by Kellie Hart
I first met Atticus half-a-year ago at Fox and Jacque’s wedding, and in all my twenty-four years, I had never seen anyone as beautiful as that man. Picture it. New Orleans. Halloween. A British hunk o’ burning love stands dressed in a tux under an arch of blooming gardenias. His black hair is parted on the side but a loose lock hangs between the dark brows on this damn Clark Kent doppleganger. Classic, horned rimmed glasses sit atop his straight nose, and when his full lips part into a heart-stopping smile, the entire night awakens. Then, he looks at you, and that smile never waivers, even when you most expect it.
Though I didn’t get to know him at all during his time here, Atticus has not been far from my mind. I have even replayed at least ten times a day the few brief moments we had alone at Char and Chad’s horrific game night. Atticus made me laugh that evening in a way I hadn’t in years and in ways I have not since. For the briefest of seconds, I nearly entertained the thought that there could be more between us, but before I was even capable of collecting the courage to take a bite out of his fine English muffin, Atticus was gone. He returned to England, and I was once again alone. None of this explains, however, how a man I know so little about has such a hold on me.
How can it be that Atticus also makes me want to throw a leg over a chair, lay out the runway lighting, and invite Captain Cock to land his junk up in my hoedown hangar?
I slap a hand to my clammy forehead.
God, I’m such a poet.
When I look up, Jacque peers down at me with an amused grin.
“Atticus makes me moist too, honey,” she says, “but damn, not even Fox and his footlong have left me speechless. So, you like Atticus, huh?”
“Like sounds as if I’m in junior high, and he’s slipped me a note that says, Do you think I’m cute? Check yes or no,” I say after dragging in a deep breath.
“Well, would you check yes if he asked?” Jacque laughs.
“Uhhmm, hello,” I admit gracefully. “I’d mark that damn thing in permanent marker. I would probably even piss a circle around it. Jacque, he is the only person since Mike who’s made me desire to offer up the sacred lady fruit for a nibble.”
“Okay, let’s put away your desire to offer up the sacred fruit for a nibble for a second. Mike’s the boyfriend from back at Tulane, right?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “We dated in high school and then well into college. He was the first and last person I ever thought about having any kind of relationship with, but you know how all that ended. UGLY.”
“And you’re willing to take a chance on Atticus?” Jacque asks a few seconds later, her voice soft and cautious.
“Fuck yeah!” I squeak, taking us both my surprise. “He’s got an open invitation to harvest time at the Lady Berry Farm, and I’m ready to be plucked!”
Jacque’s jaw drops, and I howl at the expression on her face. With dark, curious eyebrows aloft, Char waddles into the smoke-filled kitchen to join us. Seeming to ignore the cooking catastrophe around her, she puts hands on her hips, and I wonder if she’s heard all I’ve said; then, she throws out something she probably thinks is a pretty damn good piece of advice.
“Just give it up cheap like it’s Two Piece Tuesday at the KFC!”
Perhaps, I could if I were anyone but me.
I shuffle my feet on the floor and let myself imagine that I am in some alternate universe in which Atticus actually liked me enough to stay in New Orleans the first time he was here. Let us consider for moment that we would have pursued things like a normal fucking couple. We would have gone on dates, maybe caught a movie or two, or a burlesque show at Rick’s. At some point, when we would have gotten serious, I would have told him about my past with Mike and how I still hear his sick, fucking voice everytime something good walks into my life. I would have confessed, that because the one and only man I let love me also broke me, no man has touched me since. Ever.
Here’s the worst part of the nightmare. Let’s say Atticus would eventually tell me he loves me. Dear God, when I picture the look of horror on his face when he realizes I cannot say it back—that I will not allow myself to utter those fucking words ever again—any hope I may have had about being with him, in any way, shrivels up and turns to dust. Then, for good measure, it blows away on the fucking wind, because what man would ever want to keep around broken baggage like me?
Jacque casts a pitying glance my way, I think, because she knows some of my sordid history. What she doesn’t know is that even though I am constantly faced with literal proof that everyone around me has gotten their own fucking fairy tale ending, I still cannot convince myself that something happy like that exists anymore for me. To be fair, I truly do believe that Jacque married the love of her life when she said yes to Fox, and I have no doubt that Chad and Char and their love for little Julianna Pearl will make the perfect family when she finally arrives. But, when you have been through what I’ve been through, you know that love may conquer all for some, and for others, like me, it is nothing but a backstabbing bitch.
Love broke me, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.
When I repeat to myself the words which have kept my life clean, simple, yet abhorrently lonely the past few years, I’m left drowning worse than I was when Mike left me three years ago. I’d give almost anything for someone to save me.
“Ninety-nine cents is a steal for chicken and quality pussy,” Char blathers on. “And I’d know!”
“Char,” Jacque says gently, “maybe Carey doesn’t want to simply lay with anything that moves.”
I nod vigorously as Char gestures to my body, up and down, like I’m used car.
