Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  Sex, sex, sex.

  The word plays on a loop in my brain, implanted there.

  “Although just barely,” she adds.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  This is not good.

  “What do you mean?” I volley back.

  I get an eye roll for my efforts. “Um, hello—isn’t it obvious?”

  “Um, no.” I’m confused. What the hell is she trying to get at? How can you be barely a virgin? You are or you’re not.

  “I mean—look at me. Listen to me! Guys just…I think I might be too much to handle.”

  Too much for who? Pussies?

  “Please do not go down that road of self-deprecation and loathin’. I can’t stomach it.”

  “Loathin’,” she repeats in almost a whisper, as if the word holds some magic. Her top teeth nibble on her bottom lip. “You’re right—I hate when girls do that, too. I’m not fishing for compliments, I swear. And I don’t hate my body, but I like tall guys and none of them ever like me back, so I’m stuck with the short ones who can’t take a joke.” Her laugh sounds a bit sardonic.

  Oh Charlie, if I were the dating kind…I’d date the hell out of you.

  Her head is cocked and she’s staring out into the dark yard.

  “Why are you waiting?” Her question isn’t condescending or calculated, merely quiet and curious.

  “I don’t…date.”

  A lilting little laugh fills the silence. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  No, it doesn’t. Still, “Sex complicates everything, and I decided a long time ago I wasn’t lookin’ for any. Complications, I mean.”

  “That sounds a tad dramatic.” I don’t see her eye roll, but I can hear it.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Well it doesn’t have to be complicated. It is what you make it.”

  “Someone always gets hurt.”

  “Who gets hurt? The other person? I thought guys didn’t care about feelings—are you telling me you’re sensitive?”

  “I just know from experience—everything is one-sided and the other person loses out.” My statement is vague, slightly ominous, and only makes a bit of sense.

  “Are you even talking about yourself?” Charlie gives her head a shake. “I’m so confused.”

  That makes two of us.

  I choose to be honest. “No, I guess I’m not talkin’ about myself.”

  “Who then?”

  “My parents.” I let out a puff of air.

  Charlie is silent a few heartbeats before leaning back against the swing’s bench. “Ah, I see.”

  I want to ask, What do you see? But I’m afraid she’ll actually fucking tell me what she sees when she looks at me, and the last thing I want or need is a psych eval from a pretty girl in the middle of the night on a Friday.

  That’s not why I brought her out onto this porch. “Love fucks it all up.”

  The swing slowly sways back and forth, only its rusty chain breaking the silence. Then, “So. You’re one of those, eh?”

  I detect a chuckle tacked on to the end of her sentence. Charlie is amused.

  “One of what?”

  “You have to be in love to have sex with someone. You want to feel something for them. Is that it?” The way she says it oozes skepticism, as if the notion is impossible. She’d put me in a box, stuck that box on a shelf, and labeled it Guys who fuck whomever. Anyone with a pulse, like some of my teammates.

  “No, but I’d like to have a relationship before stickin’ my dick inside them. Otherwise it’s just weird.”

  “Stickin’ muh dee-uk,” Charlie repeats with a laugh, full on this time, loud and boisterous and sounding fucking glorious. “You and that Southern accent of yours have a way of making everything sound so eloquent.”

  My lips press into a thin line. “I appreciate the sarcasm. Truly.”

  “Don’t be a pooh. I like it,” she says somewhat shyly. “The accent, I mean. I’m a bit rusty with the teasing.”

  I don’t want to say it out loud, but most girls do love the accent. Fucking love it. Eat that shit up, in fact, driving me batshit loco with their demands: Say something Southern, Triple J! Say y’all! Say fixin’ to!

  Drives me fuckin’ nutso.

  Charlie here isn’t immune to it, isn’t the exception; she’s the rule. Same as all the others, really.

