The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  Tryin’. Callin’.

  “I…” I can’t tell him my roommates told me to call him, or that I thought it would be fun and wanted to know what his voice sounded like. “I called on a whim.”

  “Why?”

  “I felt like talking.”

  “Can I be honest with you, Alex, so we can stop wastin’ each other’s time? I’m sure you’re really nice, but you seem a little too aggressive, and that’s not really my style, so maybe you should call someone else.”

  Wastin’ each other’s tiehm…

  Oh God, so southern. I wonder what state he’s from and how he ended up at Iowa—and why he hasn’t told me to fuck off by now. He sounds like a really nice guy, much different than the hypersensitive asshole texting me back the other day.

  “What is your style?”

  Rhett is quiet again. I hear him thinking about his next words. “Look Alex, I’m not trying to be rude, but…” He leaves the sentence open-ended, voice trailing off into dead air.

  “But you don’t want to talk?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I pull the cell away from my face to check that the call hasn’t been disconnected. The timer at the top of the screen shows the seconds ticking away, so I know he’s still there.

  “Can you just tell me one thing?”

  Reluctance. “Shoot.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Louisiana.”

  That makes me smile. “I thought I detected an accent.”

  The line goes quiet again, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing. This whole conversation is like pulling teeth, and the last time I forced a man into a conversation was never. Why start with him?

  But then, “I was raised in Mississippi, but my parents moved back to Louisiana my sophomore year of high school.”

  “Near New Orleans?”

  “No, Baton Rouge.”

  “Near all the plantations?” A low, amused chuckle greets my ears, making my girly parts get a little bit damp. Jeez, what is wrong with me? “What’s so funny?”

  “That’s usually one of the first things people ask when they hear where I’m from.”

  “What’s the second thing people ask?”

  “If I’ve ever wrestled an alligator.”

  “Have you?”

  Another laugh. “No ma’am.”

  Ma’am.

  His accent is doing funny things to my lower belly, so I shift in my desk chair, rest my elbows on my desk, prop my chin in my hand. “Are you always this polite?”

  A low chuckle into the receiver. “No.”

  “I mean, you did tell me to fuck off when I first texted you. I guess that isn’t exactly polite, is it?”

  “Don’t feel bad. I told every single girl who texted me to fuck off.” The curse rolls off his tongue, sweet and sour. Fuck awe-ff.

  “Well that makes me feel a tad bit better,” I admit.

  “Did it offend you?”

  “Not really.”

  He laughs into the phone again, and if I wasn’t sitting down, my knees would be a little weak. Jesus his voice is sexy; it suddenly has me wishing he was a tad better looking.

  “So, Alex, where are you from?”

  A knot of guilt prickles at the mention of my cousin’s name.

  “Illinois. Not nearly as exciting as Baton Rouge.”

  “No alligators?”

  “Only at the fraternity house,” I joke.

  The line goes quiet. “Spend a lot of time there?” he asks quietly, his voice gruff.

  “Not really.” Not anymore. “That place is a cesspool of bad decisions.”

  “So if I said, ‘Alex, meet me at a frat party Saturday night,’ you wouldn’t go?”

  “If you said meet me there, I’d think about it.”

  “Only think about it? Ah, I see how it is.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I think you’re tryin’ to flirt with me. Am I wrong?”

  I want to deny it but can’t get the words off my tongue. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “I’m terrible at it, but I think it would be obvious if I was. Besides, I don’t even know you.”

  “You don’t have to know someone to flirt with them, Rhett.”

  “I know that, but it’s just not the same, is it?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. For example, if I told you the sound of your voice makes my imagination run wild, what would you say to that?”

  “I’d say…I’d say…” He stumbles over his words—adorable.

  “Shit, I don’t know what I’d say.”

  “I can hear you smiling, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  I’m smiling too—grinning actually, wide and goofy. I picked up a pen a few minutes ago and have been doodling a cartoon crocodile aimlessly on a notebook, surrounded by little black hearts.

  When I look down at the paper, there are dozens of those tiny ink hearts scattered like confetti across the flat surface. “That’s good, right? Smiling is good.”

  “It’s very good.”

  “What do you look like?” I can’t help asking, though I already know the answer. I want to see if he’ll tell me, want to see what he’ll say. “I’ve seen the poster, obviously, but is that really what you look like?”

  “Yes.” He forces out a strangled laugh.

  “You sound hot,” I blurt out, because he does. The sound of that raspy voice is doing a wild, reckless dance in my stomach, down my pelvis. “What color is your hair?”

  “Brown.”

  “Just brown?”

  “What kind of question is that?” he wants to know. “How many browns are there? Is that question a chick thing?”

  “A chick thing? Yeah, I suppose it is. Are your eyes brown, too?” I wasn’t close enough to see those in the parking lot of the diner, and the photocopy of his face on the flyer obviously didn’t translate colors.

  “Yeah. Dark brown.”

  I hum, thinking. “Do you play sports?”

  “I wrestle.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six one.” Rhett pauses. “How tall are you?”

  “Five-seven. Kind of tall for a girl, I guess.”