“Why the hell wouldn’t she, Jacque? Look at her tight, curvy figure. She’s the love child of Nicki Minaj and Emma Stone, for crying out loud! She could have men lining up at her fucking door if she wanted!”
If only it were that simple.
Cringing inwardly, I finger a loose thread on my vintage The Golden Girls tshirt, wanting more than anything to hide in a hole. As big as my ass is, however, I would most likely get stuck trying to squeeze myself into it. I pull my legs to my chest and look to Jacque for help.
“Stop it, Char!” Jacque orders, her hand offering the top of my head a gentle pat. “Carey has no desire to fuck some random person. End of story.”
“Why not?” Char quips as her hazel eyes fly between me and Jacque. “Do you want a snatch instead? If so, that’s cool, but if a dick is what you need, a dick you’ll get. I’ve got my sources. Just name the size, flavor, and country of origin, and I can have you mounted in ten minutes. Tops.”
Jacque and I grow quiet, and as the panic settles in, my breath passes angrily through my nose—hee haw, hee haw—making me sound like a goddamn drunk donkey.
“I’d know that stressed out exhalation anywhere!” Char chirps, an accusing finger pointed at my chest. “Carolina Grant, is your obnoxious nasal music telling me you’ve—you’ve never experienced the majesty of man meat?!”
“I’ve been with one man,” I croak.
“What the hell does that even mean? One man? One man!”
“It means,” I say before swallowing the hee haw lodged in my throat, “that I slept with Mike, my ex, and he’s it. Or, in words I know you can understand, Char, it’s been nearly four years since I’ve dined upon a man’s sex sausage.”
Char pulls at her hair. “Why didn’t I know this?” Next, she turns on Jacque. “Did you know, you hooker?”
Jacque nods as we can both see the Approach with Caution sign blinking above Char’s head.
“Yes, Char, but you have to remember I knew Carey before you did. It came up, a long time ago, in conversation at Bippity Bobbity Brew, when we still worked there.”
“And it’s not something I freely admit,” I add, finally dragging myself from the floor to join them. “I am already known in our group as The One Who Won’t Date. Why make it worse on myself and bring undue attention to something I would rather not be the essence of how people view me?”
“
You and your fancy words,” Char says. She wags a finger at me as her left eye twitches. “You know you could use this to your advantage.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “How?”
“Just listen to me. You’re an almost-virgin in your mid-twenties, right?”
“Yes,” I say, “if an almost-virgin is a thing, or am I a full-time sexual recluse? A sexcluse!” I stop and slap a hand to my forehead again. “What the fuck am I?”
“Ohhh, oohh, I know!” Char shrieks. “I know what you are, Carey! Pick me! Pick me!”
“Char,” I say half-heartedly and call on her. “What am I?”
“A balooga!”
I nearly choke on the word. “A balooga?”
“Yes! A biracial beauty always looking and occasionally offering guys ass! You see, it’s an acronym; the b in biracial becomes the b in balooga and so on and so forth. I did take some liberties with the addition of an extra b and an and, but you see my point. You’re always looking for someone to give your goodies to, but you never share them!”
“If anything,” Jacque steps in, “Carey is an oxymoron. She dresses like a teenage boy to hide a body most of us would kill for. She’s even a baker and a stripper. She can bake cookies like nobody’s business and work a pole like it’s a ten foot dick!”
“Uh, yeah. Jacque, thanks for bringing up my second job and making it sound like I’m Jolly Green Giant’s side hoe, and Char, don’t you dare say anything else about me—”
“I know, right!” Char interrupts. “She’s so fucking brash most of the time. Who knew she had this virginish, innocent side to her? I’d hit it if I liked bush. Too chewy for me—the bush that is, not Carey. She’s just so goddamn cute!”
I look between my best friends, and I realize that they don’t get it. Try as they might, they don’t get me, and I’m not sure we will—or if I will—ever arrive at a place where they can.
It’s a lot easier to say it’s cute when you are not living this life.
When the girls finally pause their oration on what makes me me, I take a deep breath and remind them I’m still here. “Hey, I’m still here.”
Jacque and Char share a regretful glance before Char gives me a hug.
“I’m sorry, Carey,” Char says, “but everything we say about you, and every piece of advice we throw out, too, is done in love. Always remember that.”
“Hey, let’s put all this aside for a second because I think the issue of your lack of sexual experience may be irrelevant to you actually getting some dick if you want it,” Jacque offers. “You’ve admitted to wanting to sleep with someone when you haven’t felt that way in forever. If putting another stamp on your Getting Some card is a byproduct of enjoying yourself now that you’re ready again, so be it.”
Char pipes up. “That was gonna be my point exactly! So what if you’re inexperienced? You’re a woman first! You’ve got fucking needs, and you’re you, Carey. You’re fucking hot. If you play this right, you’ll get your groove back. You’re too young to be so damn bottled up. If there’s someone out there to shake you up, let ‘em shake away!”
