by Ava Moore
He smiles and serpentines his fingers around mine, coiling and enveloping them in his touch. He doesn’t respond, so I try tugging on his hand, attempting to bring him closer to me. “Come here. I want that huge cock inside of me,” I thrust my pussy forward, trying to nearly shove it in his face, hoping it will send him over the edge and plowing through those cum stained pants.
He resists and the moment I can feel it, I snap my hand back and feel my body start to shut down. I sit upright in the bed, reaching for a pillow behind me to conceal myself. I start to feel a dirty in this moment and certainly a little weird. I mean I’m glad I am able to turn him on enough to make him want to touch me, but the fact that he didn’t want to fuck me or for me to have my hands on him, is incredibly unsettling. I thought we had this great conversation, palpable chemistry and we were truly hitting it off. I thought sex was just the next natural step in this fantasy world of a date we were living in. Maybe that’s all it was to me though and I am just another girl to him.
He props himself up on the bed and sits beside me, rubbing his hand along my leg. He won’t even come over to me and lie down beside me. I feel repulsive to him and also, like a part of me has been seriously violated.
He smiles and places his hand on mine, trying to make me feel more comfortable I’m sure but it isn’t working. I start to sit shift nervously in the bed, trying to locate my clothing with my eyes, trying not to look too much like I don’t want to be there for another second. “I had a lot of fun tonight,” his voice trembles as he speaks. It only adds to the awkward tension in the room, making me feel even more restless.
“I did too,” I smile at him and brush the hair away from my face, trying to smooth it out and trying to collect myself. My eyes continue to wander all around the room until I locate my dress. I get up from the bed, my stance wavering and start to put it on, forgetting about my bra on the other side of the room and my thong, which is probably still nestled cozy on the kitchen tile floor.
He watches me dress and I don’t know if he senses that something is wrong, but we both allow the awkwardness to linger and not say a word about the tense situation. All we are able to do is catch glimpses of each other through our peripheral vision. He catches me try to look at him as I dress and I try to get a read on him as I’m pulling myself together. When my back is turned to him, I get this sense from him that he doesn’t want me to be there for a moment, as though every ticking second is agonizing and irritating him. He sits with his hands covering his mouth and his leg bouncing, nervously. I can’t get out of there fast enough.
“All ready to go,” I gather my things and start to head to the front door, trying to sound polite and like I’m still interested. He trails me and keeps his distance. Things are getting more and more tense between us and I have no idea why. Maybe we would be one of those couples who has amazing conversation, chemistry and then everything falls to shit when we fuck. This is why you don’t give it up on the first date, I remind myself. As this thought crosses my mind, I can feel my stomach tie into a million knots at once. Maybe that is the reason why I am so offended. I opened myself up to him, to break one of my rules for him and this is what he did with it? I thought about it more, but he didn’t actually fuck me so what was this then? It is too early to tell and I don’t want to stick around any longer to find out. I just want to get out of there and to go home.
“Want me to see you out? I think Edwin is downstairs waiting for us,” his words cut through the silence and although I thought it would ease the tension, it just ends up making it worse.
No, I just want to leave before I have to endure another second of this awkward tension between us. It’s getting painful and I don’t know what to do. “I think I can manage just fine on my own, thanks.”
He nervously brings his bottom lip into his mouth; like it is some habitual twitch he shows when something throws him off his game. It is a moment like this, that pulls me back in and reminds me of what a great time I did in fact have tonight. He was debonair, chivalrous, hilarious and cunning. He had swept me off of my feet as though I was a modern day princess. Things just got weird. Maybe it wouldn’t happen again?
“I hope I can see you again, Trish,” he leans in. Perfect. We are going to smooth this over with a big, romantic kiss. I pucker up my lips, close my eyes real tight, and brace myself for the opportunity for us to both polish over the flaws from earlier tonight. I can feel the darkness of his broad shoulders conceal the light behind my eyelids and then, I feel his lips on my forehead.
Uh…. What?
I don’t know if I should cry or laugh at this point so I do nothing, which might have been the worst option. I gather all of my shit, flash him the biggest superficial smile I can muster without bursting into tears, yank on the door handle and can’t get it open. I feel imprisoned in his apartment still on the date from hell. It’s only expected that I endure one more royal fuck up before I’m given permission to exit. “Sorry,” he reaches in front of me and unhooks the deadbolt hinge. “There you go.”
There you go – just living proof that when you think it can’t get worse, holy fuck does it ever. “Thanks.”
I can’t get out of there fast enough and thankfully, the worst is behind me. I can feel him close the door and the second I hear him lock the door, I know that I’m safe. I wrap myself up in my light jacket and clutch my purse to my chest, as if hoping it will bring me some sort of comfort for my lonely elevator ride out to Jeeves… Edwin… whatever.
