Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  “I’m not bitching,” he says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date goodnight and getting that look that just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, 30 seconds or less and a little bit of tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Whatever. I’m talking just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to convince you with my mouth that your every problem can be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”

  “Yes!” I squeal, half in laughter, half in horror. “You’re making this so much worse than I thought it was going to be. I am not kissing you. Next time you walk a date to the door, just put out your hand and give a good, solid handshake. I’ll tell you what: I’ll help you practice that. Everyone needs to know how to give a good handshake.”

  “Leila…”

  “Seriously, it’s not just good for dates, but it’s good for business.”

  I hold out my hand, and when he doesn’t grab it, I place his hand into mine and give it one good shake.

  “See?” I ask. “Good pressure, only one up and down motion, and release. That’s a good handshake.”

  “I shake hands with the best of them,” he says. “I think we both know that.”

  “Watch the movie.”

  “Leila!”

  “Watch the movie!”

  He crosses his arms and starts grumbling.

  He’s actually sitting there grumbling.

  “If I kiss you on your terms, will you shut up and drop the whole thing from here until the end of time?” I ask.

  “Yes!”

  I sigh and fold my arms.

  “Does that mean you’re going to do it?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Can you keep your mouth shut before and after?”

  “Of course,” he says. “This is great, Leila, you’re such a—”

  “What did I just ask?”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “So how do we do this?”

  “You really are bad at this,” I tease.

  “Shut up,” he says. “I mean, do we stand or do we sit? I’m assuming we’re not going to be rolling around on your bed or anything?”

  I can actually feel the reflection of my death stare coming off of Mike’s face.

  “That’s a no. Why don’t we just do it here,” he says.

  “Don’t say that,” I tell him, covering my ears.

  “Don’t say what?”

  “Don’t say ‘do it,’ it makes me feel like flies are laying eggs in the back of my throat.”

  “Now that’s a good visual for me to start with, kissing you,” he says.

  “Shut up, Mike,” I tell him.

  “What’s the ruling on hands?” he asks. “Like, where do I—”

  “Nowhere near my body,” I tell him. “In fact, you should probably have them behind your back.”

  “Behind my back?”

  “Just nowhere on my body,” I tell him.

  “I was hoping to test out my hair-caressing—”

  “Do not finish that sentence,” I interrupt. “I’m already going to need an anti-emetic as it is.”

  “Anti what?”

  “Something to make me not throw up,” I tell him.

  “That’s cold.”

  “Whatever. Let’s just do this before I lose my nerve.”

  “All right,” he says, moving closer to me on the couch.

  He closes his eyes and starts to lean in, and without even thinking about it, I naturally move away from him.

  He opens his eyes again.

  “What?”

  “I want you to tell me the rules one more time. I’m not going to listen to any excuses if you cross the line here.”

  He rolls his eyes. “One kiss,” he says, “30 seconds or less—”

  “I will be timing it,” I tell him. “There’s a clock on the wall right there, and if we’re coming to 30 and you’re not pulling away and apologizing for badgering me into doing this, I’m going to leave a big red print of my hand across your cheek, got it? Now what are the rest of the rules?”

  He sighs. “Thirty seconds, one kiss, and a little tongue is permissible, but nothing over the top or down the throat.”

  “Where are your hands?”

  “Somewhere else,” he says.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning not on you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can we just do this thing? I’m starting to lose my nerve.”

  “If you lost your nerve, I think I’d be pretty okay with that.”

  “All right,” he says. “Tell me when to start.”

  “No moaning or any other—you know what? Don’t make any sound at all. I don’t even want to hear you breathing.”

  “I’ve got it!” Mike says with a laugh.

  “All right,” I say, watching the secondhand on the clock. “And, go.”

  He leans in and our lips meet.

  It’s weird, but it’s not terrible, I guess.

  What the hell is he doing with his tongue?

  I pull back a little, trying to give him the hint, but he doesn’t get it, so I bite his tongue a little.

  That gets him to pull back.

  Twenty seconds to go.

  This is taking forever.

  All right, he’s doing a little better, but it’s like he’s trying to say something the way his lips are moving.

  I would close my eyes and try to pretend like this is someone other than Mike, but I’m not breaking my gaze at the clock.

  Mike tilts his head to the other side, and I’m pretty sure that if I had a brother, this is what it would be like to kiss him. This is, in no way, a turn-on.

  Ten seconds left.

  It’s almost over. The worst is already done, now it’s just a matter of hanging in there for a few more seconds.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  A sound from somewhere else in the apartment startles me, and I pull away.

  Shit. It’s Dane.

  He’s standing at the door with the oddest look on his face.