  I have nothing more to say as she rocks the swing with the toe of her shoe, though she’s the shorter one between us. I watch her leg—her calf in the tight, dark, denim skinny jeans. The toe of her leather boot pressing into the wooden floor, releasing. Pushing. Releasing. Pushing.

  Controlling our movements, allowing us the chance to talk. My eyes stray up her leg. Knee. The hand resting there.

  Gold bracelets, gold ring circling. Long, delicate fingers. Nails painted a soft pink. She taps one finger, and I blink, eyes finally reaching hers again.

  Charlie is biting down on her lower lip, barely concealing her smile, head doing that little shake as if to say, I don’t even know what to do with you right now.

  “I still don’t believe it.”

  She’s back on the virgin subject again—though I don’t think we ever left it.

  “How did we get on this topic?” I ask, for lack of anything else to say.

  “You blurted it out.” Pause. “You’re worse than any girl I’ve ever met who wanted to tell someone a secret.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yeah, ’fraid so. You just couldn’t keep that information to yourself, could ya?”

  “Sorry. Don’t know why I fuckin’ said it.” Other than I’m a moron.

  Charlie thinks, forehead wrinkling in concentration. “Is it hard?”

  I almost choke on the beer I just took a swig of. “Excuse me?”

  “Not doing it—has it been hard?”

  Ummmm…yes it’s been hard.

  My dick. Not having a place to put it. Waiting. Hard.

  “Sure.”

  She waits for more but there is none. “Care to expound on that?”

  “No.”

  With a side glance, she gets more comfortable on the swing, leaning back and letting her legs dangle. “It’s not easy for girls, either.” Charlie examines her fingernails. “I’m not a virgin, but sometimes wanking off with my own fingers just doesn’t cut it, know what I mean?”

  This time I do choke on my beer, bubbles lodging in my esophagus and causing me to cough just to clear the airway. I cover my soaking mouth with the inside of my elbow, shooting her a menacing glare.

  How fucking dare she bring up masturbating?

  “Care to expound on that?” I ask, once I can breathe again.

  “No.” I can see her cheeky grin in the dark, white teeth shining under the dim porch light. “No I do not.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “Oh relax, it’s not like I gave you any of the dirty details, like how many fingers I use—or don’t use.”

  “What?”

  “You should see the look on your face.”

  I lean back and huff out a sigh. “Whatever. I’m sure it looks like the one you gave me when I said the V word.”

  “Virgin. When you said you were a VIRGIN.” Jesus Christ, she’s practically shouting it. “There it is again.” She laughs, pointing at my face until I swat her finger away with my hand, clamping my fist around her index. Place it back on her lap and cover her palm with the flat of mine.

  “Could you not?”

  “Pfft. It’s not like anyone would believe me anyway. Jackson Jennings Junior, a virgin? As if.” She doesn’t try to move away or withdraw her hand. “Besides, no one is paying any attention—I could shout it from the rooftops and not a single person would look up.”

  She’s got a valid point; the students around here are so fucking full of themselves, their social media feeds, and their own business that they probably wouldn’t notice some girl screaming at the top of her lungs on the top deck of a house. They’d film it on their phone, th
ough, thinking she was going to jump.

  Sick.

  “Still, if you could keep your voice down, that would be great.”

  “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

  I wasn’t, no—not until I brought it up. It’s the one secret I have, if you don’t count how shitty my life was growing up with two parents who resented each other. A mother who resented me, a father who only cared about winning.

  And the fact that I’m in Iowa and not at Clemson or Alabama or Notre Dame? He hates it, but choosing Iowa was the one thing I had control over. I felt comfortable here during the campus visits and clicked with the team members I met, and to me, that was more important than any championship.

  I needed a place to feel at home, and Iowa was it.

  “I’m not embarrassed to be a virgin. It’s a physical act that means nothin’, just like runnin’ sprints or doin’ a few push- ups.”

  Charlie’s brows shoot up. “Now you’re just being stubborn. If you thought sex meant nothing, you’d have done it by now.”

  True, I would have. Maybe.

