“Yeah. He did.”
“Did he say it was tight?”
“He did,” I said. “Several times.”
She scoffed. “Guys tell me I’m fun, or that they like my tits. Some of them say I’ve got a nice tight ass. No one ever tells me my pussy’s tight, though.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “It’s got its advantages.”
I laughed to myself at the thought of her fisting herself. Before I could stifle it, I laughed out loud. “Like putting your fist in it?”
“That’s one of the benefits,” she said with a laugh. “And, I can take two dicks at once. A DP’s nice if it’s with the right guys.”
“Oh. My. God,” I gasped. “You’ve done that?”
“A couple of times. This big Hawaiian dude and his brother. I was twenty-one, and drunk as fuck on tequila the first time he talked me into it. It was pretty awesome. There were hands everywhere. I mean, think about it. I had hands in my tits, a hand on my ass, and a finger in my butt, all at the same time. And, two dicks in me. It was awesome.”
It sounded kind of gross. I grinned nonetheless. “Sounds like it.”
“Be thankful your shit’s tight, though,” she said. “It’s an assurance that you’ll be the one holding the key in the relationship.”
“What do you mean?”
“Girls with tight pussies make the rules,” she said flatly.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m serious.” She went straight-faced. “Have you ever seen one of those really hot dudes walking through the mall with some ratty-looking chick on his arm? Looks like he’s taking his trailer trash cousin shopping?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“That’s what’s up. She’s got the tightness going on. He screwed her one night when he was drunk, thinking nobody’d find out. Her shit was so tight he couldn’t leave her. Now he’s stuck with her lame-looking ass, but it’s okay because she makes him blow his load every time.”
“I’m not lame looking, am I?”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “You’re beautiful.”
Most would find Jenny’s willingness to discuss butt sex, fisting, and being penetrated by two dicks at once to be repulsive.
Me?
I found it rewarding.
After all, I learned something valuable. Girls with tight pussies make the rules.
12
Tyson
“Explain to me why you’d say something like that? It didn’t even make sense,” I complained.
I was surprised that Shawn’s comment in the restaurant about Jo being the librarian didn’t raise eyebrows. He often said things for the sole purpose of getting a reaction out of someone, not taking time to consider the potential repercussions of his actions.
He sipped his beer. “Made sense to me.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t ask you what the fuck you were talking about.”
“If she would have, I’d have told her.”
“That’s the fucking problem. I know you would have. You need to know when to keep your mouth shut.”
He gave me a look. “I’m not going to lie to her.”
“I’m not asking you to lie to her. I’m asking you to keep your stupid comments to yourself.”
“There’s nothing stupid about her being a naughty librarian.”
“What if she said, ‘What do you mean, I’m the naughty librarian?’” I asked. “What would you have said?”
He slid his bottle of beer to the side and met my gaze. “I would have said, ‘You look just like the sexy-assed librarian we had in high school’.”
“Do you think hearing that comment would have made her happy, or sad?”
His looked as if I’d asked him to explain quantum physics. “How the fuck would I know?” he exclaimed. “I don’t know that chick.”
“You. Don’t. Think. That’s the problem. You just yap, yap, yap, like one of those little barking fucking dogs. You need to think about what you say before you say it.”
“Okay, Dad,” he said in a snide tone.
“Fuck you,” I said. “Just forget it. I know you’re not going to change. I’m just glad she didn’t say anything.”
He reached for his beer. “I’m guessing you’re not going to tell her she looks like Garber.”
“Fuck no, I’m not going to tell her.”
“Why not?”
“Because no girl wants to think that she reminds a guy of someone else.”
“If I told that big-tittied cowgirl that she looked like Britney Spears, she’d probably give me a blowjob. A blowjob and a pat on the back. A fuckin’ attaboy pat.”
“If you told her she looked like Britney Spears, she’d probably slap the shit out of you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she would. That Jenny chick is about twenty-five years old, max. Britney Spears is forty, and looks like death.”
“She’s not forty,” he snapped back.