  “Dane! When did you get in?” I ask.

  “Just a second ago,” he says, clearly having a lot of difficulty pulling the ringing phone from his pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” he says, and is out the door before I can say anything else.

  “Oh crap,” I say, putting my hands on my forehead.

  “What?” Mike asks. “So he saw us kissing. What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “He looked like he just walked in on me killing his dog.”

  “Does he have a dog?”

  “No, he doesn’t—you know what I mean. Things have been pretty weird with us, and I think this is just going to make it worse.”

  “Why would this make it worse?” Mike asks.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  The truth is that I’ve wanted to talk to Dane ever since that night when things started getting weird.

  I thought my feelings for him were a drunken thing, but the more time that’s passed, the more I find myself watching him and looking forward to him being home, even if we hardly ever talk.

  “So?” Mike asks with a cartoonish smile on his face.

  “So what?” I ask.

  “How was the kiss? Do you have any pointers?”

  “The kiss,” I say. “I totally forgot.”

  “Great,” Mike says, sinking into his seat. “If I can’t get you to even remember, I’m in trouble.”

  “Why the emphasis?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I can’t get you…” I answer.

  “Oh,” Mike says. “Well, it’s been what? Ten years since you’ve kissed a guy? I just figured after that long, I could pretty much do anything and still get a good response from you.”

  “It has not been that long,” I tell him.
“And we’re way too close as friends for you to get a really good response from me.”

  “Well, do you have any notes? I mean, if you can’t remember—”

  “Yeah, the tongue was way too much. I felt like you were trying to paint the top of my mouth or something and it was just weird.”

  “Weird because we’re friends, or weird because—”

  “It was weird because it was weird,” I answer. “I don’t know what the whole blowfish thing you were doing with your lips was all about, but you can stop doing that, too.”

  “What about when I turned my head so our noses were on the other side, that was a good—”

  “I really wasn’t all that impressed,” I tell him. “It was pretty obvious that you were trying to give me an eskimo kiss.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s a racially insensitive term,” Mike says, sulking.

  “That’s what they call it. I didn’t make up the term.”

  “So, was there anything you liked?” he asks.

  “Liked is kind of strong for me…”

  “Oh, come on!”

  We go back and forth a while. I give him some fundamental tips, but make it beyond clear that we’re never kissing like that again.

  I rewind the movie, as by the time Mike’s done asking questions, we’ve missed at least half of it, and we spend a quiet evening sitting on the couch.

  The only thing that’s starting to bother me is that Dane still hasn’t come home.

  It’s not unusual for him to be out late or even all night, but tonight feels different. That look on his face when he saw me and Mike kissing… it looked like he once had a smile, but that it slowly melted and died. I don’t know how to describe it.

  It looked like his heart was breaking.

  I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it.

  After all, Dane has what’s-her-stupid-name to keep him company.

  What does he need me for?

  Chapter Twelve

  Standard Procedure

  Dane

  The view of Wrigley’s shapely posterior rising and falling as she works me into her is pleasant enough, but my heart just isn’t into it.

  Not that Wrigley minds or even notices. The fact that I’m hard is more than enough for her.

  We’re back on the roof, but the people across the street are all tired of the show.

  I know how they feel.

  I’m lying on the ledge with one foot on each side of it, and Wrigley’s got her back to me. Once I got over the initial fear, this really doesn’t feel like anything exciting or even new.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says, slamming her core onto me again and again, “fuck me hard!”

  I’m wondering if I were reading a book right now, would she even notice?

  It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Things could be worse.

  Though I’m not sure how.

  I lift my hips as she comes down, burying myself deeper inside, and I may as well be somewhere else entirely. There’s no passion, no thrill.

  To stay interested, I fantasize about rolling a little to one side, and wonder if I’d still be inside her when we hit the pavement.

  I close my eyes and start to pretend that she’s Leila, but immediately stop. I’m not going to cheapen Leila like that.

  Come to think of it, it’s kind of a bad sign that I’m not so concerned about cheapening Wrigley like that.

  “Are you about there?” I ask, trying to put enough enthusiasm into my voice to not pull her out of her moment.

  She stops riding me, though I’m still inside her.

  She moves one leg over the side of the building so now only gravity is holding her in place. Yeah, I’m inside of her, too, but I seriously doubt that would be enough to stop her from going over the edge.

  Wrigley lifts her other leg over my body so she’s facing me now, straddling me, and she leans forward, kissing my lips as she says, “I think I want a relationship with you, too, Dane.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “I said I want to be in a relationship with you, too, Dane. You were right. There’s more between us than just sex.”

  I don’t say anything for a minute. I don’t move, and hardly breathe. This is about the last thing I was expecting from tonight.

