by Joey Bush
“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “I know you’re basking in the glowing warmth of strange, so I’m going to give you today, tomorrow and—what the hell?—I’ll throw in Tuesday. After that, though,” she says, “I’m expecting your call.”
“I’m sorry, Wrigley,” I tell her. “It’s just not going to happen. We can be friends, but—”
“Has anything ever given you the impression that I wanted to be your friend?” she asks.
“The other morning, you told me that I should figure out what my feelings for Leila were,” I rejoin. “I thought you were—”
“A bit freaked about settling down?” she asks. “Uh, fuck yeah. I was willing to give it a shot, though, ‘cause you seemed so into the idea and I figured that it might not be so bad. Sure, I’d go a little crazy being with someone who starts bitching when I pull out a simple riding crop—”
“It might not have been such a big deal if you let me know it was coming,” I interrupt, clearly focusing on the wrong part of the discussion.
“Whatever,” she says. “Take your little vacation and spend some time going balls-deep in Ms. Goody-No-Clit, but we’re not done here, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you forget that.”
It sounds like a threat.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“I have ways of burning your shit to the ground that you can’t even imagine,” she says. “Just think about it and tell me if I’m really the type of woman you want as an enemy.”
“I don’t want you as an enemy,” I tell her. “Really, though, I don’t want you as a friend either. You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“You know what they say about crazy chicks, though,” she says, licking her lips.
This conversation’s gone from surreal to disturbing to surreally disturbing and I’ve had about all I can take.
“Give me a call sometime if you decide to get your head out of your ass,” I tell her.
“I am pretty bendy,” she says. “You’re going to miss that before the week is out. Trust me.”
“I think I’ll live,” I tell her as I move for the door.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” she calls from behind me.
I’m just surprised she hasn’t tried to dive tackle me or something. Then again, violence is only really her thing if it’s in the bedroom.
What the fuck was I thinking coming here?
“Dane!” she yells behind me, and I turn around.
She’s sitting on the ledge of the building, her legs spread. She doesn’t have to move her skirt for it to be apparent that she’s not wearing any underwear.
“Your brain can tell you whatever it wants to, but you know your dick is going to miss me,” she says, playing with herself—I don’t know how else to describe it—aggressively.
The present moment is easily on my list of top five ridiculous things I’ve ever witnessed with my own two eyes. Even for that short a list, this is remarkably near the top.
“Get off the ledge,” I tell her as calmly as I can, witnessing someone actually going crazy before my very eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“What? Do you think I’m going to jump?” she screams at me as I open the door to the roof.
I really want to kick the cinderblock she used to prop the door open but I resist the urge.
“I have too much to fucking live for!” she screams.
It’s not until I hear the clatter of Wrigley’s stilettos on the hard ground of the roof that my resistance fails and, as soon as I’m completely inside the door, I knock the cinderblock over.
A second later, she’s pounding on the door, and I’m actually starting to feel sorry for her. It had been a terrifying, if somewhat silly, spectacle, but I haven’t exactly been treating her very well.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that if I were to open the door now, she’d come through with balled fists, and I have no illusion about which one of us would win a physical confrontation.
When it comes to betting on a fight, always, always, always put your money on the one who’s not going to pull any punches.
I may be a dick, but I’d never raise my hand to a woman. I’m a dick, not a coward.
That said, I’m also certain that Wrigley doesn’t have a no-assault rule so, to ease my conscience and keep my eyeballs and spleen from ending up in Wrigley’s shadow box, I find the burly maintenance guy and tell him, “I think someone’s stuck on the roof. I’ve been hearing all this pounding and scratching up there. You should probably check it out.”
The man knows me. He’s caught Wrigley and I having sex enough times in enough places around the building to know exactly who I am, exactly who’s on the roof and exactly how I know.
“I might give it a minute to let her cool down,” he says.
Fortunately, he also seems to understand exactly why I’m not willing to go up there and let her in, myself.
This isn’t a shining moment for me.
All things considered, it really couldn’t have gone much worse.
I’ve added to the torment I’ve already levied on this woman and no, it doesn’t matter if she was crazy when I got here, that doesn’t mean it’s magically okay for me to toy with her.
I feel bad about it, but I can’t deny my feelings either.
This is the first time in my life that I can actually say that I’m in love with someone and have no ulterior motive in mind. It’s not Wrigley.
If I’d ever told Wrigley that I loved her, she probably would have put a foot in my crotch.
Still, as I hear the woman screaming expletives as I step out onto the street, I can’t help but feel that I might have gone about this in a much healthier way.
Not much I can do about it now.
* * *
When I get back to the apartment, Leila’s already home. That’s the good news. The bad news is that that asshole who was trying to suck the lips off her face is sitting on the couch.
