by Max Monroe
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
I was merely saying that I thought my new friend Lola was the type of woman who didn’t let social expectations pressure her into wearing shoes that hurt her delicate little feet.
My new friend Lola?
Not only was Reed Luca an asshole, he was seriously deranged. We were about as far away from the term friends as two people could get. I legitimately hated him.
“Friends? Pfffffft. We are not friends,” I reiterated to myself.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
First of all, stilettos don’t hurt my feet.
Secondly, you might think you know everything, but I can tell you with absolute certainty you don’t know anything about me.
Thirdly, stop talking about my feet.
And finally, WE AREN’T FRIENDS.
Boom. Suck on that, asshole.
I hit send and smiled proudly to myself.
He could take his idea of friendship and shove it straight up his ass. I sure as hell didn’t want a friend who created viral YouTube videos to ruin my career, and now, agreed to write a column for a rival newspaper that’s sole purpose was to contradict everything I told my readers.
Reed Fucking Luca wasn’t my friend.
He was my enemy.
A really, really hot enemy, I thought to myself and then sighed in frustration.
I refused to think that way. I refused to think about his stupid blue eyes or sexy smirk or the way his natural confidence was like a homing device for my vagina.
He was competition.
And he was going the fuck down.
My cheeks started to ache as I smiled for the fiftieth time in a twenty-minute period.
I hadn’t enjoyed myself this much in a long time, as evidenced by the out of practice muscles of my face, and I didn’t think the cause had ever been a woman.
Sure, I’d enjoyed quick bouts of lust and superficial interest, but I’d never made it beyond the surface layer of a woman’s personality without becoming disenchanted.
For some reason, this was different. Lola was different.
And in some backward way, the fact that she was so upset about my having a column validated my qualification in my mind.
If she’s that passionate over my opinion, there has to be some substance to it, right?
When Rhonda had first made the offer, I’d honestly been stupefied. An outlet responsible for reporting something as substantial as the news wanted me to be an employee? Surely, someone had gotten their wires crossed.
I didn’t know much of anything about relationships—I’d honestly never been in a serious one. All I had in my arsenal was power of perception and a whole lot of tributary connections to people with relationships, and I’d told Rhonda as much.
Interestingly enough, she’d been even more thrilled.
Perhaps she thought she’d be able to mold me into what she wanted more easily since I had no formal background in the subject or the trade of writing, but I wasn’t worried about that.
Because not only did she not know who she was dealing with, she also didn’t realize the reason I was so amenable, shapeable even today, was because she’d played into giving me exactly what I wanted.
Lola Sexton.
I smiled as I clicked the button at the bottom of her email to reply once again.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Subject: Friends
Sorry, LoLo, but I refute your assertion that we aren’t friends. We’re the best of, and it’s only going to get better. After all, I need to know you better than anyone, right? How else am I going to write all of my columns?
Sitting back, I cracked my knuckles before crossing my hands together behind my head. If she was this fun all the time, I was going to have to figure out a way to see her more often.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: Enemies
We wouldn’t be friends if we were the last two people left in San Francisco. I’d find one side of a hill and you’d find a way to argue that the other side was better, and that wouldn’t get either one of us to the top.
Just face the facts: Not everyone likes you.
I laughed at her words that were meant to wound and pounded my fingers across the keys.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Subject: Compromise
What’s that thing people always say? About compromise being good? Fuck if I can remember because I think it’s garbage.
We’re friends—whether you like it or not.
A response popped up before I could even relax.
Jesus. How many words does she type per minute?
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: Frenemies
They say it nurtures a relationship.
Since I’m completely against nurturing any relationship with you, you don’t have to worry. We won’t be friends; we won’t be frenemies…we’re ENEMIES.
We’d see about that. I pulled up one final pane to reply and worked on something I knew would really set her on kill. If I was going to write the best first column I could, I was going to need a good jumping-off point. Wasn’t I?
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Subject: Lovers
Nurtures a relationship, huh? Maybe compromise isn’t so bad, after all. And do you know why I think that, LoLo?
Because I think you and I have a long way to go, and it doesn’t end in friends. I think you and I are headed to a place way at the top of that hill you think we can’t climb, and I think we’re going to get there at the same time.
And as far as climax goes, isn’t it always better to finish together?
Talk to you soon.
Love,
Reed
My chest rose and fell a little faster as I waited for her reply. Time ticked so slowly that I smoked two cigarettes, three, and then lost count. When nothing appeared after a pack’s worth of pining, real disappointment set in.
God, what is that awful ache in my chest?
Maybe Miss Sexton wasn’t going to play my games and be a part of my story. Maybe she had a tipping point, and I’d just pushed her to it. Maybe she really was turned off by a liar and troublemaker.
Maybe she really was my enemy.
