I didn’t correct her because I understood her motives. She didn’t want the hospital to call our mother and have her involved in the situation. So I handed the white-scrubbed nurse my I.D., which could pass for Daisy because my sixteen-year-old picture is nearly obscured. I was even surprised the DMV didn’t force me to retake it. In the photo, my hair nearly shields my whole face, and I tilted my head down, trying to end the photo-taking process as quickly as possible. Afterwards, Lo made fun of me for the picture, but his wasn’t much better. He smiled sarcastically, looking like a supreme sixteen-year-old asshole.
Thinking about Lo does not help my mind tonight. I roll in my bed, clenching the sheets and pressing my face to my pillow. Some nights are worse than others. This one has been brutal.
My body heats with a layer of sticky sweat. I just want him. My eyes tighten closed, and I imagine his hands raking the bareness of my back, spindling up my hips towards my shoulders…
I need someone to take me in their arms, to rub their palms over all the aching parts, to knead my breast and suck my neck, to make this tension explode into a high. I crave it so badly that I end up biting my fingernails to the beds, turning on my side and staring at the wall, wondering if I should go find something to ease this into a nice, blissful release.
No.
I lick my lips and shudder, my body shaking as I prolong what it wants. Or maybe, it’s just my brain playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s all in my mind.
I inhale a deep breath and rise against my oak headboard. I find the remote on the end table and click on the flat screen television above my dresser. It swamps the wall, looking futuristic among my white canopied, king-sized bed and red velveteen chaise. Rose decorated my room, and I have to admit, she did a pretty good job with the pop art and the black checkered pillows. I could do without the canopy. One night, I rolled into it like a tortilla and started moronically swatting at it.
I click through the On Demand channels and peruse the nightly specials, landing on an X-rated film where a professor seduces a student. So cliché, but it’ll most definitely make me hot and bothered. I just hope that it helps me find the release I’m looking for.
I fast-forward the beginning where the girl usually just gives head. Normally, blow jobs in porn don’t turn me on…unless the guy does something sweet like hold her hair back and tell her she’s beautiful giving it. But I’ve seen too many scenes where the guy jackhammers the thing down her throat. Being choked by cock does nothing for me.
I reach the middle of the film, and the professor spreads the girl across his desk. He wears vintage framed glasses and a white button-down. His pants are already off and he quickly charges into her without any other foreplay. She lets out a frighteningly loud scream and then her moans start. “Mmmmmmmyeah. Like that....yeaaahhh.” She massages her own large breast while he thrusts hard. I can tell she’s faking it, and maybe horny guys don’t care—but I do. Her noises heighten and I realize that her orgasms are making me cringe. Not all porn is created equal.
I exit out and order another film.
Wanting to be surprised, I skim the description and barely glance at the title. This time I fast-forward again and quickly discern what type of category the film falls into.
The girl is draped over a bench in a locker room while the guy spanks her bare ass. It’s either submission or bondage or maybe a bit of both. I sink into my bed, silently hoping this girl doesn’t scream like a hyena.
She lets out a small yelp when the guy pushes inside of her. His thrusts are hard and rough and she clutches to the lockers for support. He grabs at her body and lets out a series of carnal grunts. After only a couple minutes she says, “Please make me come, sir. Please.”
Usually this does it for me. But I feel nothing. Not even turned off. I’m just…empty.
I mute the video and debate about purchasing another, but I’m not even sure a film with my favorite porn stars will help. This seems silly when all I want is Loren Hale. Visual stimulation doesn’t cure the craving for my boyfriend.
Tonight’s miserable experience suddenly triggers a recent memory with Lo—when he was sober for a very short period of time. I pause the film and wipe my eyes.
Lo plopped on my bed in our Philly apartment while I fired up my porn. I’d asked him if he wanted to watch a video with me, thinking it might be different now that he was sober. He had looked at me with crinkled eyebrows and a crooked grin before shrugging and following me into my room.
