Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “Want a glass of filtered water before we sort everything out?”

  “Sure I do,” he wheezes.

  “Coming right up.”

  Once we’ve completed the aquarium, my new pet octopus has a fittingly ocean-esque home with rocks, plastic tree things, lots of shells. And some Haribo Starmix, just for that pop of color.

  “So what’s his name?” Archer asks as I drop in the octopus. It lands with a very satisfying plop, and then sinks an inch or two, very slowly, before beginning to float.

  “Rule,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You think I can’t call my octopus Rule, Archer?”

  He shrugs. “Seems like a pretty weird choice.”

  “Book blogger thing. You wouldn’t get it.” I gaze into the vacant eyes of my new octopus and sigh happily. “Look how his tentacles are kind of wavering. He’s so cute.”

  Archer squints at the tank. “Think he’s defrosted yet?” Then he pauses, chewing his full lower lip. “Hey…aren’t we meant to filter the water for a day first, before putting him in?”

  “Pretty sure that doesn’t apply to dead octopi from the freezer section of the Chinese supermarket.”

  “This is most likely true.” He’s still frowning at the tank. “Won’t this, erm, start to smell really bad?”

  “Since I never kept a cephalopod mollusc corpse in my bedroom before, I’m not sure.” I swallow. “But I’m guessing so, yeah.”

  “You and your crazy ideas, Cam-Cam.”

  “Like I said—my life depends on it.”

  Archer puts a strong arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “Want me to walk you to class?”

  “Class?” Oh yeah…I totally go to college. “Right. Of course. I have one in like, half an hour.”

  “Me too.”

  “Just let me wash up and we’ll head out, okay?”

  In the bathroom, I try to memorize Rule’s apparent backstory in case Hunter asks any questions. My parents bought him to keep me company when I started college last semester. He’s a pesky little cephalopod, always getting into my make-up drawers and watching YouTube tutorials for smoky eye looks. His favorite foods are live shrimp and Krispy Kremes.

  Then I find myself fantasising about having a psychic link with him whilst on the toilet, and have to pull myself together before shit gets real.

  When I walk back into my bedroom, Archer is holding one of my parcel boxes, staring at the one Hunter sent with sheer horror. He tips it to one side, displaying the velvet-lined mold that the choc-cock arrived in.

  “What the hell’s this?” he demands.

  “Oh. Hunter sent me an advance review copy,” I say hesitantly. “Of his penis.”

  “I see he had it, erm, blown up.”

  “Oh no. That’s life-sized,” I say, blushing.

  Archer squints at the box, peering closer. “Really?!”

  I start to giggle. “Maybe he should take up jousting.”

  “You did not just say that.”

  I feel awful for mocking Archer’s most sacred hobby. I change the subject (Fjorn Brimstone’s shock X Factor exit) and we head down to the arts building for class. When I reach my lecture theatre, Archer gives me a peck on the cheek.

  “Thanks for everything,” I say, giving his bicep a squidge.

  “Always a pleasure.”

  “Catch you around later?”

  “You know it.”

  He watches me walk into the theatre, and then leaves.

  I find an empty seat near the middle and fiddle about in my book bag for my iPad. Critical Thinking for Darren Hayes Lyrics is always half empty; the last professor got sacked for having a torrid affair with a student, so we’re stuck with the temp replacement.

  One of the assistants begins to mess with the whiteboard, and the screen at the front lights up. I glance down, trying to get a good look at the lecturer who just walked in with a briefcase. He looks kinda familiar, what with his tailored suit and fudge sundae hair and—

  Oh God. Oh no. This is almost as bad as getting my review struck off Goodreads.

  HUNTER IS MY NEW TEACHER.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wait, wait. I got a liiiiiittle bit carried away there.

  Hunter walks right past the lecture podium, the soles of his Converse sneakers squeaking on the floor. When he drops his briefcase beside me, I realize he’s about to sit down.

  “I didn’t know you were in this class,” I say.

  “You don’t know a lot of things.”

  How does he see into my soul like that? “You really carry a briefcase?”

