by SM Lumetta
His responding grin is wide and naughty. He laughs, too, as I am obviously hilarious. “Are you kidding me with that nickname? Doesn’t matter. You’re going to feel the actual love wand, so that’s appropriate, right?”
“Okay, back to the rules. Point two: Do not ever call your penis a ‘love wand’ again.”
He laughs louder this time, open and warm. “I just wanted to see if you were paying attention when I said that. Not to mention you can call your pussy a ‘gigi’ but I can’t name my junk? Bullshit. And I just got test results last week. We have to get screened regularly for work anyway.”
“My names are funny. Yours are stupid. So your results are?” I hold my hands up and out, waiting. I think he makes me wait longer just because I’m acting exasperated. I make a play using his level of maturity and stick out my tongue.
“Herpes simplex and hepatitis C. Just like always,” he deadpans, adding a shrug for good measure.
“Excellent,” I say with an exaggerated nod and the worst possible British accent. I might go so far as to say queenly. If the Queen was on all sorts of muscle relaxers and just had cavities filled. “As long as you still have an intravenous drug habit, we are good to go!”
His face splits into a wide grin. “Well, we’re going to shoot up together with dirty needles before we have sex, right?”
“Clearly.”
“Because that was under the butt-sex clause. Article two, subsection three, paragraph eleven.” His face is comically straight.
I shake my head, simpering. I bend an eyebrow at him, arching it high. “I daresay I am sure I didn’t read a butt-sex clause anywhere in the contract that we didn’t actually draw up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you on crack?”
He tries to scoff but the sound escapes like an oink, his chest jumping. “Not yet.”
I pull the pillow out from under my butt and throw it at him. It hits him in the face. “Come on! Can’t you be serious?”
He picks it up and sticks his face in it. “This might be the closest I get to some back door action.”
I lose myself in complete hysterics. Bending over the arm of the chair, I let my entire body collapse into a heap. It’s contagious, and Fox’s hyena-like sounds funnel right into my ear and fuels us both for a few minutes. After a couple more juvenile, and largely offensive jokes, including me threatening to invade his “no-go” zone, we’re finally calm enough to get back to talking terms.
“You’re not itching with gonorrhea. Stellar. Now, point two—”
“Wait.” He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the sofa. “Shouldn’t we be on point three?” He picks up his glass.
“We only got to point one,” I say. “Can you count? I mean, if there’s brain damage from the craft herpes, I should know now.”
“Point two was no love wand naming,” he reminds me before making an extra loud slurping sound in his drink.
“You can name it, but don’t ever call it a ‘love wand’ again. Which you just did, so you’ve already broken one rule.” I ignore his groan.
“Can I call it my joystick?” he asks, dead serious.
“Jesus. Okay, sure, until we come up with something better,” I say. “Point two—the actual two—no other ass.”
“So crude.” He tips the remainder of his drink back. The ice clinks and a cube slips past his face and falls into his crotch. He grabs it and puts it back in the glass before he sets it down.
I pick up the television remote and toss it at him. It hits him in the shoulder.
“Really? I mean, really?” He holds his arms out to exaggerate the question.
“First of all, if you’re agreeing to this, all your spermies are belong to me,” I tease and gulp some screwdriver. He snickers at the old school gamer phrasing. “Second, I don’t want to be sleeping with someone who’s fucking all sorts of randoms I don’t know.”
He gets up and heads straight for the fridge. “I resent that you think I have no judgment when it comes to—”
My fit of hysteria stops him in his tracks. He turns and glares at me, leaning a bent arm on the open refrigerator door. I wheeze for a moment before forcing a straight face. “Ahem.”
“Are you done?” he asks, hilariously irritated.
“Totally,” I say, but my throat is still tight.
“Go ahead. Finish.”
“I hope you’ll be that open-minded when we’re having sex,” I say, grinning wildly.
