Wished for You

by KD Robichaux

  “Okay, it's your turn,” I say perkily, wanting to change the mood back to the funny way it was before. He looks at me a little confused, so I explain, “I asked you a question, now you ask me one. We can make it like a game of twenty questions.”

  “Okay, how about my original question—why is a girl like you dating a guy like Gavin?” he asks.

  “Technically, I'm not dating Gavin. I’ve gone out on dates with him, and we hang out, but it’s not like I’m Gavin's girlfriend. We've made it perfectly clear to each other we don’t want anything serious,” I explain.

  “But you've had sex with him, right? Or at least, that's what he told me.”

  “Ah, another point in the reasons-why-Gavin-sucks column. Unfortunately, yes I did. And if y’all are as close as you seem to be, you probably already know why I say ‘unfortunately’.”

  “That I do, but I'm surprised you even went that far with him. Usually the poor guy just opens his mouth and loses all chance at getting into a girl’s pants.” He chuckles, shaking his head.

  “Wow, some best friend you are. Harsh much?”

  “He knows this about himself, but still refuses to do anything about it. He believes there is a girl out there for him who will accept him just the way he is, disgusting manners and all,” Jason tells me.

  “I’m kind of embarrassed I allowed myself to sleep with him. I mean, I am on my quest for the magical O, but I should at least have standards. Loneliness and horniness is no excuse for settling for a pig,” I mutter.

  “Hey, don’t go feeling bad about it now. What’s done is done. Look at it this way; what if you would have slept with him and he gave you your first orgasm? It would have been kinda worse, right? I mean, you wouldn’t want the man who turns your sexual world upside down to be a douchenugget outside the bedroom would you? It’s better this way,” he says firmly.

  Nodding, I giggle. He somehow knows exactly what to say to make me feel better about the situation. “Very true.”

  “Okay, your turn,” he prompts.

  “Hmmm,” I tap my pointer finger against my chin, enjoying the fact he’s as into our little game as I am. “What got you into big girls?”

  “Have you ever heard that saying ‘Big girls need love too’?” I nod. “Well, that’s how it started out. See, like I said, I wasn’t the best looking dude back in the day. I was skinny, I hadn’t grown into my ears, and I had this big nose—“

  “I like your nose,” I blurt, and then my eyes widen when I realize that was my outside voice. I squeak, “Continue.”

  He smiles and lets me off the hook for my interruption. “Well, the first girl to ever really come on to me was a girl of the extra curvy persuasion. She’s who I ended up losing my virginity to. Since that was my first experience, I kind of just stuck with what I knew.”

  “So it’s not that you aren’t attracted to smaller chicks?” I ask, and I can’t hide the hope in my voice.

  His face falls as he picks up his pack of cigarettes, and doesn’t look at me while he lights it with the lighter I got him and answers, “I haven’t come across one I’ve been attracted to yet.”

  It’s like he’s sucker-punched me right in the gut. All hope lost once again. You would think I’d have learned by now, but the more I get to know about Jason, the more I want him to like me. Everything he’s said that would have normally turned me off a guy—hearing his sexual stories, the things he’s done in the past, the womanizing—for some reason has the opposite effect. I like that he’s so honest with me. And I like the feeling of being open with him, too. I have no reason to hide anything from him. I mean, we aren’t dating. Hell, it looks like I would never get the chance to date him, seeing as I’m most definitely not his type. Plus, who would he tell my secrets to? Gavin? Big fucking deal. I let the gut-check ease away, conceding that if I don’t stand a chance with him, at least I’ve made a friend. A really hot, dreamy, tattooed, lickable friend, whose face I’d like to sit on, but a friend nonetheless.

  “Your question,” I remind him.

  “What is your favorite fantasy?” he asks.

  “Shit,” I say, really, really not wanting to admit the naughty things I think about while taking care of myself.

  “Shit? Like…” He makes a motion with his hand near his butt, indicating something coming out of it.

  “NO! Oh, gross, no!” I shiver with revulsion.