  “What color is your hair?”

  “Black,” I lie—again, because I can’t tell him my long, straight hair is the color of flaming hot cinders. I’m a natural redhead, and he would see me on campus and know me on sight. “My hair is black.”

  Like Alex’s.

  “Black,” Rhett repeats, mulling it over. “Huh.”

  “What’s the ‘huh’ for?”

  “You don’t sound like you have black hair, that’s all.”

  Awll.

  “What color hair does it sound like I have?”

  “I don’t know, blonde? Brown? Definitely not black.”

  “Interesting theory. Got any other interesting thoughts?”

  He stops to think for a second, and I hear him rustling around. Picture him climbing onto a bed and leaning against the wall, legs hanging over a twin-sized mattress.

  “I do actually.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “All right.” Hesitation. “Since I’m never going to meet you in person, I can safely say this without anyone findin’ out: I’m beginning to regret comin’ to school here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just not what I was expecting, that’s all. The people I’ve met are…” His voice tapers off and I finish the sentence for him in my mind.

  The people I’ve met are assholes.

  The people I’ve met fuck me over.

  The people I’ve met lie.

  The people I’ve met can go to hell.

  “The people I’ve met aren’t who I thought they would be when I decided to enroll here. I’ll leave it at that.”

  I don’t reply because I feel like a jerk, like one of his teammates that’s yanked him around, left him hanging, humiliated him publicly.

  I contributed to that.

  I’m doing it r
ight now.

  In the background, I hear banging, muffled shouting. Rhett covers the mouthpiece of his phone and demands, “Hold on one fuckin’ minute, will you?”

  He returns. “I should get goin’. Team meeting in twenty.”

  “This time of night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, well…” Why do I feel like I’m standing outside on a first date, waiting for my date to make a move? To ask me out again or try to kiss me? Weird.

  “Thanks for callin’.” That smile is back in his voice.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Alex?”

  I cringe. “Yeah?”

  “Want to go to a frat party Saturday night?”

  My heartbeat hitches and shockingly, I find myself a little breathless.

  “I’d love to.”

  Me: What are you up to?

  Rhett: Just walked in from practice. Eating dinner with my dickhead roommates.

  Me: How many of them are there?

  Rhett: Two, but it might as well be ten, they’re such pains in my ass.

  Me: Who do you live with?

  Rhett: Assholes from the wrestling team. The team manager and a senior named Eric. What about you?

  Me: I live with my two best friends, a guy and a girl. How did you end up living with your roomies if you can’t stand them?

  Rhett: When I first transferred, I obviously didn’t know anyone. Coach set it up.

  Me: So you’re a transfer…I don’t think we talked about that.

  Rhett: Yeah.

  Me: So you don’t get along with your roommates? Doesn’t that make it hard being on the same team?

  Rhett: They’re total assholes. They won’t stop hazing me and I’m getting tired of it. Jesus, now I sound like I’m whining.

  Me: No you don’t. Everyone knows hazing is against school policy and I’m sure it’s against your athletic policies, too.

  Rhett: Absolutely it is.

  Me: I never understood why people—guys, especially—put up with that crap. Fraternities and sororities are the worst…

  Rhett: Maybe, maybe not. Athletes are really bad, but no one ever hears about it.

  Me: Should you be telling me this?

  Rhett: Honestly? Probably not. I almost did the other day on the phone, but since I don’t know you, figured it was a horrible idea.

  Rhett: So what about you. You get along with your roommates?

  Me: Yes. I live with a guy named Donovan, and my best friend Lana.

  Rhett: Donovan is the guy?

  Me: Yes, lol. Does that bother you?

  Rhett: Why would that bother me?

  Me: I don’t know; sometimes when a girl has a male roommate, the guy she’s talking to gets all weird about it.

  Rhett: Is that what we’re doing?

  Me: I mean…I think we’ve slipped into the weird beginning of something. Don’t you?

  Me: Hello? Why did you go radio silent on me?

  Rhett: Sorry. I guess I don’t know what to say.

  Me: I didn’t mean anything by it.

  Rhett: I know; I’m a fucking idiot. Ignore me.

  Me: Impossible

  Me: Did you have practice today?

  Rhett: Always.

  Me: Always? As in, every day?

  Rhett: Some form of practice, every day, yeah. Sometimes we just work out.

  Me: How much can you bench press?

  Rhett: Three hundred plus, easy.

  Me: What else can you do?

  Rhett: What do you mean?

  Me: What else can you DO, wink wink. LOL. Sorry. I was trying to be flirty, but I guess that didn’t translate via text message.

  Rhett: Yeah, I missed the flirting part. I was about to tell you my workout routine LOL

  Me: Well, if I close my eyes, I can almost picture it.

  Rhett: Speaking of which, you do know that you could have looked me up on the university’s website by now for all my info, right? You know my face from the poster, and you have my name.

  Me: How do you know I haven’t already?

  Rhett: Have you?

  Me: No. This way is more fun, don’t you think?

  Rhett: It is.

  Me: Are you smiling?

  Rhett: LOL, yes. Are you?

  Me: Of course.