That breaks him. He cackles, pinching his nose as if that will make him look more serious. “Okay, Lollipop,” he says as he refills his drink. “What exactly are we talking about anymore?”
“Your questionable taste in pussy.”
My gorgeous friend chokes on his sip. Setting the glass on the kitchen island, he coughs while he slams his hand on the counter. “You do realize,” he says with a scratchy throat, “that you’re adding yourself to that list.”
“All that does is improve your standing.”
This time he guffaws. “Okay, fine, whatever. I’ve made some questionable choices,” he says, begrudgingly conceding to my claim. “However, I think you’ve made a few of your own.”
“Oh, you’re calling me out now? My numbers are considerably lower than yours, Casanova,” I argue.
“Which only lowers your ratio of good dick to bad dick,” he says.
“And by considerably,” I continue, ignoring him, “I mean nonexistent. The only pussy I’ve ever had is my own.”
His mouth drops open and he cycles through a few expressions: confusion, lust, and curiosity. “Are you that flexible?”
“Idiot. Regardless of my dick choices, it’s still no comparison to the level of errors you’ve made, you manwhore.”
“That sounds negative.”
“You make up for it in personality.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry Brett was such a shit.”
My eyes nearly pop out of my skull, and my jaw drops. “Where the hell did that come from? I ditched Brett ten months ago!”
“Are you fucking kidding me? It was that long?” He shakes his head and picks up his glass before returning to his spot on the couch. Seriously, when he comes over, it’s his spot. I’m surprised he doesn’t spin in a circle three times before lying down. “Where the hell have I been?”
“Adding to your considerable list of tuna taco tours,” I say, raising my glass to him. He leans over and clinks his with mine. Then he drops into his seat, spilling the drink on his lap. I roll my eyes, jump up, and run to the kitchen. I open the drawer on the island, grab a towel, and throw it at him.
“You’re not going to wipe it up for me?” he asks, pretending to be shocked. “You know, get acquainted with the equipment?”
“I’m not touching it until you agree to give up your hos.” As he cleans himself up, I take the moment to admire his bare chest moving with quickened breath. And his smile. It’s breathtaking. My stomach and all my lady muscles clench thinking about my kid having that smile.
“No bitches,” he nearly shouts, bowing his head in a terse nod. He throws the towel toward the hallway. “Agreed.”
“What did I tell you about calling bitches ‘bitches’?”
“Excuse me,” he says, pretending to be chastised. “I meant to say, ‘the wimmen-folk.’ ”
“Dick.”
“Now, you can’t just go calling dicks ‘dicks,’ ” he begins, but I see what he’s doing so I interrupt.
“Please stop.”
“Okay.”
“So, you’re really okay giving up the harem?” I’m legitimately surprised he agreed so easily. Well, not that surprised, but I admit to myself that I thought curtailing his freedom in this respect might be a serious detractor for him. So it is a shock and relief when he agrees so easily.
He gives me a look. “I can quit anytime I want. Besides, I’ll still be getting laid.”
I blush involuntarily. Weird. “I guess so. Okay, last point: I need you to be avai
lable.”
He shakes his head and looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Um, isn’t that the point of shutting down the harem?”
“Pig.”
Snort.
“I mean,” I continue at his blank stare, “if I’m ovulating and all the temps are right, I need you to be available so I can jump on the magic pogo stick ASAP.”
“That sounds painful. And it’s the joystick. Although I like the addition of magic.”
“You know what I mean.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “I do.”
“So we’re in agreement?” I inhale deeply. I cannot believe this is going to happen. I guess until it literally does it’s just a funny idea.
“Basically, fuckfest until you’re preggers.” He picks up his drink and guzzles it.
I shake my head and pinch my eyes shut for a moment. I open them to his grin. Evil bastard. “So eloquent,” I say. I slow blink, so he knows the extent of my delight.
“You didn’t choose me for my eloquence.” He smirks. “You chose me for my—”
“Balls.”
