by Lisa Suzanne
After the pizza, he ravaged me on the floor of my family room, on my kitchen table, and in my shower. We slept for a few hours and then he woke me by soothing my very tired and sore vagina with his mouth.
Now this. He’s leaving, and I’m feeling this strange and overwhelming loss because of it.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. It’s such a contrast to the way he roughly fucked me over and over last night, more reminiscent of our romantic sunset boat kiss.
“I’ll be in touch,” he whispers in the dark, and that’s it.
“Bye,” I say, wanting to say more but not sure what.
He leaves without another word, and strange and powerful feelings start hitting me from every angle.
Mostly it’s fear.
I’m terrified of what I’ve gotten myself into with him. We’ve only known each other a short time and I’m already heavily in lust.
Maybe nothing else will ever happen between us. Maybe that was it.
That thought hurts much more than it should. Somehow I don’t believe it to be true. There has to be more than a few good dates, two of which included a good chunk of time naked.
My front door clicks shut behind him, and it leaves me feeling hollow. I’m awake now, whether or not I want to be, so I get up and start a pot of coffee.
There’s a note on the counter, and I see Carter’s neat handwriting for the first time.
Forgot to give you this list last night. As you advised, I worked on upping my game. Feel free to use my name when you post it, and make sure to think about the next time I’m going to do all of these things to you. See you soon.
I look at the paper underneath, and I burst out laughing when I read the title: FAST FIVE: EUPHEMISMS FOR SEX by Carter King.
They’re gold. I rush over to my computer and type them out, posting right away.
I’ll get to the post about my night with Carter later. For now, I just need a minute to allow what happened between us to really sink in.
He said he’d see me soon. I have to assume he meant it, and I have to assume he’ll be back and won’t leave me hanging. So I guess instead of worrying about whether or not I’ll see him again, I should start worrying about what will happen when we do see each other again.
A relationship that starts on sex as powerful as what we’ve shared could end up being one of two things.
It could be a relationship based solely on sex, or it could be the base for the best and most serious relationship of my life.
COURTING SANDY EGGO
posted by Courtney Sanders
by guest author Carter King
Note from Courtney: The man I’m sleeping with came up with these. Hands off, ladies—he’s mine. (More on that later.)
FAST FIVE: EUPHEMISMS FOR SEX
5. Filling you out like an application
4. Parking my boat in your fuzzy garage
3. Whitewashing your picket fence
2. Clicking your mouse with my bait
1. Driving the Bison Bus through Taco Town
CHAPTER 13
CK: I’m back in NY. Hope you went back to sleep.
Me: I didn’t, and I’m sore.
He replies with the laughing-so-hard-he’s-crying emoji, and I leave it at that. Something in the pit of my stomach feels off, like some sixth sense or a premonition, and it leaves me feeling nervous and uncomfortable.
Emme volunteered to entertain me tonight as long as I agreed to be entertained at The Port. Apparently she sensed my melancholy mood from a texting conversation we had around lunch time.
I spent over five hours this morning trying to write about my night with Carter, but I kept hitting dead ends. The first draft was way too sexual, even for me. The second draft was too tame. I was having trouble putting into words the power and magic of our night—of the past couple weeks together, really—and part of me wanted to hold some of it close to my heart. If I put it out into the world, he’ll see exactly what I think about the two of us, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.
This mushy sentimentalism is for the goddamn birds. It’s stupid and it isn’t me.
So, I deleted both drafts, had a shot of vodka before noon, and sulked.
I took a walk, went to Harrison’s and stole Shelby, and headed over to Dog Beach, but even that didn’t cure my moodiness. All it did was remind me of when he told me he’d tell me everything about himself and then didn’t.
The man is still a really big mystery, but he’s a puzzle I want to solve.
I find myself sitting beside my best friend as the guy she’s banging pours us each a beer.
“Why did Carter rush out of town so fast?” she asks.
“He’s attending some benefit tonight. He’ll be back soon, though.”
“What is this between you?”
“Good sex.”
I lift a shoulder, and she lifts an eyebrow.
“And that’s all?”
“We’ll see, I guess.” Axel delivers our beers and heads toward the other end of the bar to help some patrons. “What about you and Axel?”
She looks uncomfortable.
“Emme, what’s going on? You two were fighting last week, and then yesterday when I saw him he got all sweet and tender when I brought you up.”
“He wants more.”
“And you don’t?”
She shakes her head. “Things are good, you know? They’re fine. Why do we need to label it?”
“Because you’re in love? Because you want to commit to him? I did a Fast Five a few years ago on reasons why people get married. I actually ran a survey first, and the reasons were pregnancy, security, commitment, stability, and love—in that order.”
She’s quiet, and I’m trying to figure out what I said that caused her silence.
Then it hits me: marriage. She hadn’t said anything about getting married, just that Axel wanted more.
“Oh my God, Emme, did he propose?”
