Wished for You

by KD Robichaux

  That wasn’t until the next night.

  Yep, the following night, while his grandparents were out of town for the weekend, I gave it up to my first Texan.

  Disappointed doesn’t even begin to describe what I felt.

  The saying is most definitely false.

  Everything is NOT bigger in Texas.

  And I don’t mean he was just a little below average. Oh no, nononononono…we’re talkin’ three inches…erect.

  How?

  First, how in the hell did this really great looking tall-ass dude get stuck with such a little…doodle? And second, how do I always pick these guys? I need to start a running list of epic failures, seriously.

  So it goes without saying that my first real orgasm was not had. But you’d be proud: I didn’t fake it. He didn’t seem to care much that I didn’t get one, though, which kind of pissed me off. I mean, in my big plan, I figured if I wasn’t pretending to get off, then the guy would work harder to get me there…right? Right?

  Bueller?

  He certainly enjoyed himself though, and I know this, because instead of sending me off with an ‘I’ll call you’, or whatever else guys say after they get laid and don’t plan on seeing a gal again, he asked if I wanted to come down to hang out the next day.

  In which we tried again.

  And failed.

  Le sigh…

  Afterwards, we went onto his back patio and had his after-sex cigarette, in which I gratefully joined in. I was in a tizzy. Although I wasn’t getting my big finish, the guy could still kiss, and all the heavy petting left me in quite a state. I was wound so tight after two days, you’d think the seam of my jeans would do the trick, but alas, it looked like I was going to have to take matters into my own hands when I got back home…literally.

  We spent a good couple hours just talking and joking around, working our way through half a pack of cigarettes as he told me about his best friends Robichaux and Adam. They’ve apparently been giving him a hard time for spending all his free time with me instead of their usual nightly routine of playing pool or poker. After he gets off work, he’d usually go hang out with them, but for nearly a week now, he’s been holed up with me.

  Maybe I should get a job…note to self.

  So here I sit writing this blog post, because I can’t sleep since I’m excited for my first day of school tomorrow—much different from when I was in high school, when I’d dread leaving my summer reprieve from being taunted and teased for being too skinny. God, those bitches were so hateful. Nobody batted an eye if they heard me being called anorexic, even after seeing my mom, who’d had four kids and was still as thin as me. At fifty-seven, she still has a rockin’ body.

  I’m still pretty self-conscious, especially over my skinny legs and small breasts, but being out of the school-age environment and being around people like Anni, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what I look like, has helped me get past all the bullying I went through and come out of my shell.

  Also, hot-ass soldiers at dance clubs…they helped boost my confidence a little, too.

  God bless the troops ;-)

  Well, I have to get up for class in less than four hours. At least it should be an easy one, my next English credit in a long line of them, and after that is my Art Appreciation class.

  Then I’ll be heading down to Friendswood to see Gavin again.

  Is it crazy that I drive forty-five minutes each way every day to hang out with the only friend I’ve made in Texas so far? Maybe, but it beats hanging out alone in my room with my turtle and bird.

  January 17, 2005

  My first day of college in Texas went well today. We really only did getting-to-know-you exercises and went over our syllabi, which left me plenty of time to run by a couple of the car dealerships right off the freeway between the campus and Mark’s house. I put in applications for receptionist positions, and one gave me an interview on the spot because of my experience. They said they’d let me know if I got the job by the end of the week.

  Sitting on the footboard of Gavin’s queen-size bed, we’re trying to decide what to do tonight. Hanging out in his room and making out is fun and all, but I didn’t move to a big city to stay cooped up all the time. I could’ve done that in a soldier’s barracks’ room…tee…hee.

  “Well, you keep talking about this Robichaux guy all the time. What is he doing tonight?” I ask.

  “Probably working on his truck,” he mumbles.

  “Well, we could go keep him company while he’s doing that, if you want,” I shrug.

  “You’d want to go hang out with my friends? Even if we’re just sitting around?” he asks, looking a little befuddled.