He chokes. I flash him a wicked smile. He’s not the only one with jokes.
Fox says he expects me to let him know when we’re, um, getting started. I promise it will be soon as I just finished a period. I’m damn proud of him when he doesn’t get squicked out or act juvenile when I bring up menstruation. He says, “I’m a medical professional,” but he’s still Fox.
In the meantime, I’ve started fertility drugs. I’ve been conferring with Dr. Beaufort since I came to the decision to proposition my oldest friend to have sex with me. God, I cannot believe this is happening. Every so often, I need to pause and breathe deeply whenever the reality of it hits me. I’ve had several of these moments since Fox and I came to an agreement. It sounds so formal to say that when the entire negotiation was something out of an episode of Drunk History.
In any case, Dr. Beaufort continues to run tests on my hormone levels and track any menopausal symptoms. I’m told it’s still looking like menopause, if not just perimenopause—which means I still get periods but have all the markers of menopause. What a treat.
While I prepare to battle the barrage of oncoming night sweats, hot flashes, and extra sassy mood swings, I get to take synthetic hormones to boost fertility. On one hand, it could lessen and potentially wipe out the bulk of menopausal symptoms. On the other, it will likely be extra rollercoaster-y with the moods. Brilliant.
I just hope it doesn’t result in twins or triplets—or worse. It could, and I’ll accept whatever media headline-worthy number of babies I end up with, but the possible results ramp up my anxiety. I’m normally not so “tight-assed,” as Fox puts it whenever he catches me in the state. Really, it’s one of the reasons I usually have no problem hanging with the boys. I can roll with it. Or however you want to put it. But whatever this medication is she’s got me started on, I’m edgier, snappier, and more “tight-assed” than I’ve ever been. It’s fucking irritating. And exhausting. Maybe it’s not even just the meds. But when Nora starts advising me to have a nightcap daily, it’s probably bad. Even she’s worried about this mood-altering shit. It’s not even the good mood-altering shit. I digress.
According to calendars—which are very important in the fertility game—I’m about to head into a very fertile set of days tomorrow. With every hormone-induced anxiety, I swing by Fox’s house on my way home from the editing studio to drop the boom.
“Hey, is it baby making time?” he asks after opening the door.
“I bet you say that to all the girls you open your door to,” I say, pretending to play coy.
Flower shoves her head through the space next to his hip, looking vaguely like Jack Nicholson from The Shining. Except happier. And with a lot more panting and tongue. I grin at her and smooth a hand over her head.
“Don’t get all uppity about it,” he says, stepping back to let me in. Flower does the same. “You haven’t texted in a day or two.”
“I stopped by to let you know,” I say, nervously shoving my hands in my pockets as I slide by him. “Looks like we’re heading into ‘go time’ tomorrow. I thought we could chat about it before anything happens.”
He leads me to the kitchen where I settle in at the breakfast bar. Flower sits at attention next to me, assuming she may get a treat or a food castoff. “We’re going to have sex. Why do we need to talk so much about it?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not exactly the kind of hookup you’re used to.”
“So?”
“So what about kissing?” I ask. I don’t know why I have a shit-ton of crazy-ass questions about this. It’s not like I’ve never had sex. But with Fox, I’m overanalyzing every detail and possibility.
“What about it? We don’t need to kiss to make a baby.” He shrugs with that “what the fuck is wrong with you” look on his face.
I cross my eyes and make a noise like a constipated sea lion. “Thanks, doctor. What I’m saying is that kissing’s kind of like the warm up. You know?”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
This is the part in a TV show where everything goes silent, all attention on me under a glaring spotlight. Every eye in the house. Bated breath and all. Because the audience assumes I secretly want Fox’s baby because I’m in love with him.
Except no one else is here. And Fox isn’t even looking at me. Instead, he’s petting Flower, who’s now sitting on his foot, looking up to him—in other words, begging. And I’m not in love with him. For real.
“Do you often have sex without kissing?” I ask finally.
