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“Oh.”
The bartender, cute as he may be, serves us drinks but does not stick around to chat. A little bummed, I swivel my chair to be faced by a tall man dressed in a fitted white shirt and black denim jeans. He is very broad, and with a sly grin, he flashes his pearly whites. Wow, they are white! I mean, it’s dark in here, and those bad boys are glowing enough that you can make out the footprints on the floor.
Remember what your mother once told you—it’s rude to stare.
He introduces himself as Ian, a gym junkie from California. As Vicky turns to face us, she almost falls off her chair whispering in my ear, “He’d make your beaver glow with the amount of bleach he’s sporting.”
I look at her, confused. Then the penny drops. Vicky apologizes to Ian, then drags me to the dance floor to save me.
“You’re welcome,” she yells over the music.
“What was wrong with him?”
“Oh, honey, you got to up the ante now. Jason was great and a real looker, but hey, you could have done better.”
Offended, I stop dancing and stare at my friend. “What do you mean I could have done better?”
Vicky continues to sway her body, oblivious that her comment struck a nerve.
“Jason is everything you wanted on paper, but he wasn’t the guy for you. You need someone who will challenge you, and most importantly, make your toes curl in the bedroom.”
“Jason was great. Maybe I’m the problem, I’m the one who didn’t challenge him, and maybe I’m the dud in the bedroom.”
Vicky stops dancing mid-song, and her green eyes appear agitated. Her long golden-brown locks stop swaying and rest nicely against her chest. With no warning, she latches onto my arm and drags me back to the bar. She motions for the bartender ordering two rounds of shots. Without saying a word just yet, she waits until the glasses are placed before us, then turns to face me with a stern
look on her face.
“Now, you listen to me, Presley Malone. I never, ever, want you to say you’re the problem. Any fucking guy in this club would be lucky to have you. And don’t you dare let that stupid photo of Jason make you feel any less. You understand?”
I nod like a child being scolded, then Vicky gives me a tight embrace, reassuring me that we are going to have the greatest night. She slides the shots closer to me, and I down them in one go each.
We giggle uncontrollably as the alcohol sets in until Vicky abandons me to use the restroom, claiming she has some tampon emergency that has dampened her chances of hooking up.
I sway to the music, the band playing a recent pop song, and all the while, I am forgetting that Jason ever existed, and I’m feeling as free as a bird. Vicky’s right, Jason was great on paper. He was your typical six-foot, blond hair, blue-eyed hottie. He had a great job, great family, and loved his sports. In the bedroom, he was great. Well, great compared to what I had experienced in the past. He knew how to make me come, but even then, it was routine. Kind of like playing a piano—once you know the notes, you can play with your eyes closed.
When I think back to the last year of having sex, it was dull—same old positions, me on top, and once in a while, he would take me from behind. Foreplay was ancient history. The reality was we were both busy, knew how to get each other off, and did it within five minutes.
I was equally to blame.
The question now weighing heavily on my mind is, is it possible to have a relationship with someone and still keep those butterflies and foreplay alive? I need someone who can crawl under my skin and plant that seed of lust where all I care about is our bodies banging together in perfect harmony.
You’re horny and need to get laid.
Oh, and tequila, please stop talking now.
The night was not meant to be spent thinking about Jason, so I divert my eyes to a group of people in their mid to late twenties huddled in the corner. The guy with the jet-black hair is smoking hot, and even in my intoxicated state, I am not immune to getting down and dirty.
He is wearing only a khaki wife-beater, and every inch of his arms are covered in tattoos and boy, oh boy, does he have a set of arms. The way he is standing against the wall shows off his tall muscular build. C’mon, would I really screw a guy I didn’t know? Probably not. God only knows where he has been. For all I know, he could be part of some underground drug ring willing to kidnap me and hold me ransom.
I am happily sipping away at my drink when Vicky returns, and I’m quick to point out Mr. Smokin’ Hot. Of course, she agrees he is one fine specimen, but her enthusiasm is short-lived when she abandons me for some dude wearing a bowtie. Way to go, Vicky, you sure know how to pick them. She promises to return in a few minutes. Yeah, whatever. She’s totally broken the girl code.
Keeping myself entertained, I continue to watch Mr. Smokin’ Hot and happen to catch a glimpse of the female beside him. She is wearing the tackiest gold dress that drops low, exposing her very fake, ample bosom. On closer inspection, the lady beside her looks strikingly similar, and as I focus in, I realize they are twins, and one of them is Dee Simmons from work. Totally explains the skankiness I was smelling in here. Honestly, her sister looks no better. Why, oh why, are the hot men attracted to such tramps? He just lost five points on my scale of one to ten—ten being the kind of man I could see myself bending my five-month rule for.
Just when I am about to turn away, bored by the sleaziness, a very dark and mysterious guy beside him catches my attention. Perhaps all is not lost. So I prepare my flirtatious smile only for my stomach to do a backflip as I realize it’s none other than the Jerk himself.
Oh shit.
I swivel back around, almost causing myself whiplash, and pretend to be waiting for the bartender, praying to the Lord he didn’t notice me. Vicky is standing at the opposite side of the bar. Amid the heavy noise, I attempt to gain her attention, so she can ditch bowtie dude, and we can blow this pop stand before the angry wolf hunts me down.