  “Sure, why not? You forget—I have three older brothers. I know guys just like to chill and shoot the shit most of the time. I don’t mind at all.”

  “Well, shit, okay. Lemme call him real quick,” he says, picking up his Blackberry.

  After a few seconds, Gavin says “Robi-ho, whatcha doin’, homie?”

  I smile to myself, enjoying the banter I catch listening to one side of their conversation. Apparently, his best friend is installing some newly upholstered seats into his truck, but should be done pretty soon, and we can all go to the pool hall Gavin has been telling me about since the night we met. Their friend Adam is also there, so I’ll get to meet him as well.

  After Gavin takes a few minutes to change from his work khakis into a pair of jeans and spritzes on a little cologne—making my eye twitch a little, because the original Ralph Lauren smells horrible—he grabs a black leather cylindrical case that’s about three feet long out of his closet and slings the strap over his shoulder.

  “What’s that?” I ask curiously.

  “Oh, it’s my new pool cue. Wanna see?”

  “Sure,” I answer with a nod.

  He balances the case on the edge of his bed as he unzips one of the ends. He carefully pulls out the fatter of the two wooden halves of a pool stick, showing me the shiny red-lacquered finish. “This is my new baby; spent a pretty penny on this bitch and have already had to get it re-tipped.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I just nod and comment on how pretty the color is. He slides it back into the case, zips up the end, and we head out his bedroom door. He kisses his grandma’s cheek and tells her he’ll be home late. I give her a wave as we make our way out to his truck. I cringe as he turns up his country music full-blast when we turn right at the stop sign, taking us deeper into the neighborhood instead of out to the stop light like we normally do. I don’t have to suffer through the twangy music for long though, because within two minutes, we are turning onto a long driveway.

  I look around the perfectly cut front yard, up to the nice one-story grey brick house, and then over to the two-car garage at the head of the driveway, where the front end of a truck is up on a jack stand. A really tall hefty guy with light brown hair and a ton of freckles stands near the hood of the black older-model truck holding a giant flashlight for the person lying under the cab.

  “Robichaux! What you doin’ under there, man? I thought you were installing your seats,” Gavin calls as we walk up the driveway.

  A deep voice with a thick Texan accent comes from beneath the vehicle. “My fuckin’ starter went out after I put the seats in. I knew it was on its last leg, so I already had the part ordered. It’ll just take me a few more minutes to get it in.”

  Some banging and lots of cursing later, the mystery man rolls himself from under the truck and stands up, wiping his grease-covered hands on his worn jeans. They were obviously not bought that way, the small rips and shredding perfectly aligning with his knees. As my eyes make their way up, they pass over a sweat-drenched used-to-be-white wife-beater plastering itself to a well-built chest, side-to-side to admire the tattoo-covered, muscular tan arms smeared with black grime, and then finally up to a handsome face holding the most gorgeous dark chocolate-brown eyes I’ve ever seen, topped with almost-black hair cut short, almost military in style.<
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  “Mother fuck,” he and I say at the same time. It startles me, and I trip over my flip-flops as I continue my way up to the garage. Gavin reaches over and steadies me, telling me to watch out for the cracked concrete, not noticing the way I’m practically drooling over his friend. “This piece-of-shit wrench I got at Walmart doesn’t fit the nut,” he gripes, and I realize he hasn’t even noticed me yet.

  “Jason, this is Kayla. Why don’t you just have your dad help you?” Gavin introduces me and asks.

  “I don’t fuckin’ need my dad’s help. I can do it myself,” Robichaux—apparently also known as Jason—says, completely ignoring my existence.

  He barely even glances in my direction as he turns and walks to the back of the garage where a row of red tool organizer cabinets are lined up against the wall. He pulls open a few of the drawers, visibly frustrated as he slams them shut, looking for a tool that’s evading him. He finally spots it, holding the wrench in the light to read the size etched into the metal, mumbling a “There you are, you little shit,” as he prowls back to his truck. He plops his amazing ass back onto the rolly thing and pulls himself back under.