“Hey you,” Leila says as I close the door behind me. “How’d it go?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
I never bothered telling her what my plans for the day were.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t that what people say when their significant other comes home?”
The phrase makes me a little uncomfortable. I glance over at the couch to make sure that the gangly idiot feels just as uncomfortable about it as I do, but he’s just sitting there without a care in the world, scrolling through pages of what looks like apartment listings on a laptop.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“Oh nothin’,” Leila says cheerily and gives me a quick peck on the lips. “Mike and I are looking to see if there’s any place we missed. I hope you don’t mind if we do that here. Mike’s roommate is back in town, and he’s not the friendliest guy on the planet.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell her. “Sorry your roommate’s a dick,” I call to “Mike,” hoping to preempt any indication of just how little I like the ass hat.
He shrugs, but doesn’t look up from the computer screen. “Hey, Lei,” he says, “how about this one?”
Leila leaves my side and goes over to look at the page.
I’m not that jealous a guy. After all, jealousy is just the admission that someone would make your partner happier than you do and the selfishness not to allow it.
With that said, it really wasn’t that long ago that Mike and Leila were sucking the spit out of each other’s mouths on that exact couch.
I really don’t know what to do with myself right now.
I don’t like the feeling.
“You two had anything to eat?” I ask. “I could whip something up.”
“Yeah, Dane’s the chef at l’Iris,” Leila tells the fuckwad.
“I’m not hungry,” he says. “Ooh, look at this one.”
So, what is a man in my position to do?
What I want to do is kick Mike out the window and take Leila to the nearest soft sur
face and make love to her until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore, but the relationship is less than a day old.
If I start by kicking her friend out, she’s either going to think I’m a dick and it’ll ruin the relationship, or she’s going to be strangely aroused by that which means she’s into weirder stuff than Wrigley is, and I really don’t know if I could handle that either right now.
I don’t have too much time to think it over, though, as Leila and Mike finish what they’re doing and, with a quick hug, Mike’s on his way.
“Sorry about that,” Leila says as soon as the door is closed, “but he’s been really great, helping me find places and all.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
Telling her that I don’t want her to go is another one of those things that probably isn’t the best idea in the first twenty-four of a relationship. It’s right up there, I would imagine, with telling her friend to move to a different state.
“You seem upset,” she says. “Is something wrong?”
“Nah,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine. I’m just kind of tired.”
“Well, in that case,” she says, moving close and putting her arms around me. She looks up at me with those gentle eyes. “How about we watch a movie or something? There’s plenty of room on the couch for both of us to lie down,” she adds. “That is, unless you’d rather keep your personal space.”
“I would not like to keep my personal space,” I tell her, bending down to kiss her on the lips. “Really, I’m kind of hoping for a blanket, few if any clothes and absolutely no personal space for either of us.”
“Hmm…” she says, playfully tapping her chin with her finger. “We might miss a lot of the movie if we did that.”
“Damn. I was really excited to see whatever it was we’re going to watch,” I tease. “Oh well, I think I’ll live.”
“I think you’re right,” she answers and makes her way to the couch.
She pulls the afghan from atop the ottoman and spreads it out on the couch. While I’m getting settled in—read that as undressing—she uses my preoccupation to seize full control over our movie-watching itinerary.
I really could not care less what we watch.
That’s what I honestly think, right before she turns around with When Harry Met Sally in her hands.
She’s actually suggesting a movie which is famous for, among other things, Meg Ryan demonstrating how easy it is for a woman to fake an orgasm. There are ways a person can tell if he’s not a complete idiot, but still, I’m not a fan of the pairing.
“I know you’re probably not into chick flicks, but this is my favorite movie ever,” she tells me.
Fuck.
Now I can’t possibly protest, and she’s going to be watching to see how I react to it.
“It’s been a little while since I’ve seen it,” I tell her.
It seems like my best play. We’ll still end up watching it, but if I don’t end up with some massive, life-altering epiphany which leads me to tears, it won’t be such a big deal. I’ve already seen it before, so it couldn’t possibly strike me that deeply, right?
Then again, maybe she’s expecting me to have a stronger reaction to the movie because I’m watching it with her.
This is a fucking minefield, and I’m actually dreading watching what I’ll admit to be a classic movie that I quite enjoy when not under these horrific conditions.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Any of it.
Thanks.
She puts the movie in, and I lie down on the couch. I lift the blanket as she comes close, and as she stops to get down to her bra and panties, I start thinking that maybe I’m thinking about this whole situation in the wrong way.
We don’t see very much of the movie.
Chapter Seventeen
It’s Complicated
Leila
The last time I looked at the screen in any meaningful way was about five minutes into the movie.
The movie’s been over for a while and we’re still enjoying the foreplay.