  “Just today. Fancied it.” He grins at me.

  “Just fancied coming in through the staff entrance, too?”

  “It was good for tension.” He shrugs. “What, you think a former rock God can’t appreciate the fine lyrics of Darren Hayes?”

  “What do you even major in?”

  “You, gosling. I major in you.” Then he puts his big, firm hand on my thigh and starts to stroke the tender skin beneath my skirt.

  I sit back in the uncomfortable chair, desperately trying not to moan out loud (or sigh inwardly. We all know what that leads to). “So just to clarify,” I manage, “you’re not teaching this class, right?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Not…yet?”

  “One day, perhaps.” He gives a wistful sigh. “While I have mastered the intense imagery of his earlier Savage Garden albums, I have yet to fully explore the catalogue of Mr Hayes.” Hunter lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Everyone thinks that sub-par fanfic is responsible for the public’s sudden interest in BDSM. Not true. It’s the last generation’s appreciation of Savage Garden finally coming to fruition.”

  “Right,” I mutter. I’m just here because The Marriage Bargain: A Social Commentary was full. Hunter must never know this.

  “Look at their name, for fuck’s sake. Look at the song titles: ‘Break Me, Shake Me.’ ‘Chained to You.’ ‘Crash and Burn.’ ‘Two Beds and an Equine Speculum.’”

  I cough. “You sure about that last one?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” He pats my knee dismissively. “Trust me. It was a complex strategy, probably only possible because they were Australian and were used to hiding from rabid kangaroos and such. They masked a passionate craving for bondage by hiding such songs on their albums, while releasing those…” He shudders. “Ballads.”

  The lecture begins. Have you ever tried to concentrate on dissecting the middle eight of ‘Crush (1980 Me)’ while you’re:

  1. Worried about your pet dead octopus going rancid

  2. Feeling sick because you ate half a large chocolate penis for breakfast

  3. Trying to stay quiet as a very rugged and tousled gosling major massages your inner thighs?

  No, didn’t think so. But since I’m the expert in all of the above, let me enlighten you as to how it all goes:

  1. Terribly.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed my package this morning,” Hunter murmurs during the lecture.

  “I had your package for breakfast,” I manage. “Well. I had the helmet and most of the shaft. Enid had the base and the balls.”

  He chuckles. “Lucky Enid. Did she like the cream filling?”

  “She said it was predictable.” And then she and I both nearly choked because, y’know, pre-dick-ta-ble. “But she wolfed it down, so I guess it was still pretty good.”

  “I’ve heard many a Pi Pi Pi bloke say that Enid likes to wolf down cock.”

  I scowl. “I know, right? But you can’t say that to her face because she gets all touchy.”

  Hunter wiggles his index finger up to ping the elastic of my panties. It stings. “She’s not pure and innocent like you, gosling.”

  “Uh, what?” I go all warm and shivery, like I’ve got flu. Sex flu.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I love that you’re a virgin. It means I can tell you a bunch of stuff is normal when it’s actually a grave cause for concern.”

 
“I’m not a virgin!” I can’t get the words out fast enough.

  “I heard your virginity alarm going off right before you told me about the octopus.”

  I freeze. “You heard that? But-but it was in my head—”

  “Actually, it’s a very high-frequency sound wave that only bats and fucktards can hear,” he says matter-of-factly. “Fortunately for you, there were no bats present. That would have involved some expensive reconstructive surgery.”

  “Uh…okay then.”

  “You’d be less Vaj Mahal, more ancient ruins. We’re talking Bonehenge.”

  For a moment, all I think of is Stonehenge. How did they build the Stonehenge?

  “Gosling.” He leans right over to talk into my ear. “I heard that alarm go off the moment I saw you, and I almost besmirched my pants there and then.”

  I swear, a British accent can make the most stupid words sound hot. “Hunter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say besmirched again for me.”

  He runs his bare fingertip down to the back of my knee, and tickles. “Besmirched.”

  Oh, oh yes yes yes.

  More tickling, right in the crease between my meat curtains and my thigh. I get the feeling that people are watching us, not the lecture.