  I absently notice when Gavin walks over to the big guy holding the flashlight and pokes him in his side. “What’s up, homie? This is Kayla,” he says and hitches his thumb toward me.

  “I’m Adam,” he says simply, holding the flashlight steady when we hear Jason growl, “Dude—light.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply, my attention focusing on where the bottom half of two filthy jean-clad legs and scuffed brown leather work boots stick out from beneath the truck.

  I vaguely hear Adam telling Gavin what he and Jason had been doing all day, working on his truck, working on something called a Healey, and also helping his dad put together a new above-ground pool that they’ll have to finish tomorrow. After about ten minutes of just standing around, and not really paying attention to anything but the grunts and curse words coming from under the Chevy, we all breathe an audible sigh of relief when we hear Jason call, “Fuck! Finally!”

  He pulls himself out, careful not to bump into the jack, stands, and wipes his hands on his jeans, adding more grease to the already-stained denim. He uses the inside of one of his forearms to wipe the sweat from his brow, and the other on his upper lip. The whole time, I just gawk at him, his every movement hypnotic in its masculine grace, time seeming to slow down as I take in everything about him. He walks to the back of the garage to pull a few blue shop towels from a roll and wipes his hands more thoroughly, reaches into his front pocket, and pulls out a red and white pack of cigarettes. He flips open the lid and pulls one out, along with the lighter tucked inside the box. As he flicks his Bic, he cups his hand around the flame, the glow alighting his face brightly for a moment before he pulls his thumb away, extinguishing the lighter. He slides it back into the pack, then stuffs it back into his pocket as his other hand lifts to pull the cigarette from his mouth, a long steady stream of smoke blowing out from between his almost-femininely plump lips. My mind immediately imagines what it would feel like to have that pucker pressed against mine, knowing the taste of his Marlboro Red and the Shiner Bock sitting next to the truck would taste sexy as hell coming from him. Anyone else, it would most definitely be gross. He seems to savor the cigarette as he takes another drag, and when he pulls it from his lips this time, his eyes lift to mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, jarring me from my fantasy, and I catch a subtle frown and shake of his head as he looks over at Gavin, so small I actually question if I saw it at all.

  “So you still want to go play some pool?” Gavin asks cheerfully.

  “Yeah, just let me go get cleaned up,” Jason replies as he walks over to the jack and lowers his truck. He strides to the driver side and opens the door, lifts himself into the seat, and then looks as if he’s saying a silent prayer to himself as he cranks the ignition. The black Chevy roars to life and I take a step back, both at the loud rumble of the vehicle, and because I see a heart-stopping smile spread across Jason’s face for the first time, completely altering his features. No longer brusque or even kinda scary looking, he looks young and playful as he does a silly victory dance in his seat and sings, “That’s my beeoootch!” He hops out after he turns it back off, takes one last drag of his cigarette, runs the lit end along the cement of the driveway, pinches it to make sure it’s completely out, and then tosses it into a trashcan as he makes his way into his house through a door inside the garage.

  Staring after his retreating back long after the door closes behind him, I don’t snap out of it until Gavin asks if I want anything to drink before we go. “We have a few minutes before we leave. Robi-ho takes forever to get ready,” he says, sharing a grin with Adam, who I forgot was even there.

  “Why do you call him that?” I ask. “I heard you say that on the phone, too.”

  “Robichaux, Robi-ho…it rhymes; plus, he’s a certified manwhore, hence the ‘ho’ part,” he replies.

  “Very clever,” I say sarcastically, following behind the two guys as they head through the same door Jason had used.

  “Momma!” I hear Gavin call ahead of me, and walking through the laundry room and into a kitchen with an attached dining area, I watch as he wraps his towering frame around a tiny woman, who probably barely reaches five-feet tall.

  “Hey, dude,” she says, embracing him back hard, “you kids going out tonight?”

  He lets go of her, but keeps one arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, going up to Legends. This is Kayla, by the way.” He nods in my direction.