  “Are you worried at this point you’ve let your virginity go so far that you’d be bad at it?”

  “Please stop saying the word virgin. And no, I don’t think I’d be bad at it.” I snort. “Please, I fail at nothin’.”

  “You don’t sound confident.” Charlie is smirking; it’s dark, but I catch it all the same as I let my hand withdraw from the top of hers. “Besides, sex isn’t about failing or winning. It’s about…it’s…” Her voice trails off and her hands flail a little before settling back on her knees. “It’s just not like trying to win or lose a game.”

  “How would you know? Are you a nympho?” The look she gives me… Shit. Why did I fuckin’ ask if she was a nympho?

  “I’ve had sex with one person exactly three times,” she informs me, smoothing her palms down the front of her jeans. “It hurt the first time, was awkward the second, and unmemorable the third. I did it because I wanted to get it over with. He was a decent guy—we’d been going out about eight months, and he was…” She shrugs. “A kid. We both were.” Her feet are still dangling off the swing, barely reaching the ground, making her look like a kid right now. “Anyway. I’m not a nympho.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “Who even uses that word anymore?”

  “You dated anyone since?”

  It takes her a few moments to reply. “I’ve been on dates, if that’s what you mean.”

  It’s not really what I meant. I’m curious to know if she’s casually banged anyone else—not that it’s any of my business, but I am inquisitive. About her, her habits, hobbies…bed partners.

  “You into casual sex?”

  “Jackson, I literally just told you I’ve had sex three times, with the same guy, three years ago.” Another eye roll goes in the books. “Thanks for being such an attentive listener.”

  “Right. Sorry.” It’s just that… “Someone who looks like you should have a boyfriend or whatever. Or at least dudes throwin’ themselves at you to get your attention.”

  “Someone who looks like me? You’re cute, but no guys throw themselves at me or try to get my attention. I could go stand inside in my underwear and still not get hit on.”

  Another snort leaves my nose and I swear to fucking God, if I do it one more time, I’ll hate myself in the morning for acting like such a tool.

  “Bull. Shit.”

  I would notice her standing in the center of a room wearing a garbage bag. Or denim coveralls.

  “It’s sweet that you think so, but the truth is, I’m more the girl next door guys tell their problems to and not the girl they want to chase down to ask out.”

  Then those guys are fucking morons.

  Except I don’t have it in me to argue with her just yet—not without sounding like a dolt. Or like I care.

  Which I don’t. Charlie is nothing to me; nevertheless, she’s slowly becoming a friend—the kind of friend I could easily do without, the complicated kind of friend who could manipulate me into doing anything she wanted me to.

  I cannot afford a friend like that.

  “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” She nudges me with her boney elbow, and I glance down at it. Then back up, into her eyes.

  Shrouded but bright.

  “Just tired,” I lie. “It’s been a long week.” That part at least is true.

  “I can imagine.” She looks over at me, yawns. “Want me to walk you home?”

  Charlie should say no. I’m too big, and too strong, and she barely knows me. Say no, Charlie. Be smart and tell me no. Go inside and get your friends and walk home with them.

  “Sure.” Dammit.

  “Want to go now? I just hit a wall, and bed is sounding amazing right about meow.”

  “Yeah…let’s get you home.” I stand, and the entire swing propels back from the loss of my weight—all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of me. It hits the railing behind it, Charlie swinging from the inertia.

  “Oh shit!” She grunts, almost losing her balance and falling off. “Warn a girl before you go doing that.”

  I take a moment then to give her a once-over; eyes graze over the long legs, the dainty hands once folded over her lap are now gripping the rusty metal chains to steady herself. Long blonde hair. Sassy, upturned mouth.

  I imagine the freckles scattered across her nose. The tiny indentation in her right cheek that only pops out when she’s laughing.

  Charlie hops up.

  “You shouldn’t be letting me walk you home.”

