I hop into the shower for a quick wash and some quality thinking time. Hot water helps me process.
On the one hand, it was phenomenal.
On the other hand, it was with my best friend who has been like a brother to me.
On the other hand, he is not actually a blood relative nor have we ever lived under the same roof so no legal, moral or societal laws were broken. And it definitely did not feel like kissing a sibling.
He was good. Like really good. My body is singing hallelujah at his finely honed skills. Yay, horndog. I thank all the sisters that went before me as practice. Sam knows his way around the female body just fine.
And now I’m standing here, head full of lather, soaping my left arm over and over again as I reminisce. Possibly drooling but we’ll just call it shower spray.
I shake my head sharply to clear it.
I think I had become a middle aged married couple with Jeremy, and not the kind that still has great sex even though they’re old. More settled. Like concrete.
Now I’ve had so-so sex with Matteo, quite good sex with Adam, and words-fail-me sex with Sam.
Both Adam and Sam are ongoing possibilities. Given I don’t want to waste time and energy with more Matteo-grade encounters. I mean dominance is fine but only if there is something excellent in it for me. I think that instead of single hookups of a wide variety, I should go for continued ones from a smaller sample group. Who will be replaced should they fail to meet expected standards.
Known quality over random quantity. Plus this is about embodying biological truth, not becoming a ho.
So Adam stays on the list.
But Sam? We’re already best friends. And with most normal guys, it’d be easy to confuse sex and friendship with a real relationship.
Though that’s the good part about knowing him so well. I’m not going to get hurt wasting my time wishing he would be my boyfriend. Not that I want any boyfriend. But especially not him. Since he’s absolutely incapable of it. I’ve seen the collateral damage he can cause. It’s not pretty.
An involuntary and silly grin steals over my face at the memory of what we just did.
Sure is fun, though.
I finish rinsing off and shut off the tap. Decision made.
My intimate knowledge of Sam’s psychological state means that I am absolutely free to keep getting naked with him.
Friends with benefits really is the best.
As I towel off, I wonder when it might be long enough to call Sam again for part two.
I decide tomorrow is good. What surprises me, though, is Sam’s reaction. I’m totally convinced he’s going to suggest a ‘your place or mine’ (I knew him not sleeping with girls at his house was a lie) kind of time.
Instead, he suggests meeting at the diner and then going bowling. Like we always do.
I want to stomp my foot in frustration but if it weren’t for Sam, I wouldn’t be my shiny version 2.0 self, so I play nice and spend best friend time with him.
Plus wear a super low-cut shirt with maximum pushing up of cleavage so he’ll come to his senses and do me again. Because Sam is a visual boy and I aim to please.
So here we are. At the diner in our usual booth. There’s a half played game of cards on the counter in front of Vic. Vic swivels slowly on his red leather and chrome stool as he contemplates his hand.
Behind the counter, Matt holds a metal canister of whipped cream above a cut-glass bowl of chocolate ice cream.
“Whipped cream?” he asks Sam.
“Naw, Sam’s whipped enough,” Vic jumps in.
Sam doesn’t rise to the bait, which is unlike him.
“Careful Vic,” he says calmly, “your queen is showing.”
Vic checks his cards.
Matt places the bowl down between us, complete with two spoons.
Well, if I’m not having sex, might as well have ice cream. My eyes roll back in delight at my first icy bite.
Sam watches me savor my dessert. At this moment, it’s the best thing in the entire universe.
I suck on the spoon in what I hope he’ll take as an invitation to other things I can do with my tongue.
Nothing.
“I’m in heaven,” I tell him. “And as an added bonus, my mouth is really cold.”
I scoop up some chocolate and put the spoon in his mouth. “Surprisingly good, huh?”
Sam shifts around in his seat. “Surprisingly,” he agrees.
He puts on his serious voice. “We should talk about this.”
Since he sounds like someone just died, I can guess how this chat is going to go down. I’m kind of shocked that he’s going to pass on no-strings-attached sex, but I get if it’s too weird for him.
Sam is all about everything and everyone in neat, definable boxes. Yesterday afternoon with me probably short-circuited the poor boy’s brain.
I’m not thrilled about where this is headed because the sex was super great and easily accessible. And now I’m going to have to work at it and go out and find guys and make sure it all seems safe and work my Abra and sing the MI theme and school them in the proper way to work my body.
Honestly, I just want minimum effort for maximum return. What can I say? I’m a product of my culture.
With Sam he’s been vetted, broken in, is a known good time, and I can reach him whenever I want. But if I’m forced to choose, there’s no contest between keeping the best friend and keeping the benefits.
I give it one last try.
“Friends with benefits, Sam. No strings. Just,” I lower my voice, “brilliant bow chicka wow wow.”
I waggle my eyebrows at him. Which I can’t believe I’m doing. Probably my behavior stems from being somewhat addicted to his particular brand of pheromones because I’m deviating from being the dominant one and skating perilously close to submission, i.e. “take me.”