On the screen, a girl-next-door blonde rested in the jail cell, and a young, sexy cop entered, scanning her body with a lustful gaze.
“Why is she even there?” Lo asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I rested my head on his hard chest, my heart beating wildly at the thought of what might happen next between us. I wanted him to take me just as the cop would take the girl.
“I think she was mistakenly jailed for soliciting or something, and this cop is going to question her about it. But really she’s going to have sex so he’ll let her go.”
Lo’s brow arched. “I see.”
I swallowed hard, wondering if he was analyzing what I wanted. He rarely watched porn with me. Whenever I put one on, I made it a private event, but with Lo there, the anticipation was enough to prick my nerves and tighten my insides.
The blonde girl fidgeted a little as the cop started to frisk her. His fingers moved down to the hem of her shorts. “Shouldn’t he have done that before he put her in jail?” Lo asked with a smile.
“It’s porn. It doesn’t have to make sense.”
Her back arched as the cop’s fingers dipped into her panties and out of sight. “Are you hiding anything that I need to know about?”
She shook her head. “No…sir…” Her breath caught, and then she let out a long pleasured moan, practically convulsing from his touch. And my breathing went shallow.
That was until I looked back at Lo. He wore a deep frown, as though trying to understand me through the porn. I sat up and disentangled from him. “This is a bad idea,” I said, about to shut it off. I scrounged around for the remote, but he grabbed my wrist lightly.
“No, wait, I’m watching this here.” He stayed transfixed to the porn.
The cop unzipped the girl’s shorts and tugged them to her ankles and then completely off. “You’ve been a very bad girl. Leaving here will be very, very simple if you cooperate. Just take this right here…” He motioned to his dick, and she grabbed it, her eyes big and innocent. “Put it in your mouth and fuck it. Can you do that for me?”
The girl nodded rapidly. She leaned forward while he dropped his navy pants—no underwear on. She gathered his cock in her hands and filled her mouth.
“Fuck, yeah.” He groaned deeply and pulled her hair off her face. “Take your punishment, baby.” I actually thought this blow job scene wasn’t a complete turn off. Of course, it probably helped that Lo was sitting next to me. She licked him up like a popsicle and then popped her mouth off it with a refreshing “ahhhh.”
Lo let out a long laugh, breaking the mood instantly. My whole body heated with embarrassment, not the type of “hot” I wanted.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Shhh,” he said, a big goofy smile on his face. I tried to speak again, but he put his hand to my lips, covering my mouth while he watched the film, mesmerized and amused.
“You like that?” the cop asked. The girl responded with a deep, throaty moan, and she rocked her head back and forth again. Then she took his cock out of her mouth and smacked it against her cheek. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, yeah.”
The cop yanked the girl to her feet and pulled down her top, kneading her breasts. “These are very nice.”
Lo laughed louder and looked to me, his hand still firmly planted on my mouth. “This really turns you on?”
Finally, he loosened his grip to let me reply.
“I usually skip the beginning,” I confessed. “Unless…” Nope, not telling him.
His eyes lit up.
“Unless what?”
I blushed as I said, “Unless the guy holds her hair back.”
Lo’s smile engulfed his face. “That’s adorable.” He took the remote though and sped ahead to the actual sex where the couple talks less and usually just moans and grunts.
“Watching this is better than having sex with another person?” Lo asked, narrowing his eyes at the screen.
“No…maybe…sometimes,” I stammered. “It’s convenient.”
He looked back to me, eyebrows raised. “Better than me?”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“So you’ve had sex that was worse than watching porn? Who the hell were you fucking?” he asked.
I shrugged, not really having a way to answer that question. My eyes slowly left his for the movie where the cop had the girl spread-eagle on the floor. It was hard to look away, especially since I anticipated some steamy action ahead.
“Hey,” Lo breathed, brushing his fingers against my chin. He gently tilted my head towards him, and his parted lips looked ready to kiss me. I waited for him to close the gap between us, but instead of taking me in his arms and mimicking the film, he spoke. “In a competition between me and this...” He jabbed his finger towards the movie. “I’ll win. Every time.”
