How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  “Home to you,” I clarify.

  “To me?”

  A nonchalant shrug. “Basically.”

  She considers this quietly, biting down on her bottom lip in concentration. Then, “Do you think you could you lift me onto your shoulder?”

  My eyes start at the top of her pale white hair, trail down her chest. Stomach. Waist. Thighs, legs, and feet, weighing her in at one twenty-five soaking wet.

  “Easily.”

  “Hmmm,” she hums, all twinkling and mischievous, like she suddenly wants to play and get sweaty with me.

  My dick twitches.

  We haven’t had sex in days, and I’m getting turned on by the mere sight of her. By the smell of her clean room and the exposed skin of her stomach whenever she moves around on the bed.

  “Do you want me to pick you up and lift you over my shoulder?”

  Naked.

  Just the thought turns my twitching dick into a semi-boner.

  Violet leans back, foot dangling off the bed. She jiggles it up and down, drawing attention to her cute little toenails. Light purple.

  “I don’t know; maybe. We’ll see after we’ve had our talk, won’t we?”

  Fair enough.

  I sit up straight, arching my spine, stretching. Put my hands on the small of my back, press down, and groan.

  Her smile is slight. Soft and sweet.

  “Here, come sit on the bed; it’s probably more comfortable than that chair I found at a garage sale. I trust you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

  She pats the spot next to her, scooting over to provide more space.

  I stand. Kick off my shoes. Crawl across her bed.

  Seat myself in the center.

  Instead of sitting next to me, Violet lies down on the bed, curls her body, and rests her head in my lap. For a second I just sit there, frozen, unsure of what to do—I’ve never had anyone curled up on me before. Never had anyone’s head in my lap.

  My hands poise above her relaxing figure, suspended in midair. Gradually I lower them to her face, touching tentatively, my rough, calloused hand seeking the silk of her hairline with a caress.

  Gently.

  Fingertips trail her forehead and down the bridge of her pert nose. Trace the cupid’s bow of her top lip.

  She looks up at me, speaking softly. “We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

  Stated so simply, as fact.

  I swallow the lump in my throat that has me choking down a hoarse reply. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me why you were so upset in the library.”

  Her eyes flutter closed when I stroke her widow’s peak, down her temple to touch her cheek.

  “I understand if you’re angry with your parents, Zeke, but that doesn’t give you the right to be angry with everyone else, least of all me. It hurts.”

  “I know.” I lean down to kiss her forehead, sweeping her long hair away. “I’m… I can’t explain why I acted like an ass, and I feel like a bigger asshole apologizing; it makes me feel like one of those pricks who treat woman like shit. I’m not that guy.”

  Her hazel eyes regard me thoughtfully. “If you’re not careful, you could be.”

  It’s a sobering thought that gives me pause.

  She’s right; I could end up as one of those guys. The dickhead who’s always making his girlfriend feel like a useless piece of shit. Demeaning her. Belittling. Apologizing until it becomes a cycle neither of them can climb out of.

  I’ve seen athletes—who I spend most of my time with—do it all the time. Athletes with way too much testosterone and adrenaline pumping through their bodies, taking their restlessness out on the woman they’re dating—or screwing.

  Witnessed plenty of public fights. Girls crying in corners, consoled by their friends. Football players hurling beer, picking fights. Posturing to their girlfriends.

  It’s fucked up.

  A sense of embarrassment and shame washes over me, knowing I’ve done it. Picked arguments with Jameson. Her roommate Allison at a party.

  Because of my damn pride.

  “I never thought I’d ever have a girlfriend—never. So I guess I wouldn’t know how to treat one.”

  “How would you want to treat one?”

  “I don’t fucking know. Like…”

  This.

  I run a hand through her hair, letting the long, silky strands thread through my fingers. “Like this.”

  “And how does this feel?”

  Awesome. It feels fucking amazing.

  “Zeke?”

  I still don’t respond.

  “If you ever do anything like what you did to me in the library the other day, I will not see you again. This is your chance to redeem yourself. You get one.”