  “What do you think?” she asks, grinding herself onto me to emphasize the question.

  I look at her. She’s already looking at me.

  Her eyes are pale blue. They’re not the darker blue of Leila’s, but they’re not without their warmth.

  She kisses me and I just stay there, hands hanging down.

  I look over the edge of the building and I look back at Wrigley.

  And I decide to jump.

  “I’d love that,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”

  She lets out a glee-filled squee and puts her hands on my cheeks as she kisses me vehemently.

  “I’ve never wanted to be with just one man before,” she tells me.

  She throws her head back and to the side, letting her hair fall over her left shoulder.

  “I don’t see any stars,” I tell her.

  She stops moving and the smile slowly fades from her expression.

  “What?” she asks.

  “The sky,” I tell her. “I don’t see any stars.”

  “Oh,” she shrugs. “The city’s too bright.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  This isn’t a bad thing. Wrigley and I do seem to get each other on a deeper level, even if that particular level is generally strange and somewhat terrifying.

  She’s not a bad person. She’s into some weird shit, but that’s not a crime. Well, what we’re doing right now technically is, but you know what I mean.

  Her muscles tighten around my cock, and she slides herself up and down my shaft slowly.

  “I’ve been practicing,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, still looking for even a single glimmering point of light in the sky.

  “Kegels,” she says. “It helps me grip. See?”

  She flexes herself around me again.

  “You like?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I smile. “I like.”

  “It’s getting cold,” she says. “Wanna go inside? We can always pick this up on the bed or…” she kisses me. “The couch or…” she kisses me again. “The floor or…” she presses her whole body into mine and breathes in deeply as she kisses me once again. “Wherever.”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Okay.”

  She grips me again as she slips herself off of me, and a moment later, I’m just lying there on the ledge atop this building, still trying in vain to spot a single star in the sky.

  * * *

  It’s 7 in the morning, and I haven’t slept yet.

  Wrigley’s feathered breath is warm on my bare chest as she sleeps peacefully in my arms.

  What I’m worried about right now is that I’ve never known this woman outside of a strictly sexual context.

  Yeah, we’ve gone places and we’ve talked, but we’re always on our way to a new place to have sex. We’re always talking about what we’re going to do with each other when we get there.

  I know there’s more to her than that, but I just don’t know if I’m ever going to see it.

  I’ve spent so much of my life treating women like the flavor of the hour that I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like to be that guy, to ask those questions and really get to know someone.

  “Are you awake?” the whisper comes as a slow rush of air, barely audible.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back.

  I can feel the muscles in her face pulling back, and when she lifts her head to turn and look at me, she’s smiling.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  I can’t help but smile back.

  “Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I ask.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever slept so peacefully.”

  “I’m glad,” I tell her. “Hey, it occurs to me that we don’t r
eally know that much about each other.”

  “Yeah,” she says, and waits for me to continue. “Oh, that was your point.”

  I scoff. “Okay,” I tell her and start to sit up. “I get it.”

  “No, no, no,” she says, with a bit of a chortle as she pushes me back down. “We don’t know that much about each other. I guess I just figured that maybe we could start on that today. Do you have to work?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Later, though. I don’t have to be in until noon.”

  “That’s right,” she says, patting my chest. “You’re a chef.”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  I’m trying to estimate how bad the fallout is going to be if I tell her that I have no idea what she does for a living, but she catches on before I’ve got any hard figures.

  “I’m a social worker,” she says. “I mostly work with kids and teenagers.”

  “Yeah? That’s got to be pretty rewarding.”

  “It is,” she says. “It’s one of those few things in my life where I really feel like I’m making a difference for someone, you know? It’s not all Polaroids and hugs, though. I deal with a lot of bad shit on a day-to-day basis.”

  “I bet.”

  “That said,” she continues, “every once in a while, I’ll come across someone who’s just in that receptive place, and you wouldn’t believe how even a child can turn things around when they want to.”

  “You know—maybe this is going to sound rude, but—”

  “That’s not what you expected?” she asks. “It’s not what a lot of people expect, but it’s what I do. I love it.”

  “Yeah, but you’re—I don’t know how to say this without being a dick,” I say.

  She laughs. “It’s all right. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard a lot worse.”

  “You’re into some pretty kinky shit.”

  She lets out a gut laugh.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound, and it paints her as a completely different person than the nymphomaniac that I’ve been fucking for the past month or so. The laugh softens her.

  “I am,” she says, “but I don’t take that to work with me.”

  “Yeah, but—I don’t know, aren’t you ever nervous that you’re going to be doing it in one of the paddle boats in Central Park and have one of the kids you work with see you?”