She glances in his direction. He’s still far enough away that he won’t catch a word of our conversation.
She looks back at me, and her eyes are filled with fear. She nods her head. “You can’t tell anyone I told you.”
She always says shit like that to me. Part of me doesn’t blame her considering my career of choice, but I’d never announce news like that on social media. Whenever I write about a friend, I either change the name or get written permission first.
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s not my news to tell.”
“Thanks, Court.”
“What did you say when he asked? How did he ask? Are you engaged now?” I’m gushing and it’s sickening.
“I said no. It was about a week ago. He closed that night and came over to my place and just got down on his knee and asked…and I fucking said no.”
“Why did you say no?”
She stares down into her beer. “You know why.”
I did, and his name was Declan Springsteen.
“Babe, it’s been two years.”
“You think I don’t know how long it’s been?”
“I know you do, but it’s time to move on. It’s time to be happy.”
“Declan took that from me. How am I supposed to trust men now?” She looks over at Axel. Some blonde with tits spilling out of her too-tight shirt is flirting with him. He glances over toward Emme, and their eyes lock. It’s very clear that he only has eyes for Emme, not for the tit-tastic blonde. He sends a secret smile to Emme, and I can’t help but blush at their private exchange. He’s head over heels for my friend, and she’s blind not to see the significance of that.
“You’re giving him power over you. Axel’s one of the good ones.”
“I think he is, too,” she says softly. “But I’m still so scared.”
“Have you been talking to Dr. Mindy?” I ask, referring to the therapist she started seeing after she left Declan.
She nods.
“And have you talked to Axel about it?”
“He knows everyt
hing.”
“The way he just looked at you? That’s what every girl dreams of, Em.”
“I’m working through it.”
“I know, and I’m here for whatever you need.”
“You know what I need? I need Declan’s life to be ruined the way he ruined mine.”
“I think I have a way,” I say, and an idea takes shape in my head.
COURTING SANDY EGGO
posted by Courtney Sanders
THE BIGGEST DB IN SD: A MINI-SERIES
VOLUME TWO: DECLAN
Some days you just have to stick up for your friends. Today’s edition of the douchebags of San Diego is in honor of my best friend in the whole world.
You may remember me sharing some of her story a couple years ago. She gave me permission to talk about what happened to her as long as I kept her name out of it, and while she didn’t tell me today’s blog was okay to write, that’s okay—it’s not about her.
It’s about the douchebag who stomped on her heart and changed my best friend into a completely different person. She’s in a relationship with a man who is perfect for her, but she’s too afraid to commit to him because the last guy she dated fucked her over so badly that she lost all trust in men.
That last guy is named Declan, and he’s still running loose in San Diego.
They’d been dating for three years. She dreamed what any girl would: a secure future, a gorgeous house, and, most importantly, a perfect husband. She was sure he was the one she’d spend her life with.
And then there was that one fateful day when she headed home early by chance.
Her dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
It wasn’t just the fact that the apartment she shared with Declan was the scene of the crime. It was how many crimes he was actually committing against her.
There were the women—not one, but two. They were naked on her bed, and Declan had one hand in each, literally.
It wasn’t just the women, though.
What they were doing was displayed on the television screen on the dresser opposite the bed.
And it wasn’t just the television screen.
It turned out he’d been filming my friend every time the two of them had sex. She didn’t even know there were cameras in the bedroom.
It wasn’t just the fact that he’d filmed her without her consent; on top of that, he’d uploaded the videos to all sorts of websites. He’d blurred her face or cut her face out completely, but that absolutely doesn’t change the fact that he violated every part of her trust.
She wasn’t just pissed off that he’d cheated on her. He was an actual criminal, and she had no idea how big of a lying asshole she’d been living with.
She could’ve sued him, but she was too embarrassed. She could’ve walked away with a huge settlement, but she would have had to prove it was her in those videos, and you can imagine the type of shame and embarrassment that would come with proving that to be true.
She didn’t want to go through that. She didn’t want to put her family through that.
So, essentially, he got away with it.
But San Diego’s single ladies need to know that guys like this exist.
I can’t publish his last name for legal reasons, but I will say this: if he was related to a certain musician with the first name Bruce, he might be called “The Boss.”
But he’s not. They just share the same last name.
And Declan isn’t the boss of anything anymore—except maybe his own left hand. That may be the only thing he’s still the boss of after the ladies of San Diego get wind of this post.
I love my friend. I need her to see that not all men are like Declan. There are some good guys in the world. So, if you could comment below with your stories of the good guys in San Diego, I think that might do a lot of women a whole lot of good.
Emme: Thanks for what you posted. I read the comments, and it helps to know that I’m not alone.
Me: I love you, Em. I would do anything for you.
Emme: I know you would. I love you, too.
Me: Are you working tonight?
Emme: Yes. Want to come with me?
Me: Yes. I need to get out of the house before I go crazy.
Emme: Carter on the brain?