  “Besmirrrrrchy murchy murchy,” he growls into my neck.

  My breath picks up, catches in my throat. I have to grip the edges of my chair. “Oh, Hunter.”

  His finger goes higher. His voice gets gruffer. “Besmiiiiiiirched, is that what you like?”

  “Yes, yes…” Holy Squid Patrick Harris, what’s happening to me? “I think—OHMYGOD!”

  I’m having my first orgasm. In the middle of a lecture theatre. It forces me off the chair and I roll into the aisle, bleating like a baby goat.

  The room falls silent and the professor stops gesturing to stare at me with his best wtf? face. I expect Hunter to offer a hand, to help me, but instead he gives his fingers a sniff and collects his briefcase. Then he turns to the half-filled theatre and takes a little bow. As he slopes off toward the exit, I clamber to my knees, blushing more fiercely than I can ever remember. My legs are all trembly and I appear to have cracked the screen of my iPad; I want to sob, but my hips are still quivering and despite the complete embarrassment, I feel quite…nice.

  After a moment or two of shocked silence, the lecturer goes back to the song at hand, which is now Strange Relationship. Nicely played, irony. Just like my muff.

  * * *

  “He did what?” Enid stares at me over her fish taco. “You did what?”

  “My…my first big O,” I manage to blurt. “During the lecture. It was mortifying.”

  Her eyes widen. “You can say that again.”

  After my disaster-slash-epiphany of a class, I called Enid for an emergency meeting at Gabriel’s Wrapture, our favorite Mexican place on campus. Now we’re dissecting the experience over dinner.

  “I can’t believe he just left me there,” I utter into my fajita, which is swollen with pink meat.

  “Anyone would think he’s an exhibitionist with a humiliation fetish.”

  “Like that happens.” I snort, and we both laugh, but Enid’s chortle has this sour tone to it like I’m really stupid and can’t see what’s in front of me. I know exactly what’s in front of me: a heap of lardy Me-hee-can goodness and a jealous whore.

  “That V card isn’t going to last long,” Enid says fortuitously.

  “You’re right.” I begin to panic again and put down my fajita. Looks like my lack of eating issues have kicked in. “Oh, Enid. I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

  “This is Hunter von Styles we’re talking about—I’m not sure he cares.”

  “Mmm.” I nod, confused. “It’s strangely alluring.”

  “When are you seeing him again?” she asks.

  “Tonight, at eight.” I panic some more—that’s three hours away! “And I have nothing to wear, Enid!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re wearing clothes right now.” She rolls her eyes.

  “I wasn’t being literal.”

  “Think of the fashion-starved third world, Cammie. They’re the ones with nothing to wear,” she scolds.

  “You mean like on Here Comes Honey Boo Boo?”

  She takes a massive mouthful of taco and talks through the food. “That is precisely what I mean.”

  “Oh. Okay then.” I pause to stab a straw into my Pepsi. “So what am I going to wear?”

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “He doesn’t really do details,” I mutter.

  “Well Jeez, you’re a bucket of help and a half.” She steals a slurp of my drink. Enid’s too cheap to buy her own. “He was in a German band, right? Maybe lederhosen?”

  “Now who’s the bucket of help?”

  “And a half.” She wags a finger at me. “And a half.”

  * * *

  By eight o’clock, I’m primped and purty and ready to go. After I feed Rule, I lie down on my bed to read, hoping I’ll feel a little more composed by the time Hunter arrives. I mean, tonight could be the night. Rule’s still looking kind of dead and vacant, and his water is going cloudy. Huh. Sure hope we go back to Hunter’s for the horizontal tango because staring into that aquarium will not be sexy.

  At eight on the dot, Hunter gives his signature three knocks on my door and I leap off the bed to let him in. Tall and robust in the doorway, he smells like a surly grin and is expensive body wash from ear to ear. Or something. Hellooooo, Crotchy von Pouty Pout.

  “Gosling.” He dips his head and plants a warm kiss on my neck. “Looking especially hot tonight.”

