F*cking Awkward

by Anthology

  His hands loosen on my hips and start to caress my back, his cock twitching inside me.

  Holy crap, maybe this guy was superman.

  I push up on my elbows, and swing my head to the side, expecting my hair to follow so I could flick it over my shoulder all sexy like.

  But no, my hair does not follow and instead, it catches on something and Matt hollers in pain.

  “Matt? What happened? My hair is caught…”

  I look down at him, my eyes widening.

  Somehow, while riding him, my hair all over the place, some of it got caught and tangled with the back of his earring.

  And, when I tried to be all sexy and throw my hair over my shoulder the force of it pulled his earring into his ear.

  His eyes are pinched shut. His formerly re-hardening cock softens at light speed and starts to slide out of me. All I can do is stare at the earring wedged halfway through his ear lobe.

  Then my stomach rolls and I look away, which only makes my hair tug on his earring again. He groans out, this time not sounding sexy at all but in total pain. His hands move to his earring, doing something to the back as he tries to untangle my hair from it.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay, just, please don’t move your head again,” he pleads.

  That’s when I do it. That’s when I make a horrible mistake. I open my eyes to see what progress he’s made and see it, a drop of blood coming from his earring.

  My eyes bug and I reach up to cover my mouth with my hands.

  He watches my movement, his eyes widening. He shakes his head, crying out again as it must shift his earring. Another drop of blood appears and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I throw up on him.

  Then, embarrassed, I start crying.

  Somehow, even with his chest and neck covered in my puke, he manages to free my hair from his earring. He doesn’t even pause to enjoy that victory, no; he scoops me up and carries me to his bathroom.

  I’m still crying and apologizing as he turns on the water. Then with a grunt, he pulls the stud straight through, and out the back of his ear. He drops it in the sink and turns back to me. I watch as he removes the condom, wrapping it in a tissue before tossing it in his trash.

  There’s more blood now and I heave but luckily nothing else comes up. His eyes are soft and full of concern as he guides me into his shower.

  With tears of embarrassment still streaming down my face he washes himself and then me. Once there’s no sign of my vomit anywhere he surprises me by kissing me.

  I pull away but he only pulls me closer, his lips moving to my cheek and then my forehead as his arms band around me. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I tuck my face into his chest, my hands coming up to rest on his hips. “I’m so sorry. I’m not good with blood.”

  He chuckles, his chest shaking with it. “I can tell.”

  I groan, “your bed.”

  He shushes me and reaches back to turn off the water. “I can throw the comforter into the wash.”

  “I’ll do it.” I offer.

  He shakes his head and helps me step out of his shower before wrapping me in a towel. “Okay, close your eyes.”

  I don’t question him. I just do it. I hear paper ripping but don’t peek.

  “Okay, you can open them.”

  He has a towel wrapped around his waist but it’s his ear that makes me laugh. He’s put two small Band-Aids on it, one on either side.

  “In case it bleeds more,” he explains.

  He makes me wait in the bathroom while he puts his comforter in his washing machine. Then, I cringe as I hear an aerosol can spray. Crap, his room must smell like puke sex.

  Gross.

  He then comes back into the bathroom, offering me a t-shirt to change into.

  “If you want I can go,” I offer knowing he has to want me gone.

  I mean, I injured him and then threw up on him. Why wouldn’t he want me gone?

  “No way. If you leave now you’ll avoid me because you think I care that you threw up.”

  He reaches into the cabinet below his sink and pulls out a toothbrush, still in its plastic wrapper. “I don’t. I like you and I want you to stay. Just think,” he passes me the toothbrush, “If this works out we’ll have a great story,” he lifts his hand to his mouth and whispers, “minus the hot sex,” then lowers his hand, “to tell the grandkids.”

  He then leans down and kisses the top of my head before leaving. I turn and face the mirror, unwrapping my toothbrush, smiling so big my face hurts.

  I injured him, and then threw up on him and he still wants me.

  Yep, he’s a keeper.