  “I know, I’m just messin’ with ya. Although, your Gavy-boy has a thing for golden showers,” he tells me in a stage whisper. I look at him with a horrified expression. “Oh, he hadn’t told you about that one yet? That’s normally a conversation starter for the moron. ‘Hey, girl, you want to come back to my place, where we can pee on each other?’” He laughs as he watches me cover my mouth, feeling rather vomity at the image filling my head. “Yeah, I guess you can add that to your reasons-why-Gavin-sucks column.”

  I only have a split second to think about why Jason would be trying to give me reasons to not like his friend before he reminds me, “C’mon, woman. Let’s hear it. Favorite fantasy.”

  “I’m not drunk enough for this,” I joke.

  “On it,” he says, hopping up from his chair. Before I have a chance to stop him, he’s already closing the backdoor, leaving me to my own thoughts.

  Am I really going to confess my deepest, darkest fantasy? I could always just make one up, tell him it’s something else, like a threesome with two dudes or something. Every girl dreams of that, right? But another part of me feels guilty for even thinking about withholding the truth. He’s been so open and honest with me about the things he’s done; I can’t turn around and lie.

  I’m psyching myself up to reveal my dirty little secret as he comes back outside carrying a glass of pink wine in one hand, and a beer bottle in the other. He hands me the wineglass before sitting in his chair again.

  This time, it’s me who reaches for the cigarettes. I take a long swig of my wine before taking and even longer drag off my cigarette, and as I exhale the smoke, I let my confession come out with it. “I have a rape fantasy.”

  He cocks his eyebrow at me. “That’s it?”

  I look at him completely befuddled. That was not the reaction I was expecting. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

  “Well, one, the way you were acting, I thought it was going to be something way crazier than that, and two, that’s it, as in, that’s all you’re going to tell me?” he asks.

  I tilt my head to the side, wondering if this is real life. How can one man be so…cool? Nothing ruffles him. It’s like nothing I could say would cause him to have a judgey response, which makes it easy for me to talk to him.

  “Wow, umm…I’ve never told anyone about that before, because, well…rape is bad. Very, very bad. It’s not something a normal person would be turned on about, I don’t think.” The pitch of my voice on the last word makes it sound more like a question. I think my subconscious wants his…not necessarily his approval, but for him to tell me that my fantasy is okay, not so…weird.

  “Get ready for this. I’m about to blow your mind,” he says. “I’ve gone to a therapist for several years—”

  “Gasp! That does blow my mind,” I joke.

  He playfully sticks his tongue out at me, completely breaking his bad-boy image, like when he did his silly happy dance when he fixed his truck the first night I met him. “Anyways, I have a thing for psychology. I’m kinda fucked-up if you haven’t noticed, and I’ve always tried to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. And during this journey of self-discovery—which I’m still on, by the way—I’ve gained a mindful of useless information. Well, useless in my case anyways, but not in yours, because I’ve got you figured out,” he informs me.

  “Do you? Let’s hear it, Dr. Robichaux,” I tease.

  “Huh, I like the sound of that,” he says. “Say it again.”

  “Dr. Robichaux,” I say in a sultry voice.

  He grins and does a little shimmy, like I’ve given him chills. I glow from th
e little bit of innocent flirtation. “Okay, back to blowing your mind. You think too much. You are all up in your head, trying so hard to get your orgasm, chasing that motherfucker, but when you try so hard, it makes it unreachable. You gotta relax, just feel, concentrate on the sensations. Your rape fantasy makes perfect sense. You fantasize about a man just coming in and taking you, forcing pleasure on you, taking it completely out of your hands. It’s not you chasing the pleasure anymore, it’s being given to you against your will. I’m guessing in your fantasy it’s not how nonconsensual sex would happen in real life, correct? I mean, it’s not some thug who beats the shit out of you and hurts you, right?” I shake my head vehemently.

  “Right, so how does it normally play out?” he asks.

  Oh, God, he wants me to tell him the whole story I’ve worked up in my head? Shit, shit, shit. Okay, I can do this.