“I do want to be shooken,” I admit.
“You know you have someone in mind,” Jacque teases, a little grin pulling her mouth up at the corners. She shares another quick glance with Char.
“Oh, pray tell, who dost thou want to maketh the sexy times with, Carey?” Char presses.
“Atticus,” I mumble, before staring at the ground and kicking at the tile with my Converse.
“Who is that?” Jacque says, and I can tell she’s smiling wide now. “I don’t think we heard you.”
“Atticus!” I bellow and clap a hand over my mouth.
“I knew it!” Char yells. “I knew it! I goddamn knew it! I saw the tension between you at the wedding and at our game night months ago. And honey, this is going to be a breeze because he wants you.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“No man can resist the power of a set of pink nosed puppies like those,” Jacque says, pointing at my chest. “Believe me, I’d know.”
“Okay,” I say with a deep breath. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that Atticus does reciprocate my interest. I can’t just walk up to him and say, Hey, you sexy British beast, you wanna take me home to Fucking-ham palace? That is crass, and I think I deserve better.”
“Of course, you do!” Char says. “But, you know that you would so say that!”
“You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, Char,” I half-threaten as I raise my tiny fists aloft. “Prepare to meet the girls, Dorothy and Zbornak!”
I kiss leftie and rightie and dance circles around Char before Jacque pulls me into her chest, playfully restraining me.
“Hey, simmer down, Carey. It’s not the time to break out The Golden Girls defense mechanisms,” she laughs. “Despite Char’s earlier advice, which was terrible, I’m not suggesting you give anything away for free. I’m saying you woo Atticus.”
“You mean seduce him,” I correct when she finally frees me.
“Semantics,” Jacque says. “Do you want to fuck him?”
“I want to turn his goddamn face into a chair!”
“And you say you aren’t crass,” Char teases. “This is going to be a piece of pie, preferably one I’ve baked!”
For a moment, I set aside the damage done to my heart and truly let the idea of pursuing Atticus stew on my mind. The thought of going after someone I want because I want him feels good. The idea of simply fucking someone with no strings attached feels great. It also feels fucking awesome in my pants because the temptation of sitting on Atticus’s face makes the lady berry stand up and join the hallelujah chorus. I raise my hand into the air and close my eyes as I praise the Lord.
“Praise be unto yee, oh great invisible master of the man meat. I ask your blessing upon the undertaking we have planned because this girl wants to get laid! Many times and from many angles, preferably. Thank you for you time. I know you must be busy. Oh, the devil sucks, and God bless ‘Merica!”
When I open my eyes, Jacque and Char grin at me as if I have taken my first piss in a real potty.
“Our little girl is growing up!” Jacque coos, tattooed hands clasped under her chin.
“Oh, shut the fuck up!” I laugh and slap at her. “Before I change my mind, how exactly do you foresee this happening? I’m not some sexual mastermind.”
Char clears her throat, and she keeps clearing it until I finally look at her.
“Leave the details to me, Carey. I’ll have you in Atticus’s pants by the end of the weekend. I guarantee it, and we start tonight!”
“I am stripping again later at Hot Rod,” I offer.
“I know that,” Char says, a wicked grin on her face. “And we’re all gonna be there.”
“All of you?” I ask.
“Yup,” Jacque says. “I haven’t seen you dance since we’ve been back from Fox’s book tour, and I bet Atticus would love to see your moves, too.”
Char claps over her bulging belly. “So, it’s settled then. I’m the official chairwoman of Can’t Get None Land’s planning and improvement board.”
I take up Char’s hand and shake it. “Nice to have you on the team, Ms. Kensington. Let phase one of Acquire Atticus’s Cockius for Carey’s Pussius begin now!”
“That’s a mouthful,” Jacque says.
I groan and close my eyes in imagined ecstasy. “God, I hope it is!”
“Carey!” Jacque chirps.
“You have thought about Atticus’s ramrod yourself, so don’t you dare start playing innocent with me. You’ll fail miserably at it, just as you failed to pull Char’s baby bundts out of the oven on time!”
Char turns on Jacque. “Is that why you’re covered in white shit? I thought I’d just missed another game at the shower while I was peeing!”
Jacque gestures to her ruined outfit. “You think this is the result of baby powder or some shit? Carey sprayed me with the goddamn fire extinguisher, and it was her responsibility to remove your fuck
ing cakes, not mine! So blame her, you whore!”
“You’re lucky she got to you first! Do you know how long it took me to prep those cakes for the oven? Do you have any idea how much chocolate you let go to waste? If I have any principle as a baker and a lover, it’s NEVER WASTE THE GODDAMN CHOCOLATE!”
“Oh my God, you told Carey to do it! You can’t remember shit these days! And—and you’re expecting me to believe you literally walked past the double ovens, that are standing wide open, and didn’t notice the CAKES ON THE FUCKING FLOOR? Your pregnancy brain is driving me nuts, Charlotte!”
