by R.S. Grey
As the blue fades from his hair, Ian’s collection of valentines grows more out of control. He donated two large trash bags full of teddy bears the other day. The children’s hospital called the local news and they tried to film a feel-good puff piece about the gesture. Local Teacher Bears Gifts for Sick Kids. Thank god he declined an interview. The last thing I need is for him to go viral. Can you imagine the YouTube comments?
Granny330: Back when I was in school, teachers could still spank students—I wouldn’t have minded so much if it were him doing it!
SoccerMom88: I think we need a few more parent-teacher conferences…
TeachersPetXOXO: Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” anyone?
He donated the roses as well—to me. I didn’t want to accept his crummy secondhand flowers, but he insisted. They’re stinking up my entire apartment. Every time I look at them, I’m reminded of my competition. After only a day, I decide to toss them and tell him they were carrying a fungus.
Thank god Valentine’s Day is this weekend. The fundraiser will be over soon, and those choir dweebs will get their trip to nationals—Ian’s admirers have made sure of it.
The only downside is that the end of the fundraiser brings with it the most lovey-dovey holiday of the year, the one I’ll get to endure alone for the third year in a row.
Fortunately, I have a busy few days ahead of me to distract me from my bleak and desolate future.
Ian and I have to run that sex-ed course on Friday, then we have the Oak Hill Valentine’s Carnival on Saturday morning, and finally, as if my life couldn’t get any sadder, Ian surprised me by announcing he signed us up to chaperone the Valentine’s Day dance on Saturday night.
“You’re kidding me.”
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Do you have other plans?”
“I might.”
“Valentine’s Day is only three days away,” he points out, oblivious to how pathetic I feel in this moment.
“Yeah, well…Logan came by my classroom earlier and said he wanted to talk to me. Maybe he’s planning on asking me out.”
It’s a stretch, but still, it feels good to let Ian know I’m not a hopeless loser. Logan probably just wanted to chat so he could convince me to give extra credit to one of his players, but I don’t have to admit that to Ian. In fact, I can tell him anything I want.
“Logan?” he asks, displeased. “Football coach Logan? Never met a tub of glossy hair gel he didn’t like Logan?”
I will admit, Logan’s hair is sort of crunchy, but I force enthusiasm when I reply, “He seems nice enough.”
“No. Come on, you’re chaperoning the dance with me. I’ll treat you to dessert afterward.”
Looks like that’s how I’ll be spending Valentine’s Day this year: with my plain, un-sexy, definitely-doesn’t-turn-me-on platonic pal, Ian—oh, and a couple hundred high school kids.
6
I A N
I’ve decided to finally pursue Sam, but I haven’t had the courage to actually get to the pursuing part. For days, I’ve wavered back and forth on the best plan of action. You can’t just be friends with someone for three years then turn to them one day over lunch and ask them out on a date.
Sam would laugh and assume I was joking. My pride can’t take that.
No. I have to employ tact, have to seduce and tempt her organically, like the other day in my kitchen when she was dyeing my hair. I knew there was something there, we were both just too afraid.
“I think I’m going to ask Sam out on a date,” I tell my mom on the phone Wednesday night.
“OH MY GOD.”
She drops her phone in shock and the screen shatters. She can’t call me back. This is why I don’t tell her things.
A few minutes later, I get a call from my dad’s number. Apparently, she stole his phone so we could continue our conversation.
She’s sniffling and when I push the subject, she admits she’s been crying.
“I’m just so happy. You two have been dancing around each other for years and I truly can’t imagine a more perfect woman for you.”
“She hasn’t said yes yet. In fact, I haven’t even asked her.”
“Oh, she will. Believe me, she’s going to say yes, and who knows?! By this time next year, I might have myself a daughter-in-law! AND GRANDBABIES!”
Obviously it was a mistake bringing my mom in on my plan. I usually keep her on a strict need-to-know basis as it makes my life a lot easier. In an attempt to be a better son, I thought I’d tell her about Sam.
The next day, she won’t stop texting me.
DAD: At the Apple store! They’re replacing my screen. This is Mom by the way. Have you asked Sam out yet? Let me know how it goes! *confetti emoji* *heart-eyes emoji* *champagne emoji* *bride emoji* *groom emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
I don’t text her back.
She persists.
DAD: Can you even imagine? I hope the children get her hair!!!
DAD: Mom again. About the hair, your children would look good with your hair too, I would just really love a little girl who looks like Sam.
A few minutes pass.
DAD: Now I feel bad saying that. You’re cute too. Really.
DAD: Son, it’s your father. I need my phone back. Please tell your mom you’ll call her back when you have a minute.
DAD: Also, what the hell are you waiting for?
Not him too. I wonder if I should block them, but they’d probably just get new numbers. I’m tempted to call AT&T and have them cut text messages from my contract. In fact, I would if I wasn’t currently on the phone with Sam.
We’re talking through our curriculum for the sex-ed course tomorrow morning. Most of it’s preplanned for us, but Sam wants to be extra prepared.
