Milkrun

by Sarah Mlynowski

  An alarm rings in her head. “Do you have any…”

  “No, I didn’t think…”

  “I did and I have.” She reaches into her side drawer and pulls out a condom. She opens the wrapper and slips it onto his ready, eager manhood.

  Wrapping her legs around his waist, she slides him into her wetness, her heart a hammer in her chest. He lets out another groan, and then bingo—here’s where any semblance to The Millionaire Takes a Bride comes to an abrupt end.

  Comes being the operative word here.

  He explodes in orgasm.

  Explodes in orgasm?

  That’s it? That’s what I’ve been pining for? That’s why I cooked him dinner? What business does a hero have coming after only one thrust? What happened to hours of passion? What happened to my multiple climaxes?

  Do guys realize when they’re bad in bed, or is it the phenomenon similar to ugly people not realizing they’re ugly?

  But wait, hold on a minute. (I wish he had held on a minute. Better yet, an hour.) What if he was a virgin? That would account for his, well, let’s just call it overzealousness.

  Should I be flattered?

  But what if he knows he came too fast and was expecting me to say, “It’s okay, dear. Don’t worry about it, dear. It doesn’t matter, dear.”

  Yeah, right.

  “I don’t want to go home, babe,” he says in a muffled voice. He’s still on top of me, his head resting above my shoulder.

  “So stay.” I’d actually prefer to have the bed to spread out in, but whatever. At least we get to try it again. However, at the present moment I’m having difficulty breathing under his weight. I close my eyes. He should really get off me before the condom rolls into me and we have to rush to Emergency to get it surgically removed.

  I nudge him gently. Good God, has he fallen asleep? “Tim?” No answer. “Tim?” I nudge him again. “Tim!” I shove him off my body. “I have to use the washroom.” The Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 6 is to pee right after sex to avoid getting a bladder infection. Or maybe it’s a yeast infection. Not that what Tim and I did can really count as sex.

  I use the washroom, running the water so he doesn’t hear. Is this ridiculous? As if guys don’t know that girls pee. I make a pit stop in the kitchen to pour two glasses of water. We’re not at the sharing-one-glass stage just yet.

  Am I being too hard on him?

  When I climb back into bed, I notice the time. It’s 11:55. He’s sitting up in bed, waiting. I notice there’s a tent under the sheets.

  Now that’s more like it.

  Then it hits me. I suddenly remember reading about the let’s-get-the-first-time-over-with theory. The guy deliberately comes quickly, knowing that afterward, little Timmy will be able to stand at attention for hours.

  At 11:59 he’s asleep again.

  So much for that theory.

  Four minutes? What is four minutes? Four minutes is a commercial break. Four minutes is a music video. Four minutes should not be sex.

  We’re spooning now, his arm wrapped snugly around my waist. It’s too hot in here. I’m never going to fall asleep. Oh, God, he’s sleeping on my side of the bed.

  Why is he sleeping here, anyway? Won’t his mother be worried about him?

  And what kind of guy doesn’t carry condoms with him, just in case?

  When we wake up the next morning, we have the standard how-many-people talk. It’s probably the type of conversation you should have before doing the nasty, but whatever.

  “Four,” I say, “including you.” If I can even count you, that is, which I still haven’t decided.

  “Who were they?”

  Aren’t we nosy? “My first time guy in college, one minor indiscretion my sophomore year, and Jer, my ex. What about you?” He’d better not tell me something lame like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone as special as me.

  “Um…more than four.” More than four? It must be five.

  “Five?”

  “More than five.”

  This game is getting old fast. “I give up. How many?”

  “Thirteen. Including you.”

  Thirteen? Is it possible that he’s slept with twelve other women and no one, not one single one of them, has ever told him that one thrust is not sufficient?

  Maybe I’m just unlucky thirteen. Maybe he’s had fantastic sex with the previous twelve. Or, maybe I’m so attractive that he couldn’t control himself.

  Yeah, I like that last explanation best.

  “So what do I do?”

  “Train him,” Natalie says.