I get into the elevator, which is vacant, thankfully, and take the trip down the long thirty stories back to ground level and back to refuge. I’m tempted to text him and ask him what the fuck just happened. I’m also tempted to march back up there, knock on his door and interrupt his next female suitor appointment, which I’m sure is the case. I just don’t know what happened and why things went so far downhill so fast. We were having a phenomenal time and I know he can’t deny our chemistry. Maybe it scared him and he pushed me away? I don’t know and I’m truthfully far too enervated to try to rectify the situation. I just want to wrap myself in my blankets at home to feel security and try to sleep off this real life nightmare.
I get out to the main street after a painstakingly long elevator ride, which only allots me more time to get inside of my head and relive the most awkward experience I may have ever suffered, to be greeted Edwin, in his familiar cap and suit outfit, who opens the door for me. “Did you enjoy your evening, Miss Parker?”
I thought being around someone else would make me feel better but since he has such a close tie to Ashton, it’s not helping. “Edwin, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Miss Parker. What would you like?”
“Can you pinch me?”
“Pinch you?” he giggles apprehensively; I assume that he feels as though my request is perverse in nature but then again, that’s kind of my nature.
“Yes, I just want to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
Edwin smiles, “Your night was that good, I take it?”
It was something, all right.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday morning is usually a morning that I dread simply because it is Monday, but this Monday is different – it is the worst Monday of all. When I got home last night, or early this morning to be exact, my phone was literally flooded with text messages and calls from all of my friends and people I hadn’t even talked to in years. I was certain the flurry of texts put me over my limit for the month and to top it all off with the cherry on top of this shit sundae, there was one very specific voicemail message that read, “Parker, I want you in my office at 9:00 a.m. Sharp.” You can only imagine whom that is from.
I have a feeling I know what has happened and sure enough, logging onto TMZ proved my hunch to be correct. There, all over the homepage and with multiple camera angles, was Ashton and myself, all cozied up together in the booth at Sushi Yasuda with a headline that reads, CROFT IS AN EQUAL OPPORTUNIST. I’m pretty sure that is directed at the fact that I am a bit
heavier than the girl he was photographed with the other night, but I really don’t care. My body is my body, which I consider a temple, humbly, of course. If you don’t like it, then pass me your slice of pizza. I will gladly accept it.
I am rather surprised though. These gossip outlets are ruthless when it comes to their opinions and I’ve come into contact with some women in my years at Star Struck, who were literally sent to therapy to deal with the criticisms and backlash they faced for getting too close to a celebrity. They could have said a lot worse things about me, so I suppose I am glad they didn’t, but then again, I’m always one for a good fight. I am a New Yorker with skin tougher than leather, after all and not from too much sun, I assure you that.
Apparently, this is a huge deal for all of my friends and people I haven’t spoken to in years, which I am baffled at the fact that they still know who I am or how they retained my phone number. Now, I am famous or some kind of a version of famous. I’m not entirely sure. What I am sure of though, is that I don’t like it. I can’t help but worry if my comfortable hermit lifestyle is about to spontaneous combust into ash and I will be forced to move out of my apartment and live in isolation until the smoke clears. Not like it would really matter in the end, I suppose. I know I don’t have much to lose and in the eyes of an outsider, I’m sure they would come to the conclusion that I could use a life upgrade.
Now, I work for a celebrity gossip magazine for a living. I should expect that a hot new celebrity is going to be followed by the paparazzi for a while until he is old news. It didn’t even occur to me that I might be photographed while out with him. I think I was in too deep of a lust daze to notice anyone around me. With those deep cobalt eyes of his, I’m fairly certain a taxi could have come crashing through the side of the restaurant and I would have just dusted off the soot off of my skin never looking away from him.
Regardless, the word is out and now I am responsible for some serious deflection and damage control, starting with the worst of them all – Jane. I barely slept last night so I was awake early in the morning and had enough time to try to scarf down some sort of form of breakfast to try to quell my nerves for the remainder of the day. I throw on some work clothes, which consist of dress pants, a nice blouse and ballerina flats, which are great for running away if I need to, grab my bag and head out the door.
My bag starts buzzing like I have a rabbit vibrator in there and sure enough, I’m being summoned again. Now, I am constantly checking my caller ID. I usually scan my calls regardless of who is on the other line, but now, I am overtly cautious. I think I just don’t want it to be him. I am not ready to talk to him yet.
Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, it is my mother. Why is she calling me so early on a Monday morning? I pick up the phone and start heading down the stairs. “Hey mom.”
“Pumpkin! Pumpkin why are you all over the computer?”
“I’m all over the what?” I know she means Internet but her technology talk always makes me smile. She still refers to texting as paging and emailing as faxing. I love it.
“The computer, sweetie. Why is your face all over my computer and why are your boobies hanging out? I thought I told you not to show too much cleavage. You’re giving it up too easy and then what are guys going to come back around for?”
This Monday morning just keeps getting better and better. Can’t you hear my sarcastic tone? “I just went on a date, ma. That’s it.”
“Yes, but apparently you went on a date with a celebrity. I didn’t know celebrities went on dates with writers.”