  I take a big gulp of my wine and settle into my seat. I zone myself out, pretending I’m just writing one of my blog posts. I’m anonymous. Nobody knows who I am. I can say whatever I want to say and not have to worry about any repercussions. I clear my throat and begin.

  “I’m living in my own apartment all alone. My dream bachelorette pad. It’s a pretty night, so I’ve left my window cracked a little bit to let the fresh breeze come into my room. I’m drying off after a shower, getting ready for bed. All I have on is the towel I’ve wrapped around myself as I brush out my wet hair. I don’t hear it when he opens my window all the way, because I’ve turned on my blow dryer. He watches me as I flip my hair from one side to the other, making sure I get it all dry. I can’t go to bed with damp hair, because I’ll wake up with a sore throat. He’s patient while he stares at me through the crack in the bathroom door. He’s biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment before he pounces. When I turn off my dryer, he holds his breath, not making a sound that would alert me I’m not alone in my one-bedroom apartment.

  “I run my brush through my hair one last time before putting everything away in my drawers, and as I open the door all the way, I’m looking in the direction of the light switch as I flip it off, not forward, where the predator awaits his prey. He stands to the side of the doorway, so when I walk out and toward my dresser, where I’ve laid out my clean panties and t-shirt to sleep in, I’m completely unaware of his presence. Not until I reach out to take hold of my underwear, does he choose to finally make it known he’s there. He wraps one arm around my towel-covered waist and clamps his other hand over my mouth, making my scream of surprise and terror almost inaudible.

  “He’s big, much taller than me, his arms like steel bands around my small frame. And as he whispers in my ear that if I don’t stop struggling and screaming, he’ll kill me, I go completely still and quiet, even as he moves the arm around my waist to separate the edges of the towel I won’t be wearing for much longer.”

  I continue the storyline in my head, imagining my attacker as he walks me to the wall beside my dresser and forcefully presses me against it…

  I’m pulled out of my head by Jason clearing his throat. When I look up at him, he’s grinning, and a surprised laugh bursts out of me when he reaches down and adjusts himself in his jeans. “Keep going…I’m almost there,” he says, closing his eyes as if he’s concentrating on reaching his own happy ending.

  I throw my head back and laugh. When I catch my breath, I tell him, “You get the picture,” and finish off the rest of my wine.

  “Awww, you’re gonna leave me hangin’? That ain’t nice. Blue balls are bad for a man,” he drawls.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure blue balls would be bad for a woman too if she had them,” I say snarkily, holding up my wine glass and tilting it back and forth, silently asking for a refill. He tips his beer back and finishes the rest in one big swallow, then takes my glass from me and moves to the door.

  “When I get back, it’s your turn to ask a question,” he demands, and I nod before he closes the door behind him.

  I feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders at having told someone about what I’d thought was a dirty secret fantasy. Or maybe it is as bad as I originally thought it was, but I’ve just so happened to find the one person who understands me, and is as sexually messed up in the head as I am. The thought makes me both happy and bummed. Happy, because I’ll have someone to talk to who I know won’t judge me or think badly of me for my weirdness, but bummed, because it’ll will never go farther than a friendship.

  February 4, 2005

  I make the drive down to Friendswood after getting off work at closing time, so I don’t arrive at Gavin’s until about 9pm. He’s waiting for me by his truck as I pull into his cul-de-sac, and I immediately hop into his passenger’s seat, eager to head over to Jason’s. The past few nights, they’ve been teaching me the rules of Texas Hold ‘em, playing a few games before going to play pool at Legends, but we’ve planned to just make it a night of poker tonight.

  Mrs. Robichaux gives me her usual squeeze as I walk into her kitchen behind Gavin, and I look up to see Jason coming out of his hallway carrying a silver box with a handle and latches. “Look what I got today,” he says as he approaches us. He holds the shiny case in one arm as he uses his other hand to flip the latches and lift the lid. Inside are rows of different colored poker chips, a couple of pairs of red dice, a few packs of cards, and a larger bone-colored chip with the word Dealer engraved in black.

  “Sweet,” Gavin says, and walks off to grab a beer out of the back fridge.

