by Nikki Sex
It’s based on mutual distrust.
Or perhaps on a shared internal rage.
I wonder what the hell I was thinking, by employing what is probably one of the youngest gang members in the local area.
But I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Chapter 10.
Women tend to be attracted to men who are taller than they are, display a high degree of facial symmetry, and who have broad shoulders, a relatively narrow waist, and a V-shaped torso.
– Wikipedia
~~~
As usual, I’m stopped a couple times by different women, on the way out of the supermarket, while walking to my car. I get at least one phone number handed to me per week, with some flirty comment like, “Call me, sexy,” with their name jotted on it, and a wink.
If I go to a party, or a bar, women virtually line up, wanting to give me a blow job or some other sexual favor. What’s that about? Apparently this is not what most men experience, but it’s pretty much all I know. That’s the way it’s always been for me.
Women want me.
Is that because they know that I don’t want them?
For probably the thousandth time in my life, I wonder, what accident of birth made me so desirable to the opposite sex? It doesn’t matter how I’m dressed, how I act, or what I say. I stay fit. Maybe that’s part of it – just being a young healthy male.
Nowadays, my appearance has become more relevant to me than ever before. I don’t look anything like my parents, and I’ve recently discovered that the man I’ve always known as my dad, is not my biological father. I can’t help but wonder if I look like him – the sperm donor? Will my mom eventually tell me who he is? Does she even know?
Hmm. I’ve never even considered that.
That’s a mean thought that she doesn’t deserve, and I immediately feel like a jerk for thinking it. I love my mom, but I feel betrayed by her, for myself and my dad. I’m pissed off and the anger I have inside is festering. Someday I’ll have to have it out with her.
It’s probably just as well that she’s living in California now.
Emily catches up to me, just as I arrive at the car. We didn’t leave together since she was taking care of some last minute business. I told her that I’d drive the car to the supermarket entrance to pick her up, but here she is. Black thunder clouds settle low in the sky. It looks like it’s going to storm any minute.
“Hi, Paul,” a woman gushes lavishly, arriving seemingly from out of nowhere. I turn toward her and instantly stiffen when she moves to hug me. Reading my obvious ‘don’t-come near-me’ body language and facial expression, she pulls back in confusion. “I didn’t know you were home from your travels,” she says. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”
“Fine,” I say, as I go through my memory, as fast as I can. I realize that I must know this woman. But who the hell is she?
My history with Rose Dunlop comes roaring painfully back, kind of like consciousness does, after a night of over-indulging in a drunken binge. Talk about a hangover – or in this case, the nausea, headache and shaky feeling one gets after being faced with a really unpleasant memory.
My time with Rose Dunlop is one of those excruciating life events that one tends to block out completely.
The gorgeous, well-built redhead came on to me at the gym, and what can I say? I had sex with her a few times, right before I left, three years ago. She was actually another good reason for me to leave town. Back then I was just scratching an itch. Having some fun. Period. Unfortunately, Rose had deluded herself into thinking we were serious. I’m pretty sure that she’d already picked out our china pattern. What a disaster.
The shit hit the fan, when I dumped her. Rose became a clingy, cloying, suicidal basket case. Her dad, who owns a local auto repair shop, threatened to kill me. And her mom?
Well. Rose Dunlop’s mom is a total, raging nut job. To say that the woman was off her rocker is an understatement (and an insult to people who have actually fallen off of their rockers).
Now, three years later, I’m standing here next to the love of my life, being confronted by one of my exes. And not just any ex, but Rose-fuck-me-up-the-ass sideways with a cheese grater Dunlop.
Rose looks at me like she’s hoping for a repeat of whatever the hell happened between us. Fucking hell. I’d rather poke my eyes out with a rusty fork, than go through all of that drama and bullshit again.
“It’s so good to see you,” she repeats.
“You, too, Rose,” I say, having painfully recalled her name. “Do you remember Emily Malone?” I wrap my arm around Em’s waist, pulling her against me in a purposely possessive display.
She nods. “Yes, Emily. She was always following you and her brother, Reese, around at school. She’s like your little sister, right?” she says, in a sugary voice, talking to me, rather than addressing the beautiful woman at my side.
“Wrong. Emily’s my girl,” I tell her, putting a bite to my voice. The woman’s disrespect toward the woman I love pisses me off. “It’s very serious. We’re moving in together.”
“Oh,” Rose’s face falls, but she adds with forced cheerfulness, “Well. Good for you both.”
We politely say our goodbyes, and my ex walks away. With my hand low on her back, I guide Emily toward the passenger door of the car, and open it for her.
Talk about a turd in the punchbowl. How am I going to gloss this over? I curse under my breath, but other than shaking her head, Emily seems to be taking it pretty well. I’m pleasantly surprised. In general, women don’t tend to handle this type of awkward situation gracefully.
Lucky for me, Emily isn’t like most women. Amen to that.
We should probably live somewhere else. I think I’ve had sex with pretty much every female in this town, at one time or another. My little rabbit has an admirable ability to hold on to her temper, but being constantly faced with my endless exes might eventually try even her patience. Frankly, I don’t enjoy these forced, impromptu walks down memory lane, either.