Me: Maybe just a little.
Emme: Let’s do lunch at The Port. Axel’s starting an early shift, so it’s on him.
Me: I’ve got lunch with my parents. Happy hour instead?
Emme: Yes. Perfect.
We pick a time to meet, and then I make up a recipe. See, my parents think I run a cooking blog. I just can’t bring myself to admit that I write about sex for a living. I’m twenty-four, fully an adult now, but I’m still their little girl. I’m sure I always will be, so I have to make up a few recipes from time to time and post them to the little fake blog I made to share with my parents. I even make comments from fake profiles so my parents can see how much people love what I do.
If they only knew…
I use a recipe I found online and tweak it a little. I have no idea what I’m doing, but to be honest, I’ve learned a lot about cooking by making up a fake cooking blog.
I post the recipe and write my fake comments, and then I send the link to my parents. I know my mom will be thrilled about the new recipe because it uses a wine reduction. She’s always carrying on about wine reductions. It’s her cocaine.
I head over to my parents’ house around noon. My parents are adorable, like a couple out of an eighties sitcom. My mom still feathers her hair, and my dad wears sports jackets with suede elbow patches to dinner on a regular basis. My mom still has a flip phone and my dad just made the switch from dial-up AOL when I forced him to get high speed internet about a year ago. They can’t have a daughter who blogs for a living and still use dial-up to connect to the internet; it’s just wrong.
My mom made soup and sandwiches, and I veg on the couch for a little bit after lunch as I chat with my mom about the wine reduction chicken recipe. She’s going to give it a go.
“Promise you’ll send me pictures so I can post them,” I say.
“Oh, sweetie, you know how nervous dad gets about the pictures.”
I giggle. They think they’re really helping me out when they send me pictures. I always Photoshop them—or replace them completely with stock photos—and my mom is always so impressed with the magic I make out of the crappy pictures my dad takes with the camera on his phone.
“How’s your website doing?” she asks.
“Well, I’ve been tinkering with keyword optimization for a few weeks, and I’ve gotten a few big blogs to backlink to me.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, dear,” my mom says as her eyes glaze over.
Any time I use blogger jargon, she loses interest—and fast—but it’s hilarious to watch her pretend to understand what I’m saying. It took me years of studying and working hard to understand the lingo, so I don’t expect her to know what I’m talking about.
It throws her off the scent, which is good. I still can’t believe my parents think I run a cooking blog and make a living off of it. Honestly, I tend to burn microwave popcorn.
“Why don’t you make that chicken recipe you sent me for us?” she suddenly asks as if it’s the best idea ever.
“Oh, you know,” I say, scrambling for my usual reason why I won’t cook for my parents. “I’m just so tired of cooking after coming up with that recipe. I’d rather see you experiment with it and let me know how it goes.” I hate deceiving my mom, but it’s better this way. I’d be mortified if she knew what I really wrote about for a living, especially considering my content is basically biographical.
“What did you do with your leftovers?”
I once made up a story that I donated my cooking experiments to a homeless shelter just so she wouldn’t ask me to bring over the food I supposedly cook, and then I felt guilty for lying about donating to a homeless shelter, so on my way home that night, I stopped at the grocery store and bought hundreds of dollars’
worth of canned goods to actually donate.
“I gave them to some friends.” If I really tried that recipe, it wouldn’t be fit for my friends. It probably wouldn’t even be fit for a rabid dog.
“Such a sweet girl we raised, Jerry,” my mom says as my dad walks into the room. He sits in his favorite armchair and flicks on the television with the remote I had to train him to use.
“Still single?” he asks.
I roll my eyes and nod.
“Atta girl,” he says.
“Jerry! Stop it. No new boys?” my mom asks.
I may be just twenty-four, but my mom is already eager for grandchildren. My dad, not so much. To him, a grandchild means his daughter is having sex, and that’s just gross. He’s happier when I’m single.
It’s not that he doesn’t want me to be happy, he just doesn’t want to know the details. He’s not ready for his little girl to be a grownup, even though I already am.
Even more reason for me to keep my real blog as far away from my parents as I can.
“There’s a boy,” I admit. “I really like him, but it’s new.”
“Oh!” My mom is squealing now. “Tell me all about him!”
My dad turns up the volume on the television.
“He’s from New York but he’s moving here. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes, and he’s really good-looking.” I’m sort of gushing—as gushy as I get with my mom, anyway.
My mom gets a dreamy look in her eye, and I can tell she’s already got us married with fifteen kids.
“What does he do for a living?”
I pause. “I, uh…I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I shake my head. This is more embarrassing to admit than I thought it would be. “He’s from a wealthy family. I’m not sure what he does, though.”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“We’ve only gone out a couple times. I just met him a couple weeks ago at Dog Beach.”
“When’s he moving to San Diego?”
I glance over at my dad. He’s pretending to be engrossed in some crime show, but I can tell he’s listening to our conversation.