  “Leave a Cosmo opened on a sex page or something,” Sam says.

  “But he doesn’t realize he needs training! He wasn’t even embarrassed! It’s as if he’s oblivious to every film, literary, musical and television reference to sex ever made. What does he think ‘All Night Long’ is alluding to? Talking?”

  “There are tricks to solving this kind of problem,” Sam says knowingly.

  Can you trick someone into having good sex? “Like what, for instance?”

  “Like the stop-start technique. Have sex for a few minutes, then stop and do other stuff. Then start again,” Sam explains.

  “Do what other stuff?” I ask. “Order a pizza? Besides, it’s not easy to stop when there’s a condom involved. I mean, what happens to it during the shrinkage interim?”

  “Maybe condoms are your problem,” Natalie offers.

  “That makes no sense. Condoms should technically slow down the process, not speed it up,” I reason. “If we hadn’t used a condom, the whole show would have been over in half a thrust.”

  “Try two condoms,” Sam pitches in.

  “No.” Natalie shakes her head. “Two condoms might make him come faster. He’ll be so worried he won’t feel a thing through all that plastic, that he’ll overcompensate.”

  “Try it again,” Sam advises. “It was probably first-time jitters.”

  Nope.

  You’ve got mail.

  A message from Send-a-smile flashes across the screen. “Hi, babe!” the text says. Next to it is a large graphic of a pistachio, and more text that says, “I’m nuts about you!”

  Twenty minutes later. You’ve got mail pops up on my screen again.

  Another message from Send-a-smile. “A whole day without you is the pits.” A cherry pops up on the screen.

  How symbolic. I’m starting to feel like a virgin again where Tim is concerned.

  This problem requires in-depth analysis. I’m about to e-mail Sam, when I realize that immediate feedback is called for. Why doesn’t someone develop a vocal e-mail system in which the sounds are transmitted instantaneously? It would work something like a chat room, only with voices, and fast. There would be a dial tone to indicate that the server is up and ready, and a system to record your voice if the recipient is not at the computer or is busy chatting to someone else.

  I pick up the phone.

  Sam is probably home by now, so I try her there. “Help! I tried every trick in the book. For example, in the middle of his first thrust I said, ‘Wait, don’t come yet. It feels so good.’ He said okay, he’d try, but then two shoves later it was all over, and he rolled over and went to sleep. How can I have a relationship with this guy? Let’s say we end up having sex three times a week, and each time takes five minutes. I’ll be spending only fifteen minutes a week having sex, while I spend 174 1/4 hours doing other stuff! This is a ridiculous proportion. How can I spend only 1/700 of the week having sex? What will I do the rest of the time?”

  “Oh, hi, Jackie,” Sam says. “What’s up?”

  “Is it possible I don’t like him anymore because he likes me? Is the challenge over? Am I that screwed up?” I’m nearly hysterical. “Maybe Bev is right. Maybe I need therapy. Do I only like men who don’t want me? Am I going to spend the rest of my life chasing men who don’t care about me, while ignoring the men who worship me? He wants me to meet his parents. I do not want to meet his parents. Why would I want to meet hi
s parents? I can’t marry a 1/700 guy.”

  “No,” Sam replies, “you don’t need therapy. You don’t like him because he’s terrible in bed. Life’s too short for bad sex. Dump him. I have to go now.”

  So much for in-depth examination.

  “Jacquelyn?” Yuck. Helen.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for copyediting The Millionaire Takes a Bride.”

  Thanks? Thanks? Since when does Helen thank me? “Oh. You’re welcome. It is my job.”

  “Right. It is.”

  For some reason Helen seems flustered. Does she know I’m sleeping (kind of) with her other copy editor’s brother? “So, um…what did you think?” she asks.

  Think? When is thinking involved? “Think of the book?”

  “Yes. Did you like it?”

  “Yeah. Good plot.”

  “Really? What else?”