  “Shit, more rules to learn?” I ask Jason, running my finger down one of the rows of white poker chips.

  “Nah, it’ll be easier now that we have the different colors to use as bets, instead of trying to teach you with can tabs and cigarette butts,” he replies, and I don’t know for sure, but the way he says it makes me think he went out and got the set just for me. A wave of warmth comes over me as I consider Jason thinking about me when I’m not around. I look up and smile into his gorgeous brown eyes, and after a second that feels like forever, he clears his throat, breaking the spell, and shuts the case back up to hold it by the handle.

  “I got y’all a citronella candle today for the mosquitos out on the patio, so they shouldn’t eat you alive tonight during your big tournament,” Jason’s mom teases, patting him on the back as she goes to the fridge, where Gavin stands, chugging down his bottle of beer. When she wraps her arms around his middle to give him a hug, he lets out a giant belch and then grins down at her. I can’t help but roll my eyes, and when I look back up at Jason, he’s looking at me curiously. My smile returns, but his attention makes me feel self-conscious, so I glance back at Mrs. Robichaux when I hear her opening the refrigerator.

  “I got us a new wine, Kayla,” she says. “The lady at the store said if you like sweet but not dry, then you’d definitely like this.” I walk over and take the green bottle from her, reading the label. It’s called a Moscato, which I’ve never had before, but I’m always willing to try new drinks, as long as they aren’t beer. They keep telling me it’s an acquired taste, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink enough of it to ‘acquire’ it.

  Gavin snatches the bottle from my hands and takes it to the counter to use the corkscrew to open it. It makes a loud popping sound as it’s pulled free from the neck, and I see the liquid inside rise and bubble at the opening. At my confused expression, Mrs. Robichaux explains it’s a carbonated wine, also called ‘sparkling’, very similar to champagne. He grabs us two wine glasses from the cabinet and fills them to the brim, the bubbles actually arching above the rim of the glass, but miraculously not overflowing.

  “Here you go, miladies,” he says, handing us the drinks. Jason’s mom and I cheer before lifting them to our lips carefully, so we don’t spill the fizzy fluid, and take a tentative sip. The sweetness and carbonation combine on my tongue, creating a flavor explosion in my mouth that is delicious and energizing. I lick my lips, letting out an audible moan before taking a less cautious drink. I feel eyes on me, but when I f
lick my gaze between Gavin and Mrs. Robichaux, I see they’ve moved to the pantry to get some snacks ready for our poker game. I turn my head and discover it’s a chocolate stare boring into me from the archway leading into the living room. I catch Jason’s heated expression for only a moment before he schools his features, turns, and disappears; the sound of the backdoor slamming shut follows a few seconds later.

  It seems Mr. Broody is back. A wave of sadness hits me, missing the Jason from the night of his birthday party, but the logical part of my brain reminds me he can’t be that same Jason when we aren’t alone. Feeling a little light-headed, I realize I’ve stopped breathing and inhale some much-needed oxygen. I shake off the tingling feeling his devouring eyes left inside me as much as I can and turn to help Gavin carry the snacks they’ve unearthed.

  We make our way outside with our armloads of goodies and drinks, and I see Jason has set the case open in front of him on the round, glass table as he sits in one of the spring-loaded chairs. Without looking up, he tells me, “Okay, pay attention so you’ll know what to do if you ever want to be dealer.”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply militarily, letting him know he’s being bossy. I feel a little giddy when his lip twitches. After setting down a bag of potato chips, a bucket of French onion dip, and my wine glass, I remove my crossbody bag and hang it on the back of my chair, and then give him my full attention.

  “The whites count as one dollar, the reds count as five, the blues count as ten, and the greens count as twenty. You get fifteen whites, seven reds, three blues, and one green to start out with. This is what you get when you buy-in for a hundred bucks. Obviously, we aren’t playing for money, but just so you know, if you lose and run out of chips, you can buy back in; it just depends on who you’re playing with,” he explains as he removes the chips from the case and stacks the different colors in front of each of us. He tells us to ‘ante up’, tossing one of his own white chips into the center of the table, and Gavin and I follow suit.