  The End

  * * *

  About the Author

  Carey Heywood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling romance author. To date, she has published thirteen full-length contemporary romance novels. To learn more about her books, head over to www.careyheywood.com

  #MyBigFatStupidHookUp

  Christine Zolendz

  “Shit, come on. We’re going to be late,” Julia says, yanking me down the hallway by the elbow toward the conference room.

  I stumble on my heels and laugh. “We have five minutes. It’s not going to take five minutes to get down to the end of the hallway,” I say, thumbing a tweet about the dangers of stilettos and being late. The hallway smells strangely like a tuna sandwich—one that had been left out over night—in the heat.

  “Just hurry up. Gail is going through pitches and I need to get the interview with that hockey player and his sex tape.”

  I stagger into the conference room and dig my heels in to the rug, “What?” I ask under my breath, watching everyone’s eyes lift in our direction. “You don’t even like hockey.”

  “I like him and I know all about sex and tape,” she whispers, giving me a wink and pushing me through the doorway. “And I’m dying to talk to him about how he pucks.”

  I can’t help but laugh. That’s so Julia. I’d bet she’ll be pucking him twenty minutes after the interview ends. There would definitely be a video and plenty use of tape or rope or whatever crazy, kinky thing she could come up with. The poor guy won’t be able to sit for days after.

  “So nice of you to join us,” Gail chirps from her seat at the head of the conference table. I give her a curt nod and take my regular seat. There’s no need to rush. We’re not late, and seriously, I know exactly the article I’m getting stuck with. Either the one about the sexiest eye shadow trends this month or the hottest novels to jill off too.

  I’m barely focusing on the meeting, tapping out another quick tweet about people in the workplace who bring tuna for lunch and how they should be fired on the spot, when Gail’s bird-like nose whistles in a deep inhale. “How to not get caught cheating. Gavin you take this. You seem a champ at it. Great ways to enhance blowjobs. Nice pitch, but let’s take it from a guy’s point of view. Zeke, you write it.”

  Zeke’s face reddens and I slap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. Of course, Gail catches it and offers up her best smirk to me, “Jane, I want you doing the front piece on one-night stands.”

  Wait, what?

  “That was my pitch,” Zeke cut in, leaning forward. “I’m a much better—”

  “And you’re a man,” Gail snaps, standing up and slapping her palms down on the table. “The opposite view from a lonely, shy, frumpy girl in her mid thirties would be a fuck of a lot funnier. Kind of like My Big Fat Greek Hook Up.”

  Mid thirties? I’m only twenty-seven.

  I swallow the knot in my throat and speak up, “How am I supposed to get research?”

  Gail blinks rapidly in my direction. “You want to write articles for this magazine right?” I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes blinked faster. “You want to be part of this team, right?”

  I numbly shake my head and try not to vomit.

  “Good girl. Oh, and how many followers do you have on Twitter
right this moment?” she asks, smirking.

  “A little over half a million,” I whisper.

  “Good. The one night stand…I want it tweeted live,” she says, smiling wide.

  Holy shit.

  Tweet: The epic saga of The One Night Stand begins in 3, 2, 1 #HeLooksDifferentThanHisProfilePicture #LikeHeHadHair

  “Wow,” he says as he reaches the table where we agreed to meet. “Aren’t you…cute.”

  Aren’t you…bald…and possibly ten years older than you promised? I slap a smile on my face so wide it actually hurts. “Well, thank you. I guess.”

  And over a candle lit table at this shitty chain restaurant with its cheery, perky wait staff, I explain the article to him. He does what any other man in the universe would do: yank my chair closer to his and jams his tongue down my throat. Jonathan Theodore Titan Gaster Junior is his name, but everyone just calls him Jon he said…Jon-boy.

  There is no way in Hades I’m calling a grown-assed man anything that ended with boy. Not without laughing hysterically in his face, anyway.

  After reclaiming my tongue, Jon…boy asks the waitress for the check, snapping his fingers wildly in the poor girl’s face.

  I sip at my drink and choke as I swallow. “But we didn’t even order dinner…”

  “Let’s get right to this article you have to write. It’ll save time and money and you’ll get your research done. It seems fair.”