  They’re the first words out of my mouth when she joins me on the sidewalk in front of the baseball house, instinctively facing the direction we need to walk.

  “No? Why is that—are you going to assault me?” A little laugh punctuates her question.

  “You think that’s funny?” What is it with girls not taking this shit seriously?

  “No, but I know you’re not going to.” She sounds as flippant as she looks, striding along the sidewalk by my side, not a care in the word.

  “No, you don’t. You’re just assuming because I haven’t been a prick to you tonight that it’s safe to be alone with me. Didn’t you take that class freshman year where they tell you all this?”

  Charlie stops on the sidewalk and grabs me by the upper arm, almost pulling my body toward her, forcing me to look down into her face.

  “Holy crap, Jackson—you’re being serious.”

  “I want you to remember this next time. Do not ever walk home with some dude you don’t even know. Got it?”

  Her nod is slow. “Yes.”

  “Repeat it.”

  Charlie clears her throat and lowers her voice. Holds up her hand as if about to recite the pledge of allegiance. “I won’t ever wawk home with some dood ay don’t even know.”

  Great. She’s being cheeky, mocking my accent. I feel my eyes narrow on her. “You little shit.”

  “Sorry, I’m just surprised you’re so adamant about it. Do you know someone who’s been, you know…” She can’t say the words to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

  “No. Just hear about it.” It’s scary as fuck and more common than even she probably knows. As an athlete, I’m privy to news and conversations other students aren’t, mostly because so many things are kept under the radar, or skimmed over, or covered up—but the news always travels back to the source: the athletic department.

  We’re railed on relentlessly about our conduct, publicly and privately; no means no. Sometimes yes means no. Be respectful. Don’t get messy, sloppy drunk. Hands to yourself. Some guys just can’t behave, and the rest of us pay the price.

  “Well, no worries. I won’t let anyone else walk me home in the dark.” The toe of her shoe hits a small bump in the concrete sidewalk and she trips, steadying herself before saying, “It’s not like I have guys beating down my door.”

  She could have guys beating down her door if she put more effort into it. “Why is that?”

  In the dark, her sh
oulders move up and down in a diminutive shrug. “I don’t know—you’re a guy, you tell me.” Her head turns and she’s watching me, albeit in the dim light. Very few street lamps line the road, so I’m glad we’re together and she’s not walking alone.

  “You look like you’re in a relationship.”

  Even in this light, I can tell her eyes are widening. “What the heck does that mean?”

  “I just mean you’re the kind of girl a guy takes one look at and assumes you’re already in a relationship—or fuckin’ someone.”

  “Fucking someone—gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Okay, but what does that mean?”

  I have to think for a second. “It means…you look…nice. You’re cute and…” Shit, how do I say this without pissing her off? Not possible. I take a breath, exhale, and let her have it. “It means you don’t look like you put out. Someone might have to put actual work in if they want to get in your pants, and most guys ain’t lookin’ to put in the effort. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  I don’t call her the girl next door or a goody two-shoes, but I think she gets the drift. She’s picking up what I’m throwing down.

  Silence follows.

  I expect an argument—or at least some outrage from her as she defends her look, sound, and demeanor.

  “Well. I guess…” Her voice trails off. “So what you’re saying is I look like I’m someone’s girlfriend already?”

  Yeah, that’s about right. “Sure, if that’s how you want to put it.”

  “I’m asking you. Is that what guys see when they look at me? Does that mean I don’t look fun? I’m fun, goddammit! I got drunk once!”

  Once.

  Jesus Christ, who is this girl?

  I choke down a laugh, covering my mouth so she doesn’t get mad or offended—or smack me in the stomach to shut me up. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who has only been drunk once; most of them get drunk every weekend, multiple times.

  There’s been so much puke on the carpet and floors in our house over the past few years I’ve completely stopped walking through it with bare feet.

  The thought of how dirty our fucking floors are makes me want to gag. It’s probably worse than a hotel that rents rooms by the hour.