.

  Katharine tips back the last of her drink. “Everything is on fire.”

  Lucas rubs the left side of his temple. I swallow another swig of my beer, quietly listening to the man bashing. Cam got lucky tonight. He has a date.

  “Because” –Cori breaks into a giggle in the middle on her sentence— “oh, yeah, dating is hell,” she mumbles before she and Kate belt lyrics to “Wagon Wheel,” along with Darius Rucker. We have enough drinks in us to pretend we love country music.

  Plain and simple, they are plastered. This is their ‘dating is hell’ pity party. I shoot Lucas a look across the table—a silent request to drive my inebriated sister back to Alpine, since she took the train to the city. He nods in understanding. My worry eases. Kate is in good hands. As for Cori, I’m her guardian angel tonight.

  “First of all, Kate, you’re not dating anyone,” I point out to my sister. “Second, you’re drunk.”

  She narrows her brown eyes at me. “How do you know I’m not dating?”

  “She would have told me.” I point to Cori sitting next to me.

  “Never.” Cori hiccups. She takes a bite of a cheese-covered nacho and moans. “I’d never . . . err . . . discuss . . . your sister’s love life, or lack thereof.”

  Kate snickers. Lucas gives her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.