Man Cuffed

by Sarina Bowen

  “We did it! The fucking horizontal hula!” I exclaim. Well, I don’t technically exclaim it because Cassidy and Aubrey and I are eating pancakes and bacon at Anna’s House, which is a busy restaurant. And I don’t want to offend the small children running around, or the dads, or grandparents. I don’t worry about offending the moms because I can tell they swear all the time. I would if I were them.

  So it’s more like a stage whisper. But Cassidy and Aubrey light up anyway. “And?” Cassidy says.

  “There are no words.” I take a big bite of pancake and just hum. Or moan. I don’t know.

  “Did he…” Aubrey leans in. “You know. Call you a bad girl and use his cuffs on you?”

  She sounds weirdly excited about that possibility. I shake my head. “There was no time. We were too busy inhaling each other to think about props. Next time, maybe, though.”

  “Next time?” Cassidy asks.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a next time. I can see there being a lot of next times, leading on for, I don’t know, years. But I’m not sure that Maguire can picture that yet.”

  “You think you have feelings for him already?” Aubrey asks.

  I think about it. Do I? Probably. When I met Maguire, it was like meeting a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time. When I’m around him, things are easy. I want to talk to him, rile him up, get him exasperated, and then I want to crawl on top of him and ride him till he shivers. Are those feelings?

  Whoops, they are.

  “There are feelings. Maybe this is the start of something great. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. He was pretty firm about not dating anyone.”

  “Well, you got your hopes up with landing a TV spot, and look how that turned out!” Cassidy is so supportive.

  “Cassidy,” I say slowly. Because she’s on to something. “It took me a decade to land that gig. I don’t want to wait ten years to land Maguire.”

  “Maybe you already have,” says Aubrey. “But you’ve just got to let it breathe for a while. When is that wedding coming up?”

  “Soon,” I say. “Two weeks.”

  “Perfect,” Aubrey says. “Weddings make people feel romantic.”

  “Maybe,” I hedge. On the other hand, last night I learned a little something about why Mac is so buttoned up. I won’t tell my friends about his ex marrying his twin brother. I’m not a gossip. But that’s a deep wound. And some people just never get over a wound like that.

  And I can totally picture myself getting strung along. Not that Mac would do that intentionally. He’s only been honest with me. But sometimes when he looks at me, I feel like we could be magic. It would be hard to walk away from so much potential.

  “So what’s your strategy?” Aubrey asks. “You should really play up the girlfriend thing without being creepy. Maybe it’ll be good training for him.”

  “Right!” Cassidy agrees. “The one thing I’ve learned from my brothers is that boys need a lot of training. Don’t give up on Maguire yet. Maybe the emotional piece will fall into place. And until then, you can keep having lots of sex. By all means, get as much of that as you can so that your life doesn’t become a sexual desert.”

  “I thought it was just a drought for you?”

  “No,” she says sadly. “It’s an actual desert. Like with tumbleweeds.”

  The conversation moves on to other things. Such as: what is tumbleweed, exactly? And why can’t Cassidy find a decent man to date?

  “They’re afraid of your big brain,” Aubrey insists. “Is there a dating app for geniuses? I mean, there’s a dating app just for farmers. And there’s one just for men with beards.”

  “It gets weirder than that,” I point out. “There’s a dating app for people who like Star Trek. And an app for people who like to eat bacon together.”

  “Mmm bacon,” Aubrey says with a sigh. “I’ve heard worse ideas.”

  I pick up a slice of mine and take a big bite. It’s nice to be out with friends. But I can’t stop my traitorous mind from serving up flashbacks of last night. I think about how good it felt to hold Maguire, too. And I wonder how many licks it will take to get to his emotional center.

  20 Really Profound

  Maguire

  Breakfast with Lance was a mistake. Sometimes I wonder if he’s my best friend by choice or by default. I’m sitting at his kitchen counter and he’s just whipped us up some breakfast that is 99% meat 1% tomato.

  I’m okay with this. We’ve got coffees and are shoveling the food in our mouths.