He licked his lips, his eyes skimming my breasts and my abdomen and the place that thrummed for pressure between my legs. He was about to prove that he was better than porn—even though I already told him so. He reached over and turned up the volume a little, right when the cop rolled off her to switch positions. I tried not to look at the screen, but the cop was big. Then the girl skillfully climbed right on top of him, arching her back so her enormous breasts became the focus of his attention.
Lo straightened up and grabbed my legs, yanking me so hard that my breath rushed out of my lungs. My back thudded flat on the mattress, successfully distracting me. He hovered over my body and leaned close. His mouth found my ear, and his tongue slipped inside, my limbs quivering.
As he pulled away, he whispered huskily, “Can a film do this?” He grabbed my wrists, bringing them above my head as he did so often. He trapped them with one hand, and using the other, he lifted up my shirt and my bra. His lips sucked lines from my breast to the hem of my pants, teasing and drawing out intolerable sensations. I wanted him to push inside. To come with every thrust. And I knew he would give it to me. When it came to sex, he offered me everything.
A film could not touch me the way Lo could.
I’d almost give anything to hear him finish with, “I love you.” As he always did.
Instead, I now stare at my paused television, wishing Lo was here to fill my needs instead of meaningless porn. I can’t even try to reach my climax from it. All I do is think of Lo, and how he basically said—in his own sly way—that I should quit watching porn and find my fix with him.
The film seems corny and cheesy and so fucking stupid in comparison. So I shut it off.
I stand up and gather all of my videos, and I stuff them in the little trash bin under my desk. They don’t all fit, so I pick up the aluminum bin and open my door, about to find a larger trashcan that’ll hold all my dirty secrets.
This seems right.
But ditching porn won’t lessen any tension spun inside me.
Not yet at least.
As I head down the stairs to the kitchen, I hear distant voices. It’s near midnight, but I’m not surprised by the conversation. Connor Cobalt and Rose schedule time together like one would a business meeting. She let me know that he may be over late in January since nights are the only time they can see each other this month.
“Why are you reading that?” Rose asks him. I inch forward and creep towards the living room. I edge close and peek behind the curved archway. Their backs face me as they share the cream couch, draped with a purple throw blanket. From here, I smell the fresh cut flowers that fill the vase on the glass coffee table. Connor brings a new bouquet every time they wilt. This time, he picked out yellow and pink daises that remind me of my youngest sister.
Rose’s arm presses against Connor as they sit close, each with their own laptops. Both are wearing insensible clothes to be hanging around the house. Connor sports a charcoal gray suit—worth thousands no doubt—while she wears a Calloway Couture piece: a black mini dress with a see-through maxi skirt on top. Classy, as always.
Connor doesn’t look up from his screen. “Because it’s useful.”
“Freud is not useful. He’s infuriating and sexist and wrong half the time.” She tries to shut his laptop, and he clasps her hand, bringing her knuckles up to his lips.
He gives her a light kiss before saying, “Just because you don’t like his theories doesn’t make him wrong. There’s good stuff in here.”
“Like what? ‘Penis envy?’” she snaps.
I frown. What the hell is penis envy? And more than that, are they really talking about my sexual needs again? I caught Rose with a stack of books the other day, all about sex addiction, and they were not only highlighted and bookmarked, but there were post-it notes stuck inside. And these notes, let me tell you, did not have Rose’s handwriting. Since Connor Cobalt was my tutor first, I can spot his cursive, calligraphy-like penmanship.
I can deal with my sister in my business, but her boyfriend who thinks he’s always right…well, that was a little hard to swallow.
I’m adjusting to it. Even if it’s incredibly weird. For years, Lo was the only one who knew my secrets, and now I have three more people keeping the news quiet. It’s a lot to handle.
And definitely too much to process.
“Yeah,” Connor says, “penis envy and psychosexual development.”
“You’re so off base. My sister doesn’t have penis envy—that implies that she could possibly have the Electra complex.”