  Well, once she’s asking…“Okay. I have a few editorial suggestions. First of all, you know when he first sees her? I think the author needs to add a few more sensory details. The scene is a little bland. I can’t smell him. What does he smell like? Is he wearing cologne? Right now there’s too much telling, not enough showing. And the wedding scene needs a bit of a point of view tune-up. It’s a little jarring. The narrative jumps all over the place without finding a home. I know the author wants the reader to identify with both characters, but it’s annoying. Just as I get into the hero’s head, I’m yanked back to the heroine. I need to be able to get a bit more comfortable. And I especially don’t care about the mother’s point of view during the wedding. Letting her thoughts come through is a mistake. And the aunt? She has no purpose. All her lines can be said by the mother. Tell the author to exercise her finger with the delete button and get rid of her.”

  She looks stunned. Well, she did ask. Apparently she didn’t know I could talk. “I’ll be sure to incorporate your opinions into my edit.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Great sex scenes. This should not be in True Love. It’s so Love and Lust.”

  She smiles. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” That was fun.

  You’ve got mail.

  If this is another cheesy card from Tim I’m going to kill myself. No, I’m going to kill him. If he tells me how special I am one more time, I’m breaking up with him.

  Hi, Jackie,

  I’m home! I’m at my parents in New York. How’s every thing? I had a fantastic trip. Can’t wait to show you pictures. Give me a call or write back.

  Jer

  Omigod. Omigod. Omigod.

  Should I call him? I can’t call him. But he wants to see me. He wants to show me pictures. He’s home. Will the Dutch bimbo be in the pictures? Will he try to avoid hurting my feelings by removing all bimbo-related pictures from his album? Will he have two separate albums, one specifically bimbo-free for me, and one for his psychologically stable viewers? Would he put in that kind of effort for me? Does he love me that much? Is he still planning on moving to Boston to do his masters program? If so, he’ll hang out at Orgasm. Will he live in Back Bay, also? Does he have an apartment already?

  I’m going to lose five pounds for when I run into him at Orgasm. I’m going to have a gazillion men surrounding me, and he’s going to spot me from across the bar, amazed at how fantastic I look. I’m going to be wearing my hooker boots and a slutty skirt and top, and he’ll forget why he ever left me in the first place.

  If he wants to talk to me so badly he could call. Or e-mail again. If he e-mails again, I’ll write him back.

  You know something? I haven’t seen Wendy in a while. Maybe I should visit her in New York over Christmas. I’m sure she’d love to see me. We can have girl talks. I want to go to NewYork. To see Wendy. I want to go to NewYork because I haven’t seen Wendy in months. I am going to New York because I miss Wendy.

  “I’m thinking of coming to visit you,” I tell her that night.

  “Now’s really not a good time,” she tells me.

  Don’t say that. I’m coming. I have to come. “Why not?”

  “I don’t leave work until one in the morning. I won’t be able to spend any time with you.”

  “But it’s Christmas!” Maybe she can just leave me the keys to her apartment?

  “Which, being Jewish, I don’t celebrate.”

  “But your company does. They can’t expect you to work when everyone else is off.”

  “This is true. I suppose I can take one day off. A half day at least. Maybe.”

  There is a God. “That’s good.”

  “You’re going to come all the way to New York to see me for one day?” Uh-oh. I think she’s suspicious.

  “I miss you.”

  “And your visit has nothing to do with Jer being in NewYork?”

  Nailed. “How do you know he’s back?”

  “Our department was having its Christmas dinner at Katsura, the new trendy Japanese restaurant, and I ran into him at the bar.”

  “You saw him and didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to upset you. I know you’re in dangerous Tim territory, and I thought that this tidbit of information would throw you off-balance.”

  She saw him and didn’t tell me? How could she do that? She should have phoned me immediately from the bar. “What do you mean, upset me? Who was he with? Was he with his Dutch bimbo? Tell me he wasn’t with his Dutch bimbo. Is she pretty? Is she prettier than me?”

  “I’m sure his Thailand fling didn’t come home with him. He came to the bar with some Penners—Rob, Jon, and Crystal.”

  Crystal, huh? He always liked Crystal. “Was he with Crystal or just with Crystal?”