The audience is disappointed and I internally cackle at their thwarted plot.
Fox gives me the “don’t be stupid” look, which is my cue to retort, “Oh, did you need one of these?” I shove my hand in my pocket only to pull it out, middle finger extended.
He gasps exaggeratedly. “That’s so funny. I have two!” His hands dig into his back pockets before he slings double birds in my direction. I shove his leg with my foot.
“Be serious, asshole.”
“I’m not Sirius, I’m Harry Potter.”
“Fox. It’s not like I get a play-by-play. I mean, shit, who has time to hear about all your poonanny?”
“Poonanny? Really, Soph?” His face is worth the price of admission. And by admission, I mean the ridiculous words like “poonanny” that I like to throw at him. Really, I don’t think I use these words with anyone else.
“Fine. All that ass you bangin’.”
He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s holding back. It’s like he can’t admit I’m funny. “My God, so much ass.” He pretends to bask in his own glory.
“I swear I’m not even sure why we’re friends.” I pick up an orange from the fruit bowl on the counter and throw it at him. He catches it easily and rips it open like a savage. The smell of fresh citrus is nice, and for whatever reason, it relaxes me.
He shifts into a ridiculous sorority girl voice and dramatically pretend-pushes his hair off his shoulders. “I don’t know either, Jennifer.” He extends the “er” so long, I want to put my fingers in my ears. “You’re selfish. And you don’t listen.”
My head falls forward, hitting the counter. I lie there for a moment, recollecting myself. Okay, I’m giggling. He’s an idiot who makes me laugh.
“So!” I bellow, redirecting back to the actual topic. I lift my head and lean on my elbows. “Sexy no kissy.”
“You’re rocking some cleavage, aren’t ya?” he says with his gaze on my boobs.
“Christ, can you hold a conversation with anyone with tits? I’m not sure how we’ve managed this before.”
“Well, now I know I’m going to fuck you, so I’m more inclined to notice these things.”
“You are a crazy ass, strange dude,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Sex. No Kissing. Answer me.”
His lips twist as he grumbles. “There have indeed been times when it’s been straight up sex and no mouth to mouth.”
“That just
seems… wrong.”
He crosses his arms and shrugs, pursing his mouth in that typically nonchalant style. “Not really,” he says.
“Well, would it be too weird?” I ask.
“What?”
“The sex.”
“Why would the sex be weird?” he asks. “I mean, other than we’ve been friends since birth or whatever and we’re practically related—”
“Way to make it gross. Flower, bite him.” She tilts her head in question.
He ignores me, still speaking as if I’d never tried to interrupt. “—and have never tried to get busy before.”
I lean forward and smack him. Not too lightly.
“Abusive.” He rubs his cheek, his expression pricelessly fragile. Sarcastically so, of course.
“Without kissing,” I remind him. “Would it be too weird without kissing.” I huff, irritated at the circular motion of this conversation. “Forget it.”
“I will not forget it,” he insists. “I’ll kiss you, but—”
“But what?” I make a face, prepared to be offended. Or mostly just to make him think I’ll be offended. Which I might, if I’m being honest.
“I’m just thinking, would that ruin us somehow? We can’t ever un-kiss.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I’m not sure he’s joking. I’m stuck on trying to figure out his ridiculous thought before I respond. When I do, though, I can’t say all that much.
“Um.” I look all around, avoiding his eyes as the audience and I wait for him to catch up.
“What?” he asks.
Jesus. “We can’t un-fuck either.”
“Christ,” he mutters and scrubs his face with his hands. Leaning forward, he grips the counter. “Fair play. I think I’m still drunk from last night.”
“No, just dumb. And we kissed before. When we were kids,” I say. “Remember?”
“Like that counts,” he replies, annoyed at the idea. “It was experimenting, and we were horrible at it.”
I frown. “We were not,” I say defensively. “Just inexperienced. And it does too count. You were my first kiss, jerk.”