I scratched at my throat as I worked through coming to terms with having to forfeit this one. I played by my own rules, but you can’t play with someone if they won’t enter the game.
Shoving up and out of my chair, I climbed to my feet and swung my jacket off its resting place on the back. I had to get out and do something that gave me the fulfillment I wouldn’t get out of this. I had to see and experience, and there was one best place for that—Dolores Park.
Just as I turned to go, my screen lit up as a new email settled at the very top.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: What you think
You know what, Reed? You think what you want. Because it’s already my job to think differently than you do. You want me to hate you? Keep spewing your poisonous fallacies. Today and every day forward are opposite day for you and me.
You want me? That means I don’t want you.
Good day, sir.
Sincerely,
Lola Sexton (NOT LOLO)
I shut the screen to my laptop and picked up my jacket again as I headed for the door, but this time, I did it with a smile on my face.
Lola Sexton was fun, and even better news, she thought I was too—she just didn’t realize it yet.
She was antagonistic and opinionated and completely off her rocker.
And now, I had her right where I wanted her.
Reed Luca—the fucker—had officially gotten inside of my head.
He’d mindfucked me, and it wasn’t good ole missionary. This was dirty, ass play, doggy-style kind of mindfucking.
I had a column—that I ha
dn’t even started—to finish in the next twenty-four hours, and my brain seemed to be spending most of its power on flipping off that bastard whose name I’d rather not speak, much less think.
But my column was first priority—my only priority—and that was exactly what I was going to do.
I wasn’t going to think about…him. Not his column, or his trashy, instigator-style emails, or the way his hair laid so easily back from his face.
Nope. Nuh-uh. Screw that guy, and his little dog too.
The midafternoon sun filtered through the sheer, white curtains of the large loft windows in my apartment, highlighting the golden hue of Louie’s little fins, and I instantly softened slightly.
Shit. I hope he doesn’t really have a dog.
I rested my elbows on the counter and stared through the glass of Louie’s aquarium.
With my head in my hands, I sighed, and his eyes met mine, seemingly understanding that I needed to vent. “I need to focus, Louie. I need to focus on dating…and relationships…and basically, anything and everything related to vaginas and penises in a state of cohabitation,” I told him.
He swished his tail around a few times and proceeded to give me his typical yet outwardly sarcastic fish bubble response, Blup. Blup. Blup.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, besides one particular penis and the owner of said penis. I’m not going to think about him. No fucking way. That dude and his package are getting pushed far, far away, preferably to a place that is very similar to the fiery pits of hell.”
Blup. Blup, Louie retorted and then swam away to his favorite neon castle.
In fish speak, he had basically just said, Yeah, right.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “I know you don’t think I’ll be able to forget about…him…but I’m going to. I’ll prove your little fishy doubts wrong, dude.”
Louie gave no response, already done with the conversation.
“I knew I should’ve adopted a cat,” I mumbled and turned away from his fish house.
A cat would be an even bigger asshole, Reed’s unwelcome voice taunted in my head.
Go away! I shouted back telepathically.
God, if anyone knew how often I had conversations with my fish—if Reed knew—I’d never hear the end of it. They’d probably wrap me up in a straitjacket.
But I couldn’t help it. It was so much of a compulsion, a calling, if you will, I was convinced I’d probably become the fish version of the cat lady if I never found that perfect person to fill the void.
Logistically, I’d need a bigger aquarium; that was a certainty. And, the rest of my fish wouldn’t be sarcastic little bastards, either.
Okay, I just need to clear my head and get my writing mojo moving and shaking.
All I needed was the perfect playlist. The right topic. And a mind devoid of a certain prick of a vlogger turned columnist who seemed to think he knew everything.
Easy, right?
Once the addictive beat of The Kooks singing about a “Bad Habit” filled my otherwise quiet apartment, I made the short trip across the fluffy beige carpet of my living room, grabbed my laptop, and posted up on the sofa.
Five minutes later, any figment of concentration I’d been able to build was shot to hell by my sister. Like a demon, she started sending me text messages about her three lovable yet batshit crazy kids rapid fire. I mean, I loved my nieces and nephew, but the Reynolds’ kids were a serious little gang of insanity.
Annie: Help. Me. Is it legal to drop your kids off at Goodwill? Seriously? Do they accept children as donations?
On the surface, her text might’ve seemed like bad mommy material, but Emma, Lucy, and Henry—all adorable, blond-haired beauties under the age of eight—were loud, boisterous, and if unleashed without parental supervision, could destroy a house in three minutes flat.
Her frustrations were most likely warranted.
Me: Well… I don’t know their policy, but I think they frown upon donations that fall under the living, breathing human category.
Annie: Hey, didn’t you say you wanted to have kids?