  I giggle. “You like my lederhosen?”

  He stands back and squints at me. “You’re a brave girl.”

  “Oh, Hunter.” I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck, dropping my book in the process.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  I glance down to check the title. “Twincest Summer.”

  “Oh?” He’s trying very hard not to look interested. “With actual…twins?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Isn’t that, you know…dirty and wrong?” he says darkly.

  “Oh no. They’re only step-twins.”

  “Ah. Well that makes it okay.” He nods sagely.

  “Yeah. I figure that if Amazon will sell it, it’s got to be.” I’m about to join him in the sage nod, but maybe I should mix it up a bit. Basil shimmy? Hammer Thyme?

  “Are you ready to leave, gosling?” He gestures to the corridor.

  “Yeah, um…just need to get something…” I take his hand and pull him inside. I have to make sure he sees Rule while he can still, er, see things in the water. I close the door behind him and flash a smile. “Just popping to the restroom—won’t be a second.”

  He’s looking confused, which makes him even yummier than usual. Maybe we should just run off into the sunset and be confused together forever. As I brace against the shower cubicle and count to sixty seconds, I let myself imagine what it might be like to actually be Hunter’s girlfriend. If I’m his girlfriend for more than three weeks, I beat Taylor Swift; now there’s a thought. A thought that brings home the gravity of the situation. A thought that puts me in a tight black cupboard of PANIC.

  “Hunter!” I wheeze as I stagger back out.

  “Gosling? What’s wrong?”

  “I just…I…” I pant, clasping my throat. “Anxiety attack.”

  His brow dips in sympathy. “Is there anything I can do?”

  I want to shout PROPOSE! but it’s not happening. Maybe this is for the best. I’ve played it safe so far with my wardrobe and pet choices—I don’t want to scare him off.

  Hunter seems alarmed by my lack of response. He grabs hold of my shoulders and shakes me violently, which only makes me howl louder.

  “Stoppit!”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He slows, still clasping me with those firm but gentle hands. “Have you tried taking deep breaths?”

 
“O-okay.” In and out. In and out. In and…ugh, it’s not working! Still a heap of Taylor Swift-induced spaghetti nerves. “Gah!”

  “Come on now, gosling.” He cups my chin. “Breathe with me.”

  I mimic him as he inhales and exhales, but the rhythm is all wrong for my body and I start to choke.

  “Okay, right, deep breaths not working. Try small breaths. Tiny ones.”

  “Tiny ones?” I squeak, still clueless. “How many?”

  He gives a helpless shrug. “I dunno...ten?!”

  “Ten…tiny…breaths,” I wheeze. I can do this. I can.

  Fortunately, Hunter does the counting for me because, y’know, still an English major.

  “There,” he murmurs, hugging me to his warm chest. “Better?”

  “So much better,” I say hoarsely. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “A vast abyss of melancholy?”

  I cock my head. “Not exactly.”

  “Gripping existential crisis?” His eyes dart about in thought. “No? Oh. Um. Lost an Ebay auction?”

  “How about we get going?”

  “Of course.” He takes my hand again.

  “Just let me get my coat,” I say. Then I hop to the wardrobe and start rifling through. What the hell kind of outerwear do you style with lederhosen, anyway?

  “Gosling?”

  “Yeah?” I turn, biker jacket in hand, to find him peering into Rule’s aquarium.

  “Is this your…octopus?” He sounds kind of repulsed.

  “Isn’t he awesome?”

  “I don’t really know how to tell you this. I know you’ve already had a very traumatic evening. But Cammie…” He turns to me with a pained expression and takes my hand in both of this. “Your octopus is deceased.”

  “Oh no,” I say brightly, “he’s like that all the time.”

  “What, flaccid and gawping at you with dead eyes?”

  “Maybe I like that kind of thing,” I manage.

  “Well you and me both, gosling. But seriously.” He grimaces at the cloudy tank. “I think we both know that your little friend here has popped his clogs.” He clears his throat. “All eight of them.”

  “Yeah. Not even sure what that means.”