I cringe, knowing what that is. I have no craving to hook up with my father. No thank you.
“I never said she had it,” he says easily, not defensive like most men with Rose, a girl who attacks full force, eyes icy and hard, ready to combat with claws and power. I love her for it. And whenever they bicker, I’m inwardly waving Rose Calloway flags, cheering for my closest sister to come out on top. “But your sister is a sex addict. Whose theories are you going to start with? Aristotle? The Hamburgler? Or how about Erik Erikson? Lily has a thing about names.”
Rose gives him a sharp look. “The Hamburgler, really?”
“Freud pioneered psychoanalysis. You discredit him and that’s when the McDonald’s references start flying.”
She slaps his laptop closed, and he rests an arm on the back of the couch, turning towards her a little. I have to edge back behind the wall, concealing more of my body from view.
Connor has rosy pink lips, thick wavy brown hair, and a smile worth the millions in his trust fund. “Yes?” he says, eyeing her lips that pinch tightly.
Rose wears her brown hair in a slicked back ponytail. Her yellowish-green, cat-colored eyes pierce him. “The psychosexual theory has a way of picturing women as broken, inefficient toys that need to be fixed.”
“I know,” Connor says. “A lot of it is misogynistic, but it’s interesting, don’t you think?”
“No. I find it infuriating.”
His lips quirk in a smile. “Just like me?”
She rolls her eyes, but she sort of lingers there as she refuses to lose contact completely. I can tell she wants to kiss him, maybe just as much as he wants to kiss her. But then she turns her head, breaking the moment. Just like Rose to push a guy away. Sometimes I think she fears a lack of power that comes in a relationship, as though she may lose some sort of advantage if she lets Connor in.
He doesn’t look defeated. In fact, his eyes pulse with the exact opposite. Determined. Challenged.
A hair falls from its hold in her pony, and Rose tucks it behind her ear. “I think I’m onto something here. This psychologist suggests that sexual addiction can be closely related to obsessive compulsive disorder. If I look into OCD,
then maybe I’ll have a better understanding of what Lily is going through.”
“We,” he says.
Rose’s brows furrow. “What?”
“You said ‘if I look into OCD.’ I told you I want to help, so I’m going to help. Lily is my friend too.” He shifts so their bodies press a little closer, and Rose’s laptop sits on each of their legs. They seem to be having a “moment” so I decide to make a quiet exit and head into the kitchen, but as I turn, one of the DVDs on the top of my bin slides off and clatters to the wooden floor.
I freeze, my eyes widening as their necks turn. I’m a deer caught in their headlights. Please don’t say anything. Let me drift away and pretend we didn’t meet gazes.
No such luck.
Rose shuts her laptop so I can’t see her screen, and she rises from the couch, smoothing down her dress with her hands. “What are you doing up? I thought you took a sleeping pill.” And then her eyes wander to the DVDs in the trash bin.
“I haven’t taken one yet,” I say, avoiding Connor. His presence has increased the volume of my embarrassment. And yet, both of them act completely innocent, as if this isn’t out of the ordinary. Why am I always the one to roast a new shade of red?
“What’s that?” Rose wanders over to my frozen state by the archway, straddling the space between the granite kitchen and the living room. Connor stands and puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks, casual. Having your girlfriend’s sister carry an overflowing bin of porn is so normal.
“I was tossing it,” I tell her as she inspects the DVDs with a quick glance.
“What brought this on?” Rose asks, but something hopeful flickers in her eyes. She can see that I’m trying, and my chest floats, feeling a little better by her reaction.
“I just thought it was time to get rid of it all.”
“That’s the rest?” Connor asks, sidling to Rose. His presence drives knots in my stomach—the way he stands a good four inches taller than Rose, more than that for me. His strong, muscular build reminds me of what I’m missing.
Uncomfortable, I take a step backwards and shun their gazes. “I’m going to trash this and then head back upstairs.”
Ricochet (Addicted #1.5) Page 5