“Obviously there’s this new side that we enjoyed,” he says.
“Absolutely.”
“But if it’s going to affect the friendship then it’s got to stop,” he finishes.
“Why would it?”
“You did run out on me yesterday.”
“That wasn’t about friendship.” Hello? I was following your rules.
“It is when you know we’d normally hang out. You treated me like some random hookup,” he complains.
“You can’t bitch about how chicks want more and then demand special status,” I shoot back.
“It is the status quo. Between us.”
I pretend to think it over. “Hmm, movies, dinner, nope. No orgasms.”
That last bit is said into a suddenly silent diner. Matt and Vic perk up, very interested.
Matt stares at me, clearly telegraphing he’s waiting for me to dish. I throw him my best “no way no how” scowl. He rolls his eyes at me but returns to his card game.
“Forget it,” Sam grumbles. “Are we going bowling or what?”
An hour later I’m rolling off of Sam in his bedroom. Again. Both of us are barely covered by the sheets.
“Not that we’re going to do this again,” I lie to him, “but I think it would be best if we keep it between us. If Rach and Ian found out, well, you know what they’re like.”
There’s no way those two could understand that this is purely about sex.
No answer. I prod Sam with my foot.
“I’m not going to tell.”
“Good.” I scoop up my clothes and glance at my watch, trying not to come off as too smug. “There’s still time to go bowling if you want.”
I watch Sam fixated on the ceiling, perturbed. “Sure.”
Guess I’m not getting round three.
Today.
Chapter seventeen
I get my frustration out in a friendly pickup game with about eight other guys.
I motion to a teammate that I’m open. Ian guards me.
“You look like shite, pal,” he tells me.
Eye on the ball, I jog left. Ian stays on me.
“I’m tired from all the exercise I’ve been getting.”
“Which department are you trolling your way through now? Arts? Business?”
“Working on the sciences.”
“I hear chemists do it on the table,” he jokes.
“Biology, actually.”
“Ah. Impressive command of organisms.”
“You have no idea,” I front.
He responds with a “way to go” nod.
Wrong.
Ally was a huge mistake. Before I had sex and friendship. Separate, on call, no conflict. This new mashed up combo is messing up the natural order of things.
I’ve truly created a monster. Save me from Fuckenstein. Sure, I’m happy to be her best lay ever (but seriously, look who the competition was), but her crack-addicted jonsing for my expert abilities messes with what I want. Which is to be able to hang out with my friend. Fully clothed.
Even though the sex is insane, it’s not like I can’t get really good sex elsewhere. On a regular basis. But our friend stuff, that I only get from her.
So either I’ve got to branch out, which is a lot of work, I mean, I’ve invested a lifetime in this one, or she needs to start behaving properly. We can have sex but when it’s friend time, it’s friend time.
Besides, let’s be real. How long can Ally keep this up before she reverts back to her true nature and falls in love with me? Which is going to mess everything up.
Big. Mistake.
Also, thinking about her has me spanking the monkey so much lately that I’m chafed. Mega painful.
I’m one justifiably pissed off mother.
I jump, snatching the ball out of mid-air. Ian rams into me and I drop the ball.
I swear. Loudly.
“Just a game, Sam,” Ian says. He looks at me a bit closer. “Oh. Not the b-ball.”
I fake then pass but Ian has anticipated this. He grabs the ball and runs toward the opposite side of the court. I’m hot on his heels.
“Brilliant,” he tosses out, pleased.
“What?”
“Meaningless sex is wearing thin. You’re starting to realize you want more.”
Ian shoots. Close but no cigar.
Another member of his team takes off with the ball.
“No. I definitely want less.” Because what he’s missing since I’m not going to spill is the fact I’m talking about Ally. He’d never understand that this is just about sex.
And how it’s throwing everything out of whack.
Ally is not some random chick and she should know better. Her desire to be all sexually evolved should not be screwing with the friendship.
The ball travels closer. I see my chance and steal it but am stuck dribbling, searching for a way to pass it with Ian blocking my every move.
“If you don’t like it,” he says, “don’t go there.”
I look at him like he’s an idiot. “Are you on crack? Great. Sex. Of course I like it.”
With a sudden burst of speed, I whip past him and am immediately knocked sideways by this huge ‘roid monster on Ian’s team.
I lose the ball and rub my sore shoulder.
“Yeah,” Ian smirks. “You’re aglow.”
~
The week goes from bad to worse. This stupid Marketing class chocolate assignment with Monica keeps getting snagged on a billion different issues she has with my idea.
She’s the client from hell and totally not going along with how I’m laying it down for her. But I’m playing nice since a big part of this grade depends on our teamwork.
What is so tough to understand?
Monica has just raised her fortieth protest about this campaign. Of course, she has yet to come up with a single replacement idea.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, out of patience.
I can tell she’s plucking up her courage to speak. Just say it already.
“My chocolate is about love,” she whispers. She clears her voice and speaks up. Meaning I can barely hear her. “All this ‘reframing its context’? It goes against chocolate’s nature.”