  Tweet: First rule of a one-night stand: Never begin with it being a one-night stand. Especially if you’re hungry. #CheapAss #ProtitutesGetPaidMore

  “Hold on, Jon, wait,” I say as he tugs me down the street quickly. My legs can’t keep up with his, and just to match his pace, I’m jogging alongside him.

  “Jon-boy,” he corrects me, pulling me close and wrapping his arms around me. His lips collide into mine again and my back presses against the outside wall of a building down the street of the restaurant. His tongue is insane, pushing into my mouth, devouring the entirety of it and moaning softly into it. “I live just down the block,” he whispers, dragging his hands across my backside and squeezing a handful of my bottom.

  It makes me feel a bit wanton. I’d never done anything like this before. It’s shameless and dirty. His hands lift up and pinch lightly at my nipples. The sensation makes me kiss him back; giving in fully to the deplorable dirty things I want to have done to me. He could take me up against this wall right now and we could be done with it. I’d never have to see him again—just this once taking what I needed—and walking away without any care. It feels powerful.

  I bite my lip as he grabs onto my hands and pulls me farther down the street. There’s a big old Victorian house at the end. A beautiful wrap around porch hangs off the front, but that’s all I see because his hands yank down the cups of my bra and his lips and tongue are sliding down my neck.

  We’re at a side door of the house and my shoulders shove up against it as something rock hard just under his zipper rocks into me. Somewhere inside the house, a dog yaps continuously.

  His hands fumble with the keys. His fingers are shaky, he’s out of breath, and I feel powerful that it’s because of me. I’m doing this to his body.

  We stumble awkwardly through the door, slamming up against a wall. He kicks at the door, trying to close it, but doesn’t reach. Cursing underneath his breath, he backs away from me and shuts the door behind me.

  Next to me, a wet nose nuzzles into my hand.

  “That’s Mr. Fluffy Pants,” he whispers against my neck, grabbing the hem of my shirt and lifting it over my head.

  His dog lifts up his head and watches. My shirt lands on his floppy ears.

  Our clothes fall everywhere as he walks me, kissing and groping, through a long hallway and into a dark room. The dog’s claws scratch along the floor with us. I freeze in the doorway.

  Mr. Fluffy Pants licks the back of my hand.

  But that’s not what gives me pause. Nope. What gives me pause you ask? Well, that would be the smell.

  Jon…boy flicks the lights on and I swallow back a gasp. “Is this your little brother’s room or something?” I ask, holding a hand over my nose. It reeks of sweat and cologne and sweat, then multiply that times fifty and pour in some more sweat.

  I swear the dog is whining because he has sympathy for me. He jumps on the bed and sniffs then growls out another whine. “Jon,” I croak behind my hand.

  “Jon-BOY,” he corrects, again.

  “It stinks in here.” I cough.

  His eyes get round and he holds up a finger. “My bad. Laundry day isn’t until tomorrow. Hold on,” he rummages through a huge pile of clothing that I swear have those wafting cartoon smell lines waving above it, pulls out a bottle of generic air freshener, and starts spraying down everything.

  When the room is saturated with the smells of a beach, he points to the small bed. “Hop on.” His eyebrows wiggle.

  I totally lost the mood. And honestly, I think there’s probably a weight limit to the single-sized bed he’s pointing to, and Mr. Fluffy Pants is already taking up most of the space.

  “I’m not sure about this…” I stutter as I watch him pull Mr. Fluffy Pants off the bed by his collar.

  “I promise you a night you will never forget.”

  That’s not enticing if it ends with me wanting to forget about it. But I follow him down and squash in next to him. I don’t know why I do. My stomach is rumbling. There’s a dog watching my every move, and I’m about to have sex with a complete stranger. My giant ass hangs off the bed.

  His elbow leans on my hair and I’m pinned to the bed awkwardly. He doesn’t notice. He just yanks down his boxers and pulls out his penis.

  And I’m saying the word penis in the nicest way.