“What a bitch,” I murmur. “Sorry about that.”
Her face is tight with strain, but she says, “I’m your girl?” Good-naturedly, she changes the subject with a smirk. It did sound pretty grade school.
“Yeah, baby. Wanna go make out under the bleachers? Let’s hook-up.” I move my hand down my body, in a provocative display. “You want a piece of this?”
Emily cracks up laughing.
“You’re mine and don’t you forget it,” I say. Jokes aside, staking my claim on her so instantly and publicly, pleased her. I can tell. I defended her honor, too. And if anyone tried to hurt her? Well. I’d destroy them.
A thought strikes me. “We should get married.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “What?”
“Yeah. We should get married,” I say.
Emily is the only girl for me. Other women don’t interest me anymore. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that it might make all these women stop hitting on me. But in all honesty, I don’t have a clue. Being married may make me even more attractive to them. You never know. Who can figure out how women think?
Her face pales. “No,” she says, without even a pause to think about it.
That one soft word drops like a bomb, shredding my universe. It’s my turn to be surprised. “What?” I say.
Women want me. I’ve been actively pursued, hunted even. Even Emily hit on me in the past, before I saw the woman she’d become. The idea of commitment or a ‘relationship’ has always made me run screaming. Now everything’s reversed. The world is topsy turvy. The one woman I want to keep, doesn’t want me.
What the fuck is going on? I know Em loves me. She told me she always has. What is this, a bad joke? Or bad Karma?
All I know for sure, is that somehow, I’ve brought this on myself.
Chapter 11.
“I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche
~~~<
br />
Emily gets in the car and I shut the door, walk around and climb into the driver’s seat. I turn the radio down low, so we can talk. Rain begins to fall on the windshield, slowly at first, and then fat drops, coming down in buckets. I turn on the wipers. They provide a soothing, rhythmic, background noise.
We spend our entire drive home in an intense discussion. The conversation goes back and forth.
Emily lists various reasons why she refuses to even consider marrying me. The basic breakdown seems to be that, ‘it’s too soon’ and ‘you’ve never dated a woman for more than three minutes, so let’s see if you can stand living with me first.’
These were followed by the ridiculous comment, ‘we’re still getting to know each other.’ I find this is particularly difficult to swallow, especially since we’ve been close friends all of our lives.
Her final objection, which is painfully accurate is, ‘I may not be able to give you what you need, kink-wise.’ I flinch, but refuse to think that I can’t teach her to love what I love. Thus, I ignore this doubt of hers, too.
Although she’s justifying her position and stating some reasons that motivate her decision, she’s holding something back. Despite all that she’s said, there’s something she isn’t saying. This fact sends me into an instant rage, which I make every effort to hide.
There’s some irony for you. Tit for tat. She’s hiding something from me, and my immediate reaction is to hide something from her. I guess deception begets deception.
“Tell me the truth,” I accidentally snap at her. “Why don’t you want to marry me? I thought it was obvious that we’re headed in that direction.”
“It isn’t obvious to me, and while I’m thinking of it, that was a really lousy proposal, Paul.” She glares at me indignantly, and those blue eyes of hers turn icy. “I mean, who does that? Who asks a woman to marry them so casually?” Her voice raises a couple octaves higher. Man, is she pissed off or what?
“For God’s sake, Paul,” she shouts, while throwing her hands into the air. “It’s as if it just came to you as an afterthought, while standing in a parking lot. Right after bumping into some ex-lover, who obviously wants to jump you again.”
Well fuck an Oregon duck. I realize that we’re having our third big fight in as many weeks. This knowledge cools my fury. I don’t want to argue with her. The depth of my love for her makes me vulnerable, and I hate that. I need her, and can’t afford to screw things up by being a jerk.
What if she won’t marry me? Will I lose her?
That thought shatters me.
Everyone is different. Some people, when backed into a corner may cry, or withdraw or beg. With me, I easily fall into a rage. But rage won’t cut it with Emily.
I take a deep, steadying breath. “I think ‘ex-lover’ is stretching it. That woman was more like an ex-casual screw. And forget the proposal. I’ll do better next time…if I ever propose again.”
I huff that last comment under my breath, and immediately want to take it back. Me and my stupid uncontrollable temper. I know she’s heard me though, because her mouth compresses into an angry white line.
Too bad. I’m angry, too. “Now,” I growl, my voice low, and deceptively mild. If she lies to me, I’m going to really lose it. But Emily isn’t a liar. “Answer the question, and no more bullshit reasons. I know you’re holding back something significant. Tell me what you really think. C’mon. I can take it, rabbit. Why don’t you want to marry me?”
The traffic clears, and the rain lessens. I slide a glance at her. Her lips purse in thought, then she sighs. “Fine. I’m not going to marry you, because I haven’t decided if you’re the marrying type.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because you go through women like most people change their underwear, that’s why! Yes, we’re having fun. Yes, what we have feels special. Every moment with you has been incredible. I know I love you, I always have. But can you be consistent? Reliable over time? Can you commit to just one woman?”
“Of course I can,” I say defensively, but in truth, I’ve never given it a thought.