  She steps out of his grip and reaches for me, pulling me into a fierce hug. For such a petite lady, she sure is strong. “Nice to meet you, Kayla. We’re huggers around here.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I love hugs, and it’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Robichaux,” I wheeze out the last part as she squeezes tightly before letting me go.

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing hanging out with this bunch of crazy boys?” she asks.

  “Well, I just moved here a couple weeks ago from North Carolina, and Gavin kind of took me under his wing,” I reply, smiling up into his happy face. He obviously adores this woman.

  “Isn’t that sweet,” she coos, reaching up high to pat him on his back, but at the same time, giving him a look of warning. “Now you be good, Gavin, and show her what a gentleman is like.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gives her his mischievous grin, receiving a pointed finger poked into his firm chest from Jason’s mom.

  “I’m serious, young man. She looks like a good girl, so don’t go corrupting the poor thing or I’ll have your appendages, you hear me?” The look on her face is completely serious, but when he gives her a sincere ‘Yes, ma’am’ this time, she reaches up and pats his cheek before turning back to me with a smile. “And you let me know if he’s a pig, Kayla. Gotta keep these boys in line.”

  “I will. Promise.” I look up at Gavin and giggle as he mocks Mrs. Robichaux behind her back, purposely doing it long enough for her to spot him when she turns around, getting a pinch on his butt for that one.

  “Hey, now!” He hops away from her, chuckling. “Where’s Mr. Robichaux at? Gonna tell him his woman is getting a little handsy.”

  “He’s out back in his shop,” she replies. “Grab y’all some drinks and take one out to him, will you?”

  “Alrighty.” He walks to the fridge in the laundry room and grabs a couple bottles of Shiner, and looks up at me in question.

  “Um, I’m not twenty-one yet. I’ll just take some soda or something,” I tell Jason’s mom.

  “Nonsense. This is my house and I say you can drink whatever you want, as long as you are here. If you don’t like beer, I have my white zinfandel, and we also have Steve’s Crown if you’d like that,” she says.

  “I’d love some of your wine then, thank you.” I smile at her, and then watch as Gavin pulls out the giant bottle of pink Barefoot Zin from the refrigerator. He makes a show of lugging the huge wine bottle into the k
itchen, pretending to struggle to lift it up to counter, and sets it down, dramatically collapsing onto the dining table behind him.

  “Boy, if you go breaking my table trying to show off for a pretty girl, I will beat your ass,” she hustles over to him, swatting at him until he rolls himself off and onto the kitchen floor.

  He looks up at us as we stand above him, wipes his brow like he’s sweating from a workout, and says in feigned exhaustion, “Damn, I know they say size matters, but did you really have to buy the biggest bottle in Texas, Momma?”

  “It takes that much to deal with you guys every day. If I didn’t buy the big one, I’d be making daily runs to Potter’s.” She puts her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.

  “You talk so big, but I’ve never seen you drink more than one little glass at any given time. You know you love us,” he calls her out.

  Just then, we hear a door open and close, and in walks a handsome older man in olive green cargo shorts, a grey pocketed t-shirt, and a khaki-colored cap. He doesn’t even seem fazed by the scene before him, Gavin on the floor looking up at the two women hovering above him, giant bottle of wine and a few beers on the counter next to us. If this was my house, and my dad walked in on this, he might not have anything to say about the people playing around, but he’d raise hell about the drinks. The only alcohol my daddy has ever drank is communion wine, even with the twenty-some years he spent in the Navy. He’s definitely who my brother Mark got it from. The rest of us—Tony, Jay, and I—must get our enjoyment of drinking from my mom, who I’ve caught staring longingly at pretty, fruity margaritas and daiquiris before, but who can’t drink them because they’d mess with her heart medication. She even ordered a virgin drink when we went to visit Kemah Boardwalk a couple years ago, saying she needed the sugar…uh-huh.

  The man grabs one of the beers off the counter, uses the hem of his t-shirt to wrap around the cap, and twists it off, coming to stand over Gavin too. “Whaddya do this time?” he asks, taking a swig from the bottle.