“Chocolate is chocolate,” I reply. “It doesn’t have a nature. It doesn’t have to be about love. It can be about divorce. Or hemorrhoids. That’s up to the individual user.”
“I think I want to embrace the love.”
Save me from females and their love crap. Time to inject a little hard truth into her world. “And I think if you do, you’ll be like everyone else, fighting for sales, boring in your thinking, which will translate into a product that was once unique and delicious but now could be any old dusty box nubbin with a cloying strawberry center no one wants.”
Her eyes widen. Guess she didn’t expect that.
Well, the truth hurts.
Chapter eighteen
Thongs itch. It takes me forever to get the stupid eyeliner on properly and I don’t always feel like primping my hair to look like I just stepped out of a salon.
Guess the thrill is wearing thin. Or more accurately, the upkeep is.
I really enjoyed everything about my makeover at first. It was fun to play with makeup and clothes, I loved the looks I got, and my hookups have been pretty cool.
But it’s complicated some parts of my life too. Like most of my classes are honors level. Nerd city. Which is fine, because I’m a geek and our tribes get along just fine. We are equals on an intellectual playing field.
But now, the guys in my classes don’t know what to do with me. Their already hampered social awkwardness has soared off the charts, which is seriously impinging on my ability to work with them in groups.
Instead of a stimulating exchange of ideas, they grunt and lurch around me like a bunch of zombies with the occasional blatant nudge to each other.
Sigh. I’m also seriously annoyed because I’ve had to deal with Jeremy making cutting comments about “sellouts” all through Civics class since I’ve skipped a couple meetings of our city-wide teen environmental club.
Even though I’m totally committed to a better world for people and animals alike, I’m not yet ready to sit in the same room with him and Leslie while I fight for it. It’s going to take time. As I can’t tell him that, or, well, won’t, I’m having to endure his insults.
It’s more than just name-calling though. He’s acting like I’m some whore spreading my poxied wares on the desk.
Meanwhile, I’ve got his douchebag friend Max trying to put the moves on me. Figures he’d be the one geek to rise to the challenge. I think I pulled a muscle brushing off old Octo-arms and his “accidental” groping.
And I don’t want the other guys at my school who have suddenly noticed me. I may be new and shiny but they’re still gross. They don’t seem to get that I didn’t get a lobotomy and haven’t suddenly forgotten years of stupid nicknames and basic ignoring.
I thought that getting noticed for all the right reasons would improve my life. That being at the top of the desirability food chain was the way to go.
Actual field experience is proving quite different.
I think that peacocks have the right idea. They’re born with a beautiful plumage that requires no upkeep. Just whip it out, shake your tail feather, and you’re good to go. Plus, it’s the male that has to do all the work attracting the female to his lovely feathers, which I think is brilliant.
If only society worked that way.
All I want to do is go home, put on some sweats, and eat a bag of chips. But that’s the first step of a slippery slope ending in me at three hundred pounds and hoarding animals, so I don’t.
Instead, I track Sam down and see if he wants me to bring over Chinese. He’s just coming out of h
is Marketing class and looks pretty annoyed himself.
Maybe we can work off a little steam together.
I extend my offer.
His eyes light up. “Ginger beef, maybe a little Wii? I’m in.”
Why is he being so boneheaded about this?
Once again it’s going to be up to me to do everything. Because it’s not like he doesn’t want to. It’s just before and after that he acts like a baby. The “during” he’s very fine indeed.
I feed him first, hoping that will jolly him into a good mood.
He’s laughing and kidding around, which is a positive sign. Then he breaks out the Wii.
I have a moment of hope when the batteries are dead but he assures me he has more in the kitchen. Off he trots.
Fine. I undo the top couple buttons on my shirt and watch him return to the room with a feline smile.
“Not tonight, I have a headache,” he grouses.
“Come on. These are supposed to be your peak sexual years. What’s your deal?”
“No deal.” He motions at my shirt, which is practically all undone now. “You’re just being presumptuous.”
Which sounds so old man I can’t even believe it’s coming out of his mouth.
I shrug it off. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this was friend time.”
He accepts my apology as I snap open the final button. Yeah, I’m a stinker.
“It’s just, it might be nice to hang out. Talk,” he says.
I fix him with my most winning smile. “Or, we could rub up against each other and see where friction takes us.”
The shirt hangs open. He struggles with the decision for about a second.
“Definitely not friend time,” he concedes.
This is what I’m talking about.
I whip off my shirt and toss it at him.
Sam lunges for me as I shriek with laughter and take off for his bedroom.
Much better.
Chapter nineteen
It’s mad bliss until I come back from the bathroom afterward and find…nothing. I chuck the pillow Ally was using across the room.
Horrified, I realize I’m starting to act like a girl. I need to get past this and get my ‘nads back. No way am I talking to Ian. So I head over to Etienne’s for some pure dog run down like “yo, man, good score” to get my head back in the game.
Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls Page 9