  The bigger problem is that he’s cruising an iPad and giggling. Jesus, the man giggles. We could not be more opposite if we tried. “There’s a quiz that I think can help you. It’s called ‘Am I In Love?’”

  The What The Fuck look must clearly show on my face.

  “What?” Lance asks. “I’ve been doing some sexual research. And I found that Cosmo has all these awesome quizzes about sex toys and positions. I’m good at the sex toys one already, and my score keeps improving on the positions. Some of the information is really profound.” He says this without an ounce of sarcasm.

  The dude is...goddammit. He’s just a delight. But I’m never telling him that. “Are you seriously going to have me take a quiz in Cosmo?”

  “Just answer the questions, okay?” Number one wants to know whether I enjoy talking to her, or just having sex with her.”

  “Both,” I say. “This is stupid. I don’t need to know if I’m in love with her. I’m not. Not ever. I just want to know how long I can sleep with her before she wants a commitment and I have to move out. Please let the answer be a very, very long time.”

  “But that’s why this quiz is appropriate. If you have no feelings for her, then you’re safe for six months. Maybe even a year.”

  A year of fucking Meg and drinking beer with her and hanging out and eating food and then fucking her again? I could be good with that. “What if this...quiz...says I do have some, whatever, feelings for her?”

  “Then you’re doomed.”

  “I can’t be doomed. I’m taking her to my sister’s wedding and she’s agreed to fall all over me and make my family think I don’t give a shit about my brother and sister-in-law.”

  “That’s a healthy idea for sure,” says Lance.

  “Just give me question 2,” I bark.

  “What initially drew her to you?”

  Okay, this one is more confusing. How does a guy explain that kind of magnetic pull? Or that I didn’t even mind when she tried to undress me within thirty seconds of meeting me? Or the way one hot look or smart-ass comment from her makes something inside me light up?

  “She had a plant that was too big,” is what I go with.

  Lance squints at the tablet. “That’s not one of the options.”

  “There are options?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s a quiz, dipshit. Not a therapy session.”

  “Oh. Whoops.” It feels like a therapy session.

  “These are your choices. A) That ass in those jeans. B) Her bright smile. C) She said something that made you laugh. D) All of the above.”

  “D,” I admit reluctantly. “Is that bad?”

  “Let’s see…” He scrolls and scrolls to get to the bottom of the quiz. “So far you’re maxing out on the possible points.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  He reads. “Headed for the altar! It’s time to get down on one knee, Romeo. Click here to read Four Ingenious Methods For Discovering Your Girlfriend’s Ring Size.”

  “Oh, please,” I complain. “This is stupid.”

  “No, I think they might know a thing or two.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Lance. Use your cop brain. Who writes this magazine? Women, that’s who. And they have an agenda. We’re being railroaded right now.”

  Lance just shakes his head. “I am using my cop brain. And I’m using it to understand what women really want. And when I get my chance to try the Freaky Monkey, I’m taking it.”

  “The Freaky Monkey?”r />
  “It’s this sex position where you lean her left ankle and her right hand against the wall, and then pound into her on the diagonal…”

  “That sounds dangerous,” I point out.

  “I know.” He rubs his hands together. “Hey, let me show you the sex-toy quiz. You might learn something useful.”

  He’s wrong, though. The sex part is easy for me. It’s the relationship part that gives me the cold sweats. I don’t need a “Do You Love Her” quiz. I need a “Are You Crazy Enough to Go There” quiz.

  Sure, there’s something there between Meg and me. Something nice. But everything in me wants to bail. I’m not proud of that, but that’s what my gut is telling me. It doesn’t matter that the rest of me wants to go over to her apartment right now and kiss her harder and deeper than I’ve kissed anyone before. My gut is right, because my gut remembers what happened last time I let myself get carried away with romantic optimism. I asked a girl to marry me. Now she’s my brother’s wife.

  “What are you thinking about so hard?” Lance asks.

  “Morris,” I admit. “Julie. That whole shit show.”