Annie: You know what? Don’t answer that. Since you’re my baby sister and I love you so much, I’m willing to give up two of my children to you. I’ll even let you choose.
Me: HA! Yeah, right. You wouldn’t let me choose. I know which two you’d try to pawn off on me. And I never said I wanted kids. I said I didn’t know if I wanted kids, but I was open to kids. And that was like three Christmases ago.
The truth was, I didn’t really want kids. Hell, I didn’t even want marriage. Conventionality, in general, would probably never be a staple in my love life.
My outlook on relationships had morphed into something less traditional over the years, thanks to all that time spent watching with jaded eyes. Marriage wasn’t the key to happiness, like so many women prophesied. Commitment, compromise, and true cohabitation were.
I pictured my future plenty, but it wasn’t laid out like ducks in a row: engagement, marriage, kids, etc. It was with someone with whom I wanted to spend my life, who wanted to spend their life with me, and completely unfocused on the details. I didn’t need a five-year, ten-year, eighteen-year plan—I needed a partner who didn’t need one either.
Annie: Are you saying I play favorites with my kids?
Me: Yep. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Annie: I can’t help it if Lucy is my favorite right now. The girl has a knack for keeping her room clean, and she’s so damn organized. Honestly, I’m a little concerned she might be a bit OCD, but I refuse to question it at this point in time because it’s one less room for me to clean.
Me: That’s real nice, Annie. Your child might be suffering a mental condition that causes her daily anxiety, but you’re ignoring it because she keeps shit clean. Oh, and, by the way, will you send her over to clean my room?
Annie: Of course I will. I want to make sure she’ll see her brother and sister often since they’re going to be living with you.
Me: God, you’re hilarious.
Annie: I know, right? :)
Annie: Here’s a question for the queen of relationship advice. Is it okay to just want to fuck your husband? Like, not make love, but just good old-fashioned fucking.
Good old-fashioned fucking? Now, that was a thought.
Even in a marriage, sex could just be about sex. It didn’t always have to revolve around intimate moments and sharing your soul with someone else.
Thanks to my sister, the wheels in my mind turned until they rolled straight into the Aha! moment of inspiration.
Me: Yes. Humans need just sex sometimes. And thank you.
Annie: Thank you?
Me: You just gave me an idea for my column.
Annie: What???? Please, tell me you’re not going to talk about me and Brian fucking in your column.
Me: First of all, you know me better than that. Secondly, are you still giving Brian blow jobs every day?
My sister wasn’t a prude. She had no issues talking about sex. But she had some big no-no topics regarding the subject, and blow jobs, well, it was one of those do-not-go danger zones for her.
I, being the wonderful sister I was, used it against her as often as I could.
Annie: I swear to God, I will strangle you the next time you ask me about that.
Me: Because you love giving head so much?
Annie: LOLA.
Me: I can’t believe how much you love sucking Brian off. I just never really expected that from you.
Annie: Seriously. I don’t love doing that.
Me: *singing to the tune of Crowd Pleaser* My big sister is a real cock pleaser… (I’m so proud of you, btw)
Annie: Oh. My. God. Sometimes I really think I might hate you.
Me: I love you, too. And I know how much you want to keep talking about blowing penises since it’s your favorite thing in the whole world, but I gotta go. <3
Annie: Ugh. Love you too, ya weirdo. (AND I DON’T LOVE DOING THAT)
I smiled at her last te
xt before closing out of my messages and locking the screen of my phone. Blow jobs aside, my mind had been cleared. I adjusted my laptop on top of my stretched-out thighs and wiggled my fingers as I got ready to write.
Fifty Fantastic Reasons to Just Do It
Can sex just be about sex sometimes?
Humans need sex. They want sex. They desire sex.
Humans also need orgasms. And those orgasms don’t always need to have the l-o-v-e word attached to them. Think masturbation and good old-fashioned…ahem…yeah, that.
Even when we’re in love with our significant other, sometimes, we don’t want to make love to them. Sometimes, we just want to have sex. We just want to get off. We want to experience that raw and greedy act on its own without sharing intimacy and eye contact and deep, sensual kisses and meaningful embraces.
So, in the spirit of just doing the damn thing, here, my beautiful and intelligent readers, are fifty reasons to just have sex:
1. Your Mr. Coffee maker is being a little slow, and your fresh pot of brew isn’t ready.
2. You just got off your period.
3. You’re hungry, but you’re on a diet, and you need something to replace your carb cravings.
4. The meat loaf in the Crock-Pot still has another hour to cook.
5. You just leveled up on Pokémon Go.
6. The power went out.
7. Morning wood.
8. Your condoms are about to expire.
9. You remembered to take your birth control pill.
10. Netflix isn’t working.
11. You just shaved your legs.