  “He was with a whole group. I didn’t even see him talking to Crystal.”

  He once told me that he thought Crystal Werner, who was on the student council with him, was cute. Like I wanted to hear that. He’d better not have been with Crystal.

  “I don’t care that he’s back,” I say for no reason. No reason because I know I’m lying and Wendy knows I’m lying, too. The only reason you should lie is because you think someone is going to believe you, and if that someone is not the person you’re lying to, it should at least be yourself.

  “You can stay with me if you want,” Wendy says reluctantly.

  Well, yeah. Where else would I stay? Does she really think I’d even consider staying with Jer? I mean, I can always hope, but I wouldn’t go to New York without a backup place. Can you imagine the scene? Jer and I would be looking at a picture of a Thai temple, and then he’d say, “This reminds me, where are you staying?” As soon as he’d ask I’d know he wasn’t expecting me to stay with him, so I’d have to lie and say at Wendy’s because if I said a hotel he’d know I came just to see him, and then he’d say, “That’s nice. I’ll call you a taxi.” I’d have get out of the taxi on the next block because I can’t afford to ride around in a cab all night, and I’d end up walking the streets of New York, late at night, searching for a cheap hotel, and probably get mugged.

  “Thank you thank you thank you!”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “No. We’re going to run into him.”

  “We don’t know his schedule.”

  “You ran into him once. I’m sure you can manage it again.”

  Yay! Christmas in New York!

  It’s a good thing I’m going away. Everyone is deserting Boston. Sam and her two brothers are visiting her grandparents in Florida; Natalie and her parents are going on a Caribbean cruise; and Andrew, like me, will be in New York, though visiting his family, unlike me.

  “Bev will be very disappointed.” My dad is not pleased with my change of plans.

  “I know, but I just saw you Labor Day, and I haven’t seen Iris and Janie since July.” Am I going to go to hell for lying about where I’m going for Christmas? I could be the worst daughter ever. My mother thinks I’m going to my dad’s in Connecticut, and my dad thinks I’m going to my mother’s in Virginia. Ah. I’m reaping the one benefit of having your
parents treat each other like strangers—they don’t check up on each other.

  Tim, also, is not happy about me going away. “Why don’t you spend Christmas with me?” he suggests. “I dress up as Santa at the orphanage.”

  Hmm. For some reason, the thought of Tim in a costume turns me on. Maybe it has something to do with that man-in-a-uniform thing. Maybe it has something to do with me reading too many holiday romance novels. Should I give him one more chance? After all, a bird in the hand (Tim) is better than a bird in the bush (Jer). I refuse to take these bird/hand/bush puns any further.

  Nah.

  I think Santa could use a few more helpers. He just doesn’t seem capable of ringing my sleigh bells.

  Example 1: The other night he brought me a stuffed animal and a card that said, “I love you Bear-y much.” How many bad puns can one person make?

  Example 2: After Jer e-mailed me, I lied and told Tim I had my period. I was amazed he wasn’t disappointed that we couldn’t have sex that night. Amazed he didn’t remember that I had just finished my period last week. Shouldn’t guys remember these things? If a guy is such a good boyfriend, shouldn’t he keep track?

  I must end the insanity.

  I hate breaking up with people.

  Can’t I just not return his phone calls? Is that wrong?

  Now that I think about it, we’ve never discussed our relationship as being a relationship. Since I’ve never referred to him as my boyfriend (to his face anyway—and that’s what’s relevant here) and he’s never called me his girlfriend, technically we’re not even a couple. So technically I don’t have to dump him.

  All right, then. We’re broken up.

  14

  Why is there a Worm in My Big Apple?

  THE FIRST THING I SEE when I get off the train is Wendy frantically waving.

  “Hi, stranger.” I throw my arms around her, then step back. “You look fabulous!” I say and mean it. Her brown hair is tied back in a bun, and she’s wearing a sophisticated pinstripe pantsuit with fancy black leather loafers. Very chic. And very skinny. Why is she so skinny? “Have you raided Ally McBeal’s closet?”