  Lance shoves a sausage in his mouth and makes a face. “I feel ya. That must have been a really bad day. You walked in on ‘em, right?”

  I just grunt in response. This right here is why I don’t do talking. Who’d want to relive that day? During my first semester studying criminal law, I drove home from Indiana to surprise Julie. Five hours in the car without stopping. I drove straight to the apartment that Julie shared with a new roommate.

  That girl had opened the door. “Oh, hey! Did you step out?”

  “What?” I’d asked, not understanding the question from someone I’d never meant. “Is Julie home?”

  “Of course she is!” She’d given me a look like I was crazy.

  But I suspected nothing. And, wearing the smile of someone who expects to enjoy a visit with his fiancée, I opened Julie’s bedroom door.

  Everybody who knows my story assumes that I caught them in the act. But that’s only partly true. I caught them in bed all right. My brother was shirtless. But I can’t even remember what Julie was or wasn’t wearing. Because bare skin wasn’t the shocking thing, and they weren’t even kissing.

  It was so much worse than that.

  They were cuddling in bed. What stunned me was how cozy they looked. How coupled up. They were curled up under the quilt, peering at something on my brother’s phone, heads together. There’s no mistaking the way a couple looks—like they’re on exactly the same wavelength. Like they’re about to finish each other’s sentences.

  And when they both looked up, it took a moment for their duplicate happy faces to fail. That’s how blissful their evening had been before I’d interrupted it. I was literally the last thing on either of their minds.

  Julie was my whole life. I was taking an epic course load at school, because she wanted me to graduate early and come home.

  Yet she was curled up in bed with my Judas of a brother.

  Heartbreak is supposed to be a metaphor. But the pain I felt at that moment was absolutely excruciating. And I never want to feel it again.

  I can’t wait to see you, Julie had said, and I’d believed her. I love you.

  Maybe she did. It’s just that she loved Morris more. And she didn’t bother to tell me.

  Reeling with shock, I’d turned right around and walked out of the room. “Macklin, wait!” Julie had shrieked. “Let me explain.” As if she ever could.

  “Oh my God, there’s two of you?” the new roommate had gasped.

  “Not anymore,” I’d said. And then I just left. I went to a buddy’s house and let him get me drunk. The next day I drove back to Indiana, and I literally didn’t come home to Michigan for almost three more years. A job offer was the only thing that could entice me back. That and my sister begging me to take it.

  As for Morris, I never even punched him in the face. All my friends expected me to. I think Morris himself expected it. But that would only be stooping to his level, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. My only option was swallowing the pain and trying to prove what shitty people Morris and Julie were by being the better man.

  They didn’t notice, as far as I can tell. They got married six months later. Everyone was relieved when I didn’t show up for the wedding. Or Christmas, or Thanksgiving. Ever. Their betrayal cost me so much.

  It’s not that surprising that I’ve written off relationships. And I don’t see how that could ever change. I can’t hand that much power over to anyone again. I’m not even capable of it.

  Anyway. It’s a moot point. I’ve got this other wedding to go to. Meg will accompany me, and I’ll make sure she has a good time. After that, I’ll have to break things off.

  It doesn’t matter what the quiz in the magazine says. They don’t know me. Very few people do. And I like to keep it that way.

  The shit inside my head ain’t pretty. But it’s home.

  21 That Only Happens on Netflix

  Meg

  “Mac,” I chide as his hand wanders down my thigh.

  “What?” He cups the curve of my knee, and I shiver.

  “Not now,” I insist. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “I’m not a talker. I’m a man of action.”

  “You sure talk a lot while we’re naked.”

  “That’s dirty talk. Dirty talk is action.”

  I laugh. He makes me orgasm and he makes me laugh, sometimes at the same time. There are moments when I think Maguire might really be a keeper. A lot of moments. In fact, we’ve spent many, many moments together since the night of my ride-along.

  These past couple of weeks we’ve invented quite a few new meanings for the word “ride-along.” Ahem.