  Rhett

  Alex: Hey stranger.

  I roll over in my bed and yawn, eyes squinting at the brightness of the phone against the dark as it buzzes, her text an unexpected surprise.

  To be honest, I’ve been waiting all day for a message from her; when it didn’t come, I felt a stab of disappointment. Climbed into bed and tried to forget about it. Jerked off once to some dirty pictures on online.

  Me: Hello back. What are you doing?

  Alex: Catching up on some homework. You?

  Me: Lying here, deleting some of the pictures and GIFS chicks have been sending me the last two weeks to clean up my storage space. There are a ton.

  Alex: Oh Lord, I can’t even imagine. What’s the craziest thing a girl has texted you this past week?

  Me: You don’t want to know, trust me.

  Alex: I DO I DO I DO!!! SHOW ME! PLEASE!

  Me: Hold up. Give me a second and I’ll show you.

  I grin as I hold the phone above my head, pressing the side and home button. I take screenshots of the last three pictures in my gallery.

  Alex: What’s taking you so long? Now I’m getting scared—do I want to see these?

  Me: Probably not, but if I have to see it, YOU have to see it. Please hold while I continue screenshotting for your viewing pleasure.

  Alex: Oh God. I’m scared. Hold me.

  Me: You should be. It’s horrifying. I mean, it’s naked chicks, so it’s not really a hardship, but you get what I’m saying.

  I screenshot texts from three girls who sent me very pornographic pictures of their tits, their waxed pussies, bodies the likes of which I will probably never see naked in person.

  I screenshot their promises of rim jobs. Heather’s text bragging of her talents in bed, her pledge to get me off in various creative ways, to handcuff me to the bed and break my cherry.

  Attach the photos to Alex’s message. Add a few comments.

  Hit send.

  Watch for the delivery.

  Her reply comes within seconds.

  Alex: DAMMIT RHETT, MY EYES!!! WHY WOULD YOU SEND THOSE?

  Me: LOL, you asked!

  Alex: You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t ask to see BOOBS, and…and other things! WHAT KIND OF GIRL SENDS THOSE?

  Me: Dude! You told me to give you the craziest shit girls have been texting me!!! Those three chicks are the craziest! Tits and ass.

  Alex: Wait, ass?

  Me: Yes!

  Alex: Um…

  Me: You wanna see those pictures, too?

  Alex: GOD NO!!! Don’t you dare send me pictures of some girl’s butt. No.

  Me: LOL. Sorry.

  Alex: Obviously you haven’t deleted any of the boob shots.

  Me: Obviously not. That’s what I’m doing right now, remember?

  Alex: Guys are so gross.

  Me: How am I gross because I haven’t deleted a few naked selfies girls sent to a random stranger? What’s up with the double standard? Come on Alex, you seem cooler than that.

  Alex: Well what are you doing with them still on your phone?

  Me: What do you think I’m doing with them? LOL.

  Alex: Oh my God. I don’t even want to know.

  Me: I don’t sit and jack off to them if that’s what you’re getting at.

  Alex: Have you shown your friends?

  Me: Obviously. Those girls have great bodies with some really great…boobs.

  Alex: Do you want me to send you pictures of MY boobs?

  I pause, hesitating to reply. Do I want to see her boobs?

  My twitching dick certainly does.

  I have no idea who this chick is, but I’d really prefer she didn’t stoop to the same level as the
girls who texted me have stooped. Don’t want her to cheapen herself for the sake of getting some guy’s attention, even if it is mine.

  However, that doesn’t stop me from asking, Do you WANT to send me a picture of your boobs?

  Alex: LOL no, but I will tell you this: they’re better than those. Mine are bigger. Round. Perky.

  Shit.

  I try to visualize what her tits might look like—pale and plump, maybe, in the palms of my callused hands. I’d run them down her smooth skin.

  I swallow, the stirring of an erection in my pants a burgeoning distraction as I tap out a reply.

  Me: Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

  Alex: I have to say, you’re one of the toughest guys to flirt with. Why is that?

  Me: Because I don’t know you. I have to trust you first, I guess.

  Alex: Do you have to trust me to sext me?

  I stare down at my cell, at the word sex wrapped in the promise of erotic messaging. Try not to imagine a soft hand that doesn’t belong to me wrapped about my hard dick.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, take a few deep breaths.

  My phone pings again.

  Alex: Have you heard of sexting, Rhett? Have you done it?

  Me: Of course I’ve heard of it. I don’t live under a fucking rock.

  Alex: But have you DONE it?

  I don’t reply; I’m not going to admit to some stranger that I’ve never sexted—a stranger that knows what my face looks like yet still insists on flirting.

  I could have passed her a hundred times on campus this week and never known it was her. It’s a vulnerable place to be when I’m already feeling beaten down.

  Alex: Have you?

  Me: No.

  There’s a silence following that denial, as if we’ve both grown embarrassed and aren’t sure how to follow it up.

  I watch the three gray dots on the bottom of my cell screen appear and disappear several times as she types. Deletes. Types. Deletes. Changes her mind then starts again.

  I watch those dots—watch them hard when they reappear.