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Amber groans and pushes me out into the hallway. “No, she’s not married, but none of this is your business. I need to finish getting ready. You can go now.”
Losing the will to fight for more information—not like she would tell me anyway—I move to the couch to watch whatever random sport is on TV. Something aimless to get my mind off the chaos. All these females moving in to my place and taking over. I’m exactly where I was in high school, taking care of two women with personal demons and giving up my own needs to do so.
While my buds back then on the wrestling team were out getting laid for the first time and experimenting with drugs, I was stuck working a part-time job to help Mom pay the bills. Plus, I had to help Amber with her homework and keep my own grades up.
My gender is so irresponsible. If I understand that, why don’t other men control their dicks? Stop having kids if you’re not going to raise them and stop entering serious relationships if you’re not going to stick around. Where was my father’s sense of responsibility? His need to protect and support his family? Though I was only six, I remember when Mom brought Amber home from the hospital bundled in a pink blanket. She looked like a raisin. A tiny raisin I could hold and keep safe.
I was six, and I wanted to keep her safe. How could a grown man be so heartless and not feel the same?
I sigh and relax into the couch, thinking about my plans later with the guys. I’m looking forward to getting out of my female-infested house to blow off some steam.
After a while, Amber appears in the combo living room kitchen, ready for her bartending job. “Are you going anywhere?” she asks, slipping on a bracelet.
I check the time. Almost five. “Yeah. My friend has a birthday party at the strip club.”
She scoffs. “Birthday party at the strip club. Of course.” I hear the fridge door open and close behind me, then a can hisses and cracks open.
“That better not be beer,” I say. “You’re cut off, remember?”
Ignoring me, she responds, “You’ll need to cancel your play date. I don’t want Paige waking up alone. It’s bad enough she’s in a new place. She seems okay so far, but I can’t miss work to stay here. You have to.”
“I don’t think you heard me,” I say. I pronounce my words carefully. “I said strip club. He’s got a VIP private lounge and Lotus is working tonight. I am not bailing.” No way. Lotus has the most luscious curves and always smells like she’s fresh out of the shower. And those tits…
“You are canceling.” Amber’s voice is a hard I’m-not-here-to-argue-so-do-what-I-say tone that I fucking hate. “I already told you how Paige saved me. Stay here in case she needs anything.”
“I don’t—” I cross my arms. God dammit. But those titties! I just want a moment of peace to relax and see Lotus, who hasn’t been at the club for two months. Two months. I’ve been waiting two damn months to watch her jiggle and gyrate. I’m a grown fucking man and I feel like crying. “Fine,” I grumble.
Amber pats my head. “Good boy. Thank you. If she has a panic attack or something, call me and I’ll walk you through it.” She jabs a finger at my face. “Otherwise, I’m trusting you. I saw you gawking earlier. You do not touch her.”
“God, you sound like a broken record.”
“Well, I am…”
Though she trails off, I know what she was going to say.
I am broken.
That was a poor choice of words on my part. I can tell she’s on edge today. Before I can apologize, the front door shuts. Then what she casually mentioned about Paige sinks in. I whip around. “Wait, panic attack?” I yell, hoping she’ll hear me from the porch. Several seconds later, a car door shuts. An engine hums to life.
“Panic attack,” I whisper to myself. “What the fuck?”
I text my buddy to cancel, fighting a lump in my throat as I go through the stages of grief, imagining Lotus bouncing around on my lap. Goodbye, titties. Wait for me.
After grabbing a beer, I return to the couch and a boring-ass baseball game. I groan and throw my head back. So fucking bored, and it’s barely five. I should be showering right now, getting ready for the club, then throwing on a clean shirt and jeans—clothes that will come home reeking of perfume, cigarettes, and alcohol.
I sink further into the couch, staring at my tower of DVDs as a thick chocolate porter swirls around my mouth. I’ve watched them all, but what the hell? Paige will probably sleep into the evening, probably won’t even wake before Amber gets home. This used to be my house. I own it. I should have the freedom to do whatever I want.
A year ago, it was just me, the occasional chick I brought home, my DVDs, my video games, and my gym equipment. I walked around naked, jerked off where I wanted, and exercised any time of day, even at midnight when a case of insomnia hit. It was fucking great. Then Amber moved in and my spare bathroom became covered with…things. Women things. I don’t know what half the shit does and now the drain is always clogged.
Goodbye, freedom.
Sure. I’m being responsible and watching after my sister, but I can still be grumpy about it.
Whatever. Screw it. I grab a DVD from the stand without looking at the title and pop the disc into my game console. A few minutes later, a hot redhead is sucking off a hairy Armenian man and making sexy sounds with her throat. Eh, that guy needs to go. I skip forward to another scene. Same chick, different guy. A smooth-skinned black man.
I just don’t like the hairy dudes. Too distracting. I question how they can have that much hair, if it’s itchy, and why they don’t get waxed since they do porn. The women put in so much effort to look amazing and sexy. Then they have to fuck gross dudes? I’m a supporter of guys putting in more effort to look good.
A nice-looking, toned man fucking a chick? Sure, sign me up. One covered in hair who looks like a bus hit him? Pass. I feel bad for the woman banging him.