  “No, listen. For real.” I prop myself up on one elbow. We’re both totally naked, sheets be damned, and tossed aside. I feel completely at ease talking to him like this. Clothes flung off. My hair a curly mess. It’s easy to be comfortable with a man who’s just tasted every part of you and then come back for more.

  “Your sister’s wedding is tomorrow and we haven’t even talked about…”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he groans. Then he reaches for the sheet to cover up his slowly softening cock. That’s a pity. Both the softening and the covering.

  “You don’t have to talk about the whys or the history of it all. I just need to know the what kind.”

  He studies me. “I have no idea what you just said. It’s either post-orgasm fog and I still don’t have enough blood rushing to my brain, or you just made no sense. The whys, the history, the what kind?”

  “Focus!” I say. “I just need to know—what kind of girlfriend do you want me to be?”

  I can actually feel him start to choke. And there’s a flush to his cheeks.

  “Maguire!” I say and snap my fingers inches from his face. “Breathe. I mean, what kind of girlfriend do you want me to pretend to be for your sister’s wedding? Remember?”

  “Oh!” His relief is so obvious that I feel a pinch in my chest.

  “I don’t need to know all the history, unless you want to tell me. But I just need to know what you want. From me.”

  He shrugs. “I’m no good at hypotheticals. Give me some examples.”

  “Okay, sure.” It’s actually a great idea. So I jump up and run, buck ass naked to my little closet where I haul myself into it. Literally.

  “Meg?” Maguire calls as I disappear, sounding concerned that maybe a demigorgon has sucked me into another dimension. Not to worry. That only happens on Netflix. I emerge holding onto an outfit straight from the puritan 80s. Or my mother’s puritan 80s wardrobe. It’s a pastel pink power suit with shoulder pads to die for. “Do you want me to be vintage and weirdly subservient?” I put on a sweet-sounding voice, “Yes, Maguire. Anything you say, sweetie. Or….” I drop the hanger onto the doorknob and jump back into the closet.

  This next idea takes a couple of minutes, because I need to
put on this outfit, instead of holding it up in front of me. And these fucking garters take a while to connect to the pantyhose.

  When I finally emerge, I’m wearing barely anything. I’m clad in a black leather bra with my nipples exposed, a chain that connects from my bra to my garter, thong underwear, a garter belt, and mesh stockings. I’ve also slid into a pair of stilettos.

  “Holy shit…” he breathes.

  And then I crack the whip. Literally.

  Every actress needs an assortment of props. Every woman, really.

  “Do you want me to be the one in charge?” I ask, strutting toward him. Stomp stomp stomp. I fold the whip, using just the tip to trace a line down his chest down to his... Hello, sailor! At least part of Mac likes this getup. “You’d have to be my subordinate if we go with this outfit, okay? Try saying: ‘Yes, Mistress. Your wish is my command.’”

  Mac blinks back at me with half-dilated eyes. “That one might be a little...much…” he manages to say. “Maybe save that one for later.”

  Sure. Gotcha. Back to the closet I go. I pull on a T-shirt and some Daisy Dukes.

  “How about this? I could play the girlfriend from the wrong side of the tracks who listens to Billy Idol and wants to fight the system.”

  “So we’re back in the 80s?” he asks.

  “What of it? It was a good decade and I didn’t get to experience much of it.”

  “Maybe you could be from the right side of the tracks. But still want to fight the system?”

  “I could, huh?”

  He smiles up at me, his body spread out like a relaxed cat taking in the sun. I wonder if this little exercise is making Mac think about what he’d like in a real girlfriend. And I wonder if he can see me in that role.

  “Let me try on something else,” I offer. “While I’m dressing, you tell me the kind of girlfriend you want me to be. I can pretty much be anyone you want. Except Australian. That’s an accent I just can’t manage.”

  “Hmm,” he says as I go back to the closet.

  I find the perfect dress, peel off the Wrong Side of the Tracks outfit and slip a new dress over my head. No bra needed. And I wait to see if Maguire will start talking. Sometimes, I’ve found, if I leave his line of sight, the words come a little easier.