“Why don’t you just grab a condom or two from your house for the demonstration?” she asks. “Oh wait, will they still unroll if they’re all expired and dried up? Don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the kids.”
“Hilarious. Make sure to bring your 55-gallon barrel of lube.”
“Ha. Why me—don’t you keep any around?” she asks, truly perplexed.
“I don’t usually need it.”
“Oh because the women who make it to your house are just little gushing Niagara Fallses 24/7?”
“24 is a stretch. I’d say it’s only during the act, so, three, usually four hours.”
She snorts. “Ooookay Casanova, let’s hope you’re keeping these mythical moist maidens properly hydrated. Jesus, I hope you offer them a Gatorade on the way out.”
I lean back on my couch and smile up at the ceiling. Bantering with Sam is my favorite part of the day.
“What else do you think we should bring? Some of your heavy-duty, gas-powered vibrators?”
“To save space, I’ll just bring the small one. I named it Ian—just a coincidence, no relation.”
We’re joking, but the idea of her naming a vibrator after me (even if it’s anatomically incorrect) makes my stomach squeeze.
Usually, I’d back off and steer us back toward friendship territory.
Tonight, I decide to push it. It’s called recognizing an opening when you see it.
“How often do you use him?”
I catch her audible intake of breath.
“Ha ha. Ian, c’mon, we need to focus or we won’t have anything to tell the kids in the morning. So far we’re just going to unroll a condom onto a banana—which, despite how common that seems to be in sex-ed pop culture, I’ve never actually done. What if it breaks? The boys will be turned off of safe sex forever.”
“Just let me handle it.”
“Do you think we should make up a rap or something, just so the lesson is more easily digested?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, deadpan. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you�
�ve already come up with something.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, nothing major.”
Then she immediately breaks it out.
“My name is Sam and I’m here to say,
sex can be fun in a healthy way.
You’ve got your condoms, lube, and some toys,
but just say no to those unprotected boys.”
“That was off the top of your head?”
She doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed when she replies, “I workshopped it during fourth period. Also, let’s just say I didn’t win the sixth-grade talent show for nothing. I went the middle school version of triple platinum.”
“I want that footage.”
“Pfft. You wish. Luckily for me, my dad had the lens cap on the camcorder the whole time.”
There’s a break in conversation and my thoughts tiptoe right back to her vibrator. I want to know if she was telling the truth.
“How long have you had Ian?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call it boredom.”
“If you’re so bored, I have some papers you can grade for me.”
“Okay then, call it curiosity.”
Silence follows. Her footsteps echo through the phone. I wonder if she’s in her room now. A door closes and then she sighs. “A few years.”
“So he’s probably in need of replacing?”
“I don’t use him all that often.”
“Poor little Ian.”
“Don’t you worry about him, he’s doing just fine.”
“What about you? Are you doing just fine?”
“Ian…” she chides.
“Sam…” I taunt.
I swear I hear her open and close a drawer on her bedside table.
I smirk and imagine her slipping out of her pajama shorts and panties.
Now I want to say, Poor little Sam. Using a vibrator in lieu of the real thing? She deserves better.
“Where are you?” I ask.
She sounds nervous when she replies, “In my apartment.”
“Obviously. Where in your apartment?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re on your bed, aren’t you?”
“You know I don’t have any other comfortable seating in this place. When your furniture is all from Craigslist, you end up just lounging a lot.”
“You’re living in delusion, Hot Lips.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She sounds pissed—pissed and turned on.
Sheets rustle on her end of the line.
I want to FaceTime her. In fact, I don’t question the urge. I do it.
“Why are you trying to FaceTime me?!” She sounds extremely distraught.
“Why aren’t you answering?”
“I’m not decent!”
“Just like I thought,” I gloat. “We’re best friends, which I thought meant we don’t hide anything from each other. Answer it.”
“No.”
“Then it’s a pretty easy guess for what you’re doing. Tell Ian hi for me.”
The FaceTime connects immediately and her frazzled appearance hits my phone’s screen. She’s sitting up against her headboard. Her cheeks are pink and her mouth is so soft and feminine I have a sudden overwhelming urge to feel it wrapped around me.
She’s wearing a tight cotton tank top, no bra. She’s holding the phone so I can only see the top half of her: her creamy shoulders and chest. Her nipples are pebbled and I want to take each one into my mouth. I’d be gentle, giving. I’d trace my finger beneath her collarbone and make her blush everywhere. Poor little Sam is right—she’d crumble for me.
“See?” she says with a got-you smirk. “You’re not decent either.”
She’s referring to the fact that I don’t have my shirt on. I didn’t bother after my shower.
“Yes, but unlike you, I’m wearing pants.”
It’s a guess, but when her eyes go wide and her blush blazes even harder, I know I’m right.
“Yeah…well…” She clears her throat and averts her gaze to something off screen. “It’s really hot in here—stuffy.”
“Well yeah, I imagine things heat up when little Ian is on the prowl.”