  He shifts himself up on the narrow bed, making me tumble onto the floor. He sits up chuckling and helps pull me up, cock level.

  And now I’m looking Jon right in the dick.

  “Oh, Jon,” I say it with heavy pity.

  “Jon-boy,” he whispers, running his fingers along the length of it.

  I smile up at him, no longer having the inclination of leaving out the boy part.

  It’s the strangest dick I’ve ever seen. I was at once entranced and horrified. He didn’t seem a big fan of manscaping. The main attraction was quite thin, having the same girth as say, my thumb, with a crooked mushroom top that looked more like a top hat on a frail old man. If the before mentioned old man wore it on, say, his ear.

  “Oh, lemme get some condoms and lube,” he mumbles to himself, reaching over me and opening up a drawer.

  I blink up and freeze in abject horror and absurdity. As he twists his body, right there on his left ass cheek was a tattooed rose that said Mom.

  I sit back on the bed and try to figure out a way out of this mess.

  Across the room, sticking straight out of the wall is a very furry, life sized horse head. I’m paralyzed with the craziness of it all, and I barely feel him sliding my panties down my legs. The only thought I have is I hate the fact that I wasted a good waxing for this.

  I take a deep breath but before I could let it out, his head is between my thighs. Jon-boy is touching his tongue to my clit and violently shaking his head, trying to turn his entire face into a vibrator. I tap a tweet: Men Stop believing in the myth. Just move the tongue. Women as a whole do not appreciate the whole motorboat thing between our legs. Thanks. #WorstThirtySecondsOfMyLife

  Immediately after starting, he pulls his head up triumphantly and smiles, “Nice, right?”

  “Can I…um…use your bathroom?” I say, jumping up.

  He rolls his eyes and waves to the door, “Two doors down on the right. Don’t go up the stairs.” He looks at me hard, “Stay. Down. Here. Okay?”

  What’s he hiding? His last date chopped up into tiny bite-size pieces or pureed and frozen in little ice cube trays?

  Just focus. A one-night stand should not be this hard. I close myself in the tiniest bathroom on earth and look at myself in the mir
ror. My face has a look of mild panic across it. I run cold water over my hands and dab my cheeks softly with them. I sneak a peek through his medicine cabinet, looking for any medications for sexually transmitted diseases. I find a lot of bottles of antacid. And a mysterious bottle of something neon blue. I clutch my cell phone to my chest and read through my tweets. My one-night stand is trending. So is #HorseHeadFucking.

  If he puts that horse head on, that would lead to a whole new level of awkwardness.

  Tweet: I can feel myself shifting from the: I’m a young sexy single woman phase to a fresh new get me the fuck outta here panic mode.

  Some wonderful follower on social media has made a poll about this whole debacle—fifteen percent of my followers believe I’m too much of a chicken to go through with this—eighty-five percent of the people thought I was an eighty-year-old woman.

  Fuck this. Sex with motor-boating Jon-boy should last no more than five minutes. How much worse could it get? I walk out and try standing in the doorway seductively. It takes him a few minutes to realize I’m back. He was busy…petting the horse head.

  “I love to get a little freaky in bed, do you?” he asks, those stupid eyebrows bouncing up and down.

  I eye the horse head. “No. No, not really.”

  He eyes the horse head as well and frowns. “I have these plastic handcuffs I could…”

  “No thanks, really.” I slowly sit next to him.

  He shrugs and pops open a bottle of lube with his teeth and squeezes out a handful. That’s right, a handful into his palm. Then he slathers my nether regions with it. I gasp out fifty shades of put that shit away. I don’t think he heard.

  There has to be a blurry spot in my memory, because the next thing I know, Jon-boy is humping the inside of my leg with complete wild abandon. There’s so much lube down there he thinks the cavernous gap of my thighs is my vagina. I have found the loophole to this disaster. There’s seriously no penetration going on. He better hurry or this shit is going to get real sticky.

  “Hey, can you put in the article how big I am?” he pants, slamming his pint-sized penis into my thigh.