Emily rolls her eyes at my dismissive answer. “To me, marriage is serious,” she says. “It’s not just a ring, or words said in church, surrounded by friends and family. It’s forever and always. Will I be enough for you, or will you stray?”
“Of course, you’re enough. You’re perfect. I love you.” I’m on stronger ground here. Being with Emily has changed my life. I’d do anything for her. I’ve never felt this way before.
She shakes her head. Uh-oh. I recognize that look, that stubborn body language of hers.
“I’ve watched women practically throw themselves at you, all of my life,” Emily says softly. The calmness in her voice somehow carries more weight. Her words strike me hard, more than if she were shouting. “As far as I can tell, you’ve nailed every one of them – well, at least if they were pretty, and had big breasts.”
“That’s harsh,” I reply, but her comment makes me stop and think. My first impulse is to defend myself by telling her that I’ve nailed some ugly and flat-chested ones, too. The stupid quip flashes in my mind and isn’t even funny. Thankfully, I bite my tongue instead.
I look at myself from her point of view, and don’t like what I see. How shallow have I been most of my life? Seriously.
As a club Dom, I’ve dominated all sorts of women: fat, thin, old and yes, even kind of ugly. It was a job then. I didn’t have the freedom to pick and choose who I’d scene with. But I’m glad that I was given that opportunity.
Master Matt was my mentor in the San Francisco club. I was just a twenty-three year old kid, but he recognized and trained the Dom in me. I learned so much. It sounds terrible, but I’m pretty sure that he went out of his way to give me unattractive subs. It was his attempt at a ‘book by its cover’ lesson, I think.
The eye-opening truth that I discovered is that really beautiful girls often hide low self-esteem. They wonder if men want them for their looks, rather than for who they are. They’re often treated like arm candy, valued as a beautiful body rather than as a person. Maybe they begin to believe it.
And the ordinary, or physically unattractive women? They can be really pretty inside. They often have character built from adversity. Nothing’s given to them. But I generally found that average lookers tend to be happier, and more stable than the real beauties.
I can’t explain all of this right now. Not in the middle of this argument, or whatever it is. I swallow, and consider my response. “Is this a jealousy thing?” I ask. “Do you resent the fact that there have been others before you?”
Her laugh is hollow. “You weren’t my first. Are you jealous of my exes?”
“No. Is it…” I swallow, and pause to consider. “Is it the amount of women that I’ve been with that bothers you?”
“It is, but it isn’t. The difference between our pasts isn’t just in the number of previous partners. True, you’ve probably had hundreds, and I’ve had three.”
My jaw tightens. Wait a minute. I know two of her exes. Who the hell is the third? I hate the fact that she’s been intimate with anyone else. For a moment I’m distracted by a new strong and unpleasant emotion: Jealousy. I don’t recall feeling it before.
But then I’ve never been in love before, either.
I quickly get my mind back on track. “Good,” I say to Emily quickly, hoping to put an end to that subject. If we concentrate on my sordid history, I’m screwed. “The past is the past. Now is what matters.”
“Yes, but is it the past?” Her voice is louder than usual, her tone cross and irritated. “They say that the best predictor of future behavior, is past behavior. Me? I’ve consistently said ‘no’ to men many times throughout my life. I don’t do one night stands. I date. And you? Your habit’s always been to say ‘yes’ to every pretty face, and then you take off like a scalded alley cat, the second you zip up your pants.”
I’d like to explain, but I’ve got nothing.
‘
You’ve never had a meaningful relationship,” she says, slightly calmer now. “Never. How can I believe that I’m your one and only next week, next month or next year?”
“That was before you were even on my radar. I’ve never wanted a relationship until we got together. Are you going to hold my past against me?”
“You bet.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just until I feel like I can trust you.”
I automatically wince at that statement because it hits hard. Emily doesn’t trust me? I’m not a liar. I’ve never promised any woman anything other than a good time for a few hours. I’ve been upfront with my intention not to commit. Angry tension blazes within. I’m at instant flashpoint.
Emily sees how angry I am and quickly explains, “That came out wrong. I do trust you – but not that way. Having serial sexual partners is part of the man you’ve always been. It’s part of who you are today. Being with me is novel and exciting for you right now, but that might change. Love and commitment have never been your thing. It may not stick. You can’t possibly know what you’ll feel about me, over time. Before I promise you forever, I need to know if a leopard can change its spots.”
My lips part, I want to speak, to deny what she says, but nothing comes out. What is there to say? How can I possibly defend myself against such a self-evident, brutal truth?
“Think about it.” She crosses her arms, unwilling to budge. “I have.”
Chapter 12.
“We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.”
– François de La Rochefoucauld
~~~
I’m silent after Emily’s strangely composed tirade. Well, I wanted the truth and I got it. Fuck. Talk about a reality check.
A rush of conflicting and confusing thoughts run through my mind. I love her. I do. It’s tough to imagine wanting anyone else. But can I be faithful over time? Can I say no to the countless beautiful women that constantly hit on me? Right now, I’m positive that I don’t want anyone else. Yet Em has a point. Damn it.