  “But what if I do something stupid?”

  Her eyes smile. “Well that’s a given; you won’t be able to stop yourself from some things, will you? It’s just who you are. I’m talking about embarrassing me in public, treating me like crap because of your pride.” Violet raises her palm, running it along my unshaven jaw. “And I-I want you to be faithful.”

  “All right.”

  “Not just physically, Zeke. Anyone can keep it in their pants if they try hard enough. I’m talking about being respectful of me even when we’re not together.”

  “Are you talking about not letting chicks grab my junk?”

  “Girls do that?”

  Is she for real? How did she not know this? “Uh, yeah.”

  She scowls up at me.

  “Violet, you do realize I’m a conquest to most girls who flirt with me, not an actual candidate for a relationship, right?”

  “G-Girls seriously grab your…you know?”

  “Dick? Yeah. At parties and shit—it’s the wrestling singlets. Obviously you can see the whole full frontal, and some girls consider that an invitation to get handsy. I don’t know why anyone considers grabbing a dude’s nuts through his jeans sexy.” I blink down at her. “Unless it was you. You can grab them any time you want.”

  She snickers. “I will not be grabbing your nuts.”

  “Hey, hey, hey now, don’t be so hasty,” I tease, grinning.

  Violet stops smiling, suddenly serious. The tips of her fingers lovingly cross my lips. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

  No.

  I get told I’m hot by random girls. I get told I’m pretty by my teammates when they’re fucking with me, handsome by my mother on those rare occasions she hosts a holiday and demands I come home.

  Beautiful? That’s a first.

  Beautiful sounds like more.

  More of everything.

  She’s not just calling me beautiful, she’s…

  Shit, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying; Violet is turning me into a fucking pansy. I used to be a hard ass, and now I’m talking about feelings and all that other bullshit. Soon she’s going to have me holding babies and volunteering with old people, I just fucking know it.

  Whatever.

  I’d do it.

  I’d do it just to see those eyes of hers light up. I’d do it because when her small, slender body is pressed against mine, mine lights on fire. I could get used to these feelings, could get high now that I know how fast my heart beats when she’s near.

  “Violet,” I say, almost breathlessly.

  “Yes?”

  I let the open flat of my hand graze her shoulder, down her arm, over the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Take her hand, dragging it to my chest. Flatten her palm against my violently pounding heart.

  Wordlessly.

  Violet shifts, drawing away. Sitting up, she climbs in my lap, facing me, and settles down, one leg on either side of my hips. Slides her palms up my hard pec muscles, then down my torso, grasping the hem of my hooded sweatshirt. Burying her hands inside. Hauling the hem up my abs. We pull it off together. I’m wearing a cutoff shirt underneath, and in short time, we remove that, too.

  Together.

  Moments later, I watch her hands disappear between
us to drag her yellow sweatshirt up, over her head, and toss it to the floor.

  Except for her sheer, lacey bra, we’re both naked from the waist up.

  Those delicate hands of hers glide slowly along my bare shoulders. Down my deltoids. Over the smooth expanse of my clavicle, index finger drawing along the planes of my naked torso, committing every inch to memory.

  Her palms brace the column of my corded neck. Drift slowly behind to my nape, thumbs fiddling with the hair that could probably use a trim. Back down my chest, sliding through the hair on my sternum. Traces my nipples.

  It gives me goose bumps.

  Gets me hard.

  She leans in close, so close her small breasts press against my chest, and rains kisses on my neck. Along my collarbone.

  It feels so fucking good.

  Enveloping her tiny waist with my arms, I drag her close, positioning us so all our best parts are aligned.

  Skin on skin, my hands skim her spine.

  My neck bends forward and I drop my forehead so ours touch. Our noses. Our breaths.

  “Violet?” I whisper.

  “Yes?” she whispers back.

  “I love you.”

  It’s a confession.

  Closing my eyes, I say it again. “I love you Violet.”

  A prayer.

  Seconds pass. Stretch out.

  Moments of silence.

  Then, “I love you, too.”