I don’t know whether it’s because he’s with me or whether I simply pigeonholed him that first day he came to the apartment, his tattoos suggesting a sense of unsavoriness about his character, but he is already the most thoughtful lover I’ve ever had.
We threw off the afghan a while ago, but there’s no lack of warmth between our bodies.
Right now, I’m straddling his wonderfully curious mouth and taking his hard cock into my own. I never liked the term “69,” but the performance, the experience, that’s something else entirely.
As he explores my folds with his lips and tongue, I feel that familiar shiver that so recently I’d all but forgotten. And as that shiver turns into a soft explosion, I take him ever deeper into my mouth, using the reverberations of my own response to encourage his.
I’m not expecting it when it happens. All I can do is hang on and move as necessary while he grasps me tightly with his arms, arching my back and supporting myself as he sits and then holding on tight as he stands.
His grip is firm and I’m not afraid of heights, but returning to suck and play with him while suspended in his arms as he again uses his deft tongue to keep my fire stoked is a little disorienting.
He pulls his head back just far enough and just long enough to ask me if I’m okay.
I’m more than okay.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
After a while, though, I start to wonder how I’m going to get back down.
I pull my mouth from his pulsating dick and merely whisper the word.
“Down.”
He directs one of my legs to join the other on one side of him, and he’s surprisingly gentle, though just as surprisingly quick, to guide my body right-side up and lower me until my bare feet come to a soft, slow landing on the carpet below.
I’m impressed.
I’m no virgin, not by any use of the term, but this man has made every sensation feel so new. So I pull his face down toward mine and I kiss him deeply, moving my body just enough to wrap my fingers around his shaft once more.
I push him backward onto the couch and before he’s settled in place, I’m straddling him, rubbing his penis between my legs and delighting in the jolts of warm serenity before I guide him inside of me.
He kisses my breasts softly, his mouth eager, but not desperate.
I tease him a little, putting my hands on his chest and pulling my upper body just out of the reach of his mouth just to watch that urge in his eyes grow.
I rock my hips over him and move my shoulders back and forth just to tempt him further. He leans forward, but I press my hands firmly into his chest.
That drive in his movements, his expression, it’s not a selfish one. After all, I’m already giving him my body the way he’s giving me his. That drive in his eyes is merely evidence that he wants to give me more.
He’s respectful, though, and he doesn’t try to push his luck. So long as we’re playing, this is a game, and it’s one that pays dividends for the both of us.
“So,” I say, brushing the hair out of my face and directing it to cover the upper portion of my breasts, “is this what you imagined it would be?”
It’s a terrible question, I know, but that’s what these moments are for.
“Better,” he says. “I couldn’t have imagined this.”
“Good answer,” I tell him and lean forward enough to give him temporary oral access to my nipples.
It’s his reward, and he revels in it.
After a few moments of elevated bliss, I pull back again.
“Now that’s just fucked up,” he says.
He’s smiling.
I shrug.
“Tell me your fantasy,” I mutter, slowing my pace a little.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I lean back a little farther. My upper body is already far enough away that only his hands could touch it, but the action still has the desired effect.
&
nbsp; “The bathtub,” he says.
I stop moving a moment.
“The bathtub?” I ask.
He shrugs, and I resume my motion.
“You mean to tell me that you, Dane Paulson, chef extraordinaire, pretty much all-around male slut—”
“Hey!” he protests.
“You’ve never had sex in the bathtub?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve had sex plenty of—”
Wisely, he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“No, I’ve never had sex in the bathtub,” he says.
“I was expecting something involving anal beads. I’m glad to hear that’s not the case.”
He smirks and shakes his head.
“Well,” I say, “I wish I could help you, but all we’ve got is a shower.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Too bad.”
He doesn’t seem too broken up about it, though, as I lift myself almost to his tip and then slide all the way back down him, grinding my core against his base.
“What’s your fantasy?” he asks.
“Does it have to be something we could actually do right now, or like yours where it currently isn’t possible?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a moment, then takes another to place his mouth over one of my nipples as, it seems, I’ve leaned forward a bit too much.
I quickly pull back and playfully pat the side of his face in a mock slap.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “what was the question?”
“Does my fantasy have to be something we could do here, now?”
“Not necessarily,” he says, “but yeah, that’d be preferable.”
I lean forward, but preempt his mouth’s return to my chest by kissing his neck.
“Hmm…” I breathe as I continue to kiss him.
“Oh, I know you’ve got something in mind,” he says.
“Yeah, but you kind of freaked me out with yours,” I chortle. “I mean, doing it in the bathtub? That’s kinky.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, and I’m feeling a little self-conscious about telling him my fantasies.
“Well, you’re not secretly a fireman, are you?” I ask.
He’s clearly unsure whether I’m serious or not. It’s pretty hilarious.
