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I dry off quickly. Roughly. My head feels hollow. My skin hums. My cock presses against my lower belly. Gwenna dances in and out of my mind.
Not okay.
I go to the bed and pull up some porn on my phone. Even as I watch big tits and a gleaming, pink pussy, I feel her palm cupping my face. I imagine her fingers stroking the inside of my thigh. I watch some porn star suck a dick and I imagine Gwenna’s lips, my dick.
I squeeze the phone as tightly as I can, then hurl it at the wall.
It’s because I’m tired. That’s all.
I go downstairs and make some coffee, waiting for my dick to deflate as the Keurig coughs and chokes.
GWENNA
Two nights. Two times sparring by myself next to the porch. I rang his doorbell yesterday at 5:30 p.m., but nothing.
I worry. I think anybody would. I clean, and sing, and talk to Mom and Jamie and, once, Rett. Jamie tells me I should use my key if I want to. I don’t. I don’t have a reason to invade his space. After what happened at my house the other night, he’s avoiding me. I wish he wasn’t, but I understand. So much more than most people would.
I dress for my lone fight tonight in some brown leggings and a long-sleeved blue shirt featuring the creatures on the children’s show Yo Gabba-Gabba. Inspired, I go to YouTube and find “Don’t Bite Your Friends,” a favorite song of the kids I babysit twice a month. I sing it as I lace up my hot pink sneaks.
It’s getting dark sooner. Working out at night seems even more depressing than it should. I tell myself if he doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll start working out in the daytime again, up in the clearing.
As it is, I can’t seem to make myself go out. A little after 5:30, I call Jamie and ask if she wants to go to the local hospital tomorrow in the bear suits.
“When do I not want to be a bear?”
I laugh. She’s weird. It’s why we’re friends.
“You hanging in there?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about him. It’s not your responsibility. You’ve done everything you can to be a good friend. He won’t hide forever. Give him another few days.”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip, then cut our conversation short and go outside and start to stretch.
And there he comes. I see him at a distance as he walks from his long yard into the woods between our houses, and my heart leaps so high, I swear I feel it get hung in my throat.
Barrett!
He’s wearing a green shirt. The sight of him makes me feel like I’m vibrating just a little. I try to gauge his mood from just his movements, but it’s impossible, even as he nears me.
I’m straightening up from touching my toes when he steps into my yard, and holy shit. How many times am I going to forget and re-remember how gorgeous this man is?
He steps slowly over to me, stops in front of me, and looks into my eyes for a long moment. Then he runs one of his big hands gently over my hair. I hold my breath while his fingers blaze warm trails atop my scalp, and just when my eyelids droop from the pleasure of this simple touch, he holds a battered-looking leaf in front of my face.
“Thanks.” I take it, my fingertips brushing his.
He nods, expressionless although his eyes are still on mine. My spirits plummet.
So this is how it’s going to be.
Be patient, I tell myself. I’m reminded, strangely, of Papa Bear—and all the work I’ve done with him.
You’re a patient person.
Still, I’m disappointed when he starts stretching without another word to me. During our workout, he teaches me more about the vulnerable places on the head. He has his fingers threaded through my hair half of the time, rubbing lightly on various pressure points and making my entire body burn. The rest of the time, I’m focused on getting my hands around his neck, or finding the best angle for gouging his overly perfect eyes out.
The few times he demonstrates a move on his own, I let my hungry eyes rove over him. I sift my feelings through the filter of “just friends.” How long has it been since I had a guy friend? (College). I feel this warm swell concern for him, this proprietary feeling that he’s mine to take care of. And yeah, I also kind of want his body. Is this what it’s like to have a male friend?