  She draws back to look at me, heavy lidded eyes softening, dampening at the corners, bottom lip trembling. When she squeezes her eyes shut and a tear slips down her cheek, I take her face in my hands, cupping her chin in my hardened, massive palms.

  Kiss her mouth. “I’m in love with you.”

  I don’t know what else to say, want to keep repeating the words. Suddenly, all these emotions and shit I’ve kept to myself are emerging as heart emojis, sappy love songs, and chick flicks. I look at Violet and all I want to do is spout mamby pamby love bullshit. Roll around on the bed and cuddle with her and crap.

  She’s so cute.

  So fucking gorgeous.

  So sexy.

  I love her.

  How many times am I allowed to say it before sounding like a douchebag? I’ll have to ask Oz.

  “You make me…” There’s that lump in my throat making it almost impossible to get the words out. “I want to make you happy.”

  Oh my god, listen to me.

  “You do.”

  When our tongues meet, my lips tingle, dick twitches. Everything about this feels…new. Different somehow.

  Violet’s hands reach for my sweatpants, disappearing into the elastic waistband. Tugging. Pulling. Without breaking our kiss, I shove them down my hips. Kick them off and onto the floor, along with my boxers.

  Her jeans and plain white underwear follow.

  Violet pulls back the coverlet on her bed, spreading back the quilt and crawling underneath. Pats the space beside her. Drags the covers waist high when I’m settled.

  She lies flat in the center, wearing nothing but her dainty little bra, rosy nipples displayed through its sheer white lace. I rub one of the straps between my fingers. Trail my pinky inside the fabric, over the shallow swell of her breasts.

  “I hate this bra,” she groans.

  “Why?” I lean in, kissing her flesh near the tantalizing lace.

  Violet shivers.

  “It’s not sexy.”

  “It’s not?” Kiss.

  “You’re saying it like you don’t agree.”

  I trace the sateen strap, the edge of the cup. “I don’t agree. I can see through this to your skin; how is that not sexy?”

  She says nothing more after that, resumes silently observing me drawing on her skin with my fingers.

  Violet

  I believe him.

  I believe he thinks I’m sexy. Me. The bra. My body.

  What I can’t believe is that he said he loves me.

  He said it and he said it first.

  Zeke gazes down at me, propped up by an elbow, his mammoth upper body a wall of steel. Imposing. Strong. Unyielding.

  His fingers linger on my bra strap, make their way up the column of my neck. Bury themselves in my hair. I want to touch him, long for it, but he’s so content to lie here touching me.

  So I watch.

  Could lie here forever.

  He’s ridiculously attractive.

  Zeke’s bulging biceps flex with every movement of his arm, muscles corded…tan skin…tight six-pack…the V of his pelvis dipping into the waistband of his jeans.

  He’s running his big hand up my thigh, stroking my hip, a relaxed smile playing at his lips.

  He’s tired.

  “A-Are you spending the night?” I try to inquire as nonchalantly as I can, but my stomach and tongue are doing somersaults.

  “I can if you want me to. I can grab my overnight bag—it’s in the truck from our match at Purdue.”

  “All right then, it’s settled. You’re sleeping over.”

  “I’m sleeping over,” he parrots, testing out the words with an amused expression. “Shit, those are three words I’ve never said to anyone.”

  And they’re for me.

  “Don’t look so smug,” he teases, reaching for me under the blankets, hauling me closer, snug into his body.

  He draws down the strap of my bra, kissing my shoulder blade. Kissing the curve of my neck. Pulls back the lace and kisses my nipple, licks it.

  An excited gasp of eagerness escapes my lips.

  “Shh.” He silences me with a quick kiss on the mouth. “We have to be quiet. Winnie doesn’t want to hear us having S-E-X.”

  S-E-X. He spells it out like it’s naughty.

  “I love your pretty little tits.” He sucks gently until my head hits the pillow and I’m clutching my bed sheets. “I could suck your nipples all night.”

  Oh god, I would let you.

  He lifts his eyes, nuzzling the underside of my boob with his nose. “Shh, that was out loud.”