“That’s not why I’m hot. I just worked out.”
Who the hell does she think she’s fooling?
“You’re such a bad liar.”
“So what?!” She’s exasperated by this conversation. “I’m a liar and you’re clearly horny as hell. Why don’t you call one of the Freshman Four? I’m sure they could help you out—y’know, give you a refresher course before tomorrow morning. You clearly need it.”
“You’re right, I do.”
She swallows slowly. The phone wobbles in her hand.
“Do you?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Why do you think I’m on those dating apps? It’s not to meet friends. Now are you going to suggest you can ‘help me out’ like this is a low-budget porno?”
“You’ve clearly never had phone sex. You’re pretty bad at it.”
Her blue eyes hit mine. “What?”
“This isn’t how it usually starts. I ask you what you’re wearing and you tell me, but I already know: white tank top, panties, nothing else.”
“Ian.”
My name is a warning, a buoy telling swimmers to turn back now, but I’m sick of warnings, so I head out to open waters. It’s time to test a theory.
“Want to ask me what I’m wearing?”
“I bet I can guess: black workout shorts, Calvin Klein boxer briefs.”
Interesting. Maybe Sam does watch me when I change.
“And…I have had phone sex before. Don’t think you can intimidate me with this weird game you’re playing.”
One of her hands disappears from the screen and I know she wants to touch herself. Maybe her hand is on her thigh. Maybe she’s barely spreading her legs, trying to convince herself she’s only adjusting her underwear. I bet soon, her fingers will skim along the hem of her panties, brushing the silky material against her wetness. She can’t take them off or I’ll notice. No, she’ll just have to tug them to the side if she wants to feel skin on skin.
“But I think I should hang up the phone now,” she says, breathy.
“Or you could let me finish what I’ve started.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her innocent act is poorly constructed. I bet she’s barely touching herself and trying to talk herself out of it, but it’s too late. I know it’s been at least a few months for her. I know deep down, she’s as starved as I am.
“You want to pretend? Let’s pretend. We can call this research for tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Me making you come right now.”
“Jesus Ian.”
I could say the same thing to her. She thinks I’m the only one seducing here? She’s a walking seduction. Even now, she’s biting down on that full bottom lip and I’m seconds away from wrapping my hand around my dick. Her white tank top is paper thin. The hints of her I can see beneath it are driving me to the brink of madness.
“Tell me what you’re doing with your hand, Sam.”
“Flipping you off.”
“Be honest.”
“Ian, this is—”
“A fantasy, remember?”
For a long moment, our eyes lock on screen and I’m watching the cogs spin in her head. She wants this and at the same time, she doesn’t. I think I have her but I know at any moment, she could press that little red circle on her screen and deny us both.
I don’t say a word as I wait for her to make a decision.
I won’t coerce her any more than I already have.
Finally, her velvety voice spills through the phone. “Okay, you want to play? I’ll play. I’m…touching myself.”
“How? Over your panties?”
“Yes.”
“Pull them aside.”
Her eyes pinch closed.
“Sam,” I say, reac
hing down to adjust myself. My dick is begging for attention, but I want to concentrate on her. “Pull them to the side and tell me how wet you are.”
We’ve probably spoken hundreds of thousands of words to each other throughout our friendship, but right now our sentences sound like they’re being spoken by strangers.
Her head tips back and her gaze hits the ceiling. She’s exposing her neck. If I were there, I’d drag my teeth along her pulse line.
I hear a little rustling and then her eyes flutter closed.
“Very.”
I grin. There, I just proved my point from earlier.
“I’ll have a courier bring over a bottle of Gatorade after this.”
Her eyes flick open. “Ian!”
I wish I could wipe away my expression, but I can’t. This is too good, too many years in the making.
“Brush your finger up and down. It’s not your touch, it’s mine, and if it were me, I’d be thorough. I’d take my time and sink my fingers into you so slowly, and in return, you’d sink your teeth into my shoulder to keep from moaning my name.”
I know she’s listening to my commands because her breaths get shorter and shorter. I see nothing from her waist down, and yet I feel like I have a front-row seat. My imagination runs wild. I’ve been in that room. I know her sheets are white. I know her panties are usually lacy and thin. She likes wearing color. Her skin does too. She’s flushed from head to toe, no doubt.
“I want you to slide your middle finger inside and imagine it’s me.”
She shakes her head, but I know she’s listening to me. I know she’s doing it.
“If I were there, I’d tug those panties off and press your open thighs against the bed.”
She chuckles. “I’m not that flexible.”
I smirk. “I know for a fact you are.”
In the next instant, she drops the phone and the screen goes black. For a second, I think she’s gone, but I can still hear her breathing hard, sheets rustling, fabric slipping down her legs.
Fucking hell. She’s stripping off those panties.
“How long has it been since someone tasted you? And I don’t mean some rushed foreplay, the two obligatory licks, Sam. I mean face buried between your legs, tongue plunging deep over and over again.”