Ouch. Thanks mom.
“Why are there so many pictures of you? What were you doing? Did you know that guy was apparently rubbing some girl’s ho-ha the night before? Baby, he’s bad news. You gotta stop it.”
My mom always gives me the strangest lectures. I have a hard time following her thought process. One moment she is telling me off or giving me life talks and the next, she remembers something that happened on her soap the other day and starts talking to me like she knows the characters personally. It’s like talking on the phone to someone with ADD. At the very least, it’s entertaining. I just wish I wasn’t constantly the punch line of most of her jokes. “Yes, mom. I know. I’m okay. How are you? How are things?”
“My things aren’t changing. You’re living the exciting life right now, baby. Dating celebrities and everything. How’s writing? You working on your novel?”
She might have well had just said, “you’re still not successful, are you?” I can tell by her tone that she means more than just an innocent query into my life. After twenty-five years of dealing with her, sometimes our talks just get harder and harder, mainly because I feel like I just keep disappointing her. “It’s good mom. Jane liked my column I wrote and now I’m off to a meeting to talk to her about something. It’s all good mom.”
“Good baby. That man was very handsome by the way. Did you sleep with him? Does he have a big wee wee?”
“Okay mom. I am hanging up now. Love you.” I know she always means well but sometimes, I just can’t handle her, especially not before noon on a Monday and especially not before my first coffee.
The Monday morning commute to the Upper East Side is always so treacherous; I’m glad I left with an adequate amount of time to get there without being late. Jane never left personal voicemails on my phone, nor did she ever bother to even talk to me in general, so I know this is either really good or really bad.
The subway trip and small bouts of walking to get to the Star Struck offices, leaves me with way too much time to go over what had happened with Ashton last night. Again, I don’t like being in my own head too much. I tend to overanalyze to the point where I conjure up a whole new scenario in my head simply based on what went wrong or what I could have done better. This is probably why I didn’t get to the intangible second or third date with most men. I pick them apart and I automatically assume that they pick me apart as well. It’s not that I’m a pessimist, trust me; I’m just a realist. I guess a lot of my trust in people went out the window when Dan cheated on me. That man took apart of my heart with him and I didn’t know if I was ever going to get it back. I wasn’t sure if I needed it but I knew one thing – something inside of me was missing – I just didn’t know what.
Our date had gone so perfect last night. We had amazing conversation and shared stories so personal and so eminent; it was like we had known each other for years. It was so rare to find such chemistry with someone so soon and it was scary. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to have sex, well all-the-way sex. Maybe he got scared? Maybe I did something wrong?
Stop it Trish. Stop overanalyzing the situation. It’s true. If I want to know the truth, who better to get it from than the man himself? I just don’t know what move to take next or whose court the ball was in. Maybe it’s stuck right in the middle and it’s going to take both of us to repair it. I’m just not about teamwork
The elevator ride up the twenty-seven floors offers me even more time to reflect and reminisce about last night, just what I need. I decide from this day forward, I need to bring my ear buds with me so I can listen to music to distract myself. This is getting taxing and ridiculous. Despite how perplexing the situation had become and how he kissed my forehead at the end of the night how he would have kissed his grandmother goodbye, I didn’t focus on that. Instead, it was how he touched me, or better yet, how he fucked me, that is at the forefront of my memory. The way his fingertips grazed my skin and made my entire body shake with just one touch. Feeling his warm breath on my lips and his tongue on my most personal spot. It was like he had mastered the blueprint of my body without even knowing me, talking to me or feeling me. In fact, he knew my body better than I had known it myself. I question if that is due to the fact that he is older, wiser and probably has had more experience, or if that is just due to a lack of sexual experience on my part. I write a column on sex for women that are older than me. I thought I knew it all or had been through it all, but with Ashton, he makes
me feel like I am starting all over again. It is a welcomed feeling that makes me feel whimsical and as though I am hallucinating, but the photos are evident that last night was real. Even though I am young on paper and twenty-five is nothing to write home about, he makes me feel like I am falling in love for the first time all over again, but then I am quick to remind myself that no, I am not falling in love and that I shouldn’t confuse love and lust ever again. It has become an aliment to me before and I still haven’t recovered from it. I can feel my fabricated walls start to enclose on me again as soon as I start thinking about him. It’s a defense mechanism I have mastered and it makes me feel safe, even though I know he can easily infiltrate into my heart again with just one look.
Saved by the twenty-seventh floor, a thought I never expected to have in my life, I am snapped back into reality and walking towards the receptionist to prepare for my meeting with Versace clad Satan. “Hi, I’m Trish…”
“Yes, Miss Parker. Jane is waiting for you in her office.”
Say what? I don’t know how the receptionist remembered my name since I am certain she has the short-term memory of a fish, but I am proven wrong. I can’t tell if she is a new girl from the one I encountered at yesterday’s meeting. My hangover clouded my vision and my memory.