  Oh god.

  “That too.”

  I don’t know how long we stay like this, him exploring my body with softly roaming hands—seconds, minutes maybe?—but when my eyes get heavy, his palm slides behind my neck.

  He cradles my head in one hand, the other tracing the curve of my waist, up and down my ribcage. It takes a trip over my stomach, over my belly button, finger circling the small indentation there.

  His mouth soundlessly forms the words, “I love you.”

  Lips meet my mouth.

  Tongue dips inside.

  Slower than he’s ever kissed me before.

  Wide, open-mouthed kisses. Slow, delicious tongue.

  Wet.

  Zeke repositions himself, his knee inserting itself between my legs, gradually nudging them apart. Firm, hot thighs. Tight ass. Chiseled, sexy body.

  Mine, all mine.

  When his hard, sinewy biceps brace themselves on either side of my head, our lips meet again.

  He pushes in effortlessly. Slowly.

  Magnificently stiff.

  Gloriously long.

  We moan in tandem, his face buried in my shoulder, nipping.

  I cradle his head, spreading my legs farther when he begins a slow, steady rhythm, grunting with each thrust.

  “Uhh…” My eyes roll toward the ceiling, vision blurry. I can’t focus. “Uhh…”

  When his mouth muffles my moans, my brows furrow, almost painfully. It feels so “Mm…mmmph…” I break the contact. “Oh god…” I pant. “Oh Zeke, yes…I love you…”

  “I love you, Violet. I fucking love you…”

  Our kisses are frenzied. Frantic. Desperate.

  Wet.

  Panting.

  Moaning.

  “You feel so good, oh god, deeper…”

  His pelvis rotates, controlled, pushing deep. Grabbing my ass and pulling me in, sinking into me as far as he can go. So thick. So hard. So…so…

  I want to cry good. Painful good.


  Mouthwatering.

  Eye rolling.

  Hot.

  My toes curl.

  The pumping becomes excruciatingly slow, our heads thrown back. He leans in to suck on my neck, my breasts.

  When his tongue latches onto a nipple, “Ffff…uck…that’s gonna make me come…push Zeke, harder…oh god, yeah…yesssss…oh god, yes yes…”

  Then my mouth is open, but no sound comes out. Stars shine behind my eyelids, and—my own name? Violet who?

  “Violet, Violet…” he chants, remembering it for me, all attempts at silent sex long forgotten as Zeke comes, entire body jerking. Grips my hips with his fingers, releasing inside me with tiny spasms.

  Shudders.

  I can feel it—every bit of it—warm and hot.

  Perfect.

  Zeke

  “I feel like a circus freak. Everyone’s staring like I’m a sideshow.”

  Violet pats my hand. “They’re not staring at you; they’re staring at us.”

  “No, babe. They’re definitely staring at me.”

  We’re at the movies.

  On—get this—a group date.

  My personal hell has officially frozen over with rapid-fire speed.

  This group date shit is just so fucking weird. Strange.

  But I’m doing it for Violet, and at least it’s not one of those hideous canvas-and-wine parties I’ve heard about from other guys, which Jameson originally planned for this date night. “Unfortunately” the place was booked solid.

  Dodged a bullet with that one.

  In front of us, a two-story projection screen runs a reel of movie trivia while the audience waits for the movie to start—trivia questions Oz and Jameson keep obnoxiously shouting out the answers to.

  Fortunately, there are people sandwiched between us, so I don’t have to sit next to my irritating roommate. It’s me, Violet, Rex Gunderson, his date (some chick named Megan? Teagan?), Oz, Jameson, and then Elliot, odd numbering out the cluster to make it even more of a fuck.

  I glance down the row—because I’m a sadist—to find Oz watching me. He wiggles his fingers in a cheeky wave then winks. Tips his head back on the seat when I scowl, laughing.

  James kisses his neck, his lips before settling back in her seat, tossing a kernel of popcorn into the air and catching it with her mouth. She catches me watching and smiles, holding the tub forward in the universal sign of an offering: You want some?