I picked up my phone, typed her name into Google, and grinned. “Sorry. She’s thirty-seven. Thirty-seven and looks like she’s forty.”
“Doesn’t matter if she’s thirty-seven or fifty-seven. In my mind Britney Spears will forever be singing Baby One More Time in the hallway in that schoolgirl outfit. Sexy little Catholic schoolgirl lookin’ bitch. I’d eat two miles of her shit just to see where it came from.”
“You’re an idiot. I can’t even make a point with you.”
“Stop beating around the bush and say what you want to say.”
“Okay.” I raised my index finger. “If you told Jenny that you wanted her to dress up like a schoolgirl, do you think she’d do it?”
“Chick’s a freak, I already told ya. Yeah, she’d do it.”
“Alright. If you told her you wanted her to dress up like a schoolgirl and dance in the hallway while singing that song, do you think she’d do it?”
“What part of ‘she’s a freak’ don’t you understand? If I told that chick to poke a pickle up her butt while she ate a pineapple pizza and tap danced like Bing fuckin’ Crosby in a rainstorm, she’d do it.”
Sadly, he was probably right. Making my point wasn’t going to come easily if I continued to use analogies.
I forced a sigh and shook my head. “We’re friends, right?”
“More like brothers, why?”
“I introduced you to the cowgirl, right?”
He tipped the neck of his beer bottle toward me. “Sure did.”
“Do you appreciate it?”
“Sure do.”
“In return, grant me this wish. Don’t tell Jo that she reminds you, or me for that matter, of Garber? Can you do that for me? You know, because you’re so appreciative.”
He clanked the neck of his bottle against mine. “All you had to do was ask.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. “Glad that’s over.”
He pushed his chair away from the table, looked me over, and then crossed his arms. “I got a question.”
“I’m all ears.”
“When you two are going at it, do you have her wear the glasses, or take ‘em off?”
“She leaves them on.”
“Figures.” He scoffed. “Leaves ‘em on because she’s blind as a fuckin’ bat, or leaves ‘em on because you tell her to?”
“She leaves them on because I ask her to,” I replied. “I don’t tell her to do anything.”
“Okay, Mister Congeniality.” He leaned forward and arched an eyebrow. “My question is this. She doesn’t ask you why you want her to leave the glasses on? Doesn’t question your weird hang-ups?”
“It’s not a weird hang-up.”
“If I asked Jenny – or whatever her name is – to leave her boots on, you’d say I was a weirdo or ‘an idiot’ or whatever. Leaving the glasses on is a hang-up. Admit it.”
“It’s a preference.”
“What. Fucking. Ever. You like chic geeks and you always have. Flock to ‘em like flies to turds.
” He looked away for an instant, then appeared to have an epiphany. “Okay, when you tell what’s-her-name to leave her glasses on while she slobs your knob, she doesn’t ask you why you have such preferences?”
“She hasn’t yet.”
“If she does, what are you going to tell her?”
“I’ll tell her I’m attracted to girls with big bold glasses.”
He dismissed my response with a wave of his hand. “You, my friend, are the idiot.”
I wasn’t attracted to Jo because she reminded me of anyone. I was attracted to her because she was strikingly beautiful. The similarities between her and Garber were coincidental. The glasses were nothing more than an added bonus.
“Believe what you want to believe,” I said. “If Jo wore contact lenses and dressed like a nun, I’d still be attracted to her.”
“Tell yourself whatever you want to tell yourself,” he responded. “I know you, remember? You’re scratching a twenty-year-old itch. Won’t matter much in a few weeks anyway, because you’ll be dumping her. I just wanted to make my point.”
“What was your point?”
“My point is I tell chicks the truth from the get-go, and you don’t.”
“I do, too.”
“You don’t lie to ‘em, you just don’t tell ‘em nothin’. I’m a different creature. I told Ol’ Cowgirl that I was throwin’ her some dick, and that was that. Said, ‘This ain’t nothing but sex. If you get your freak on and take ‘er in the butt like a pro, maybe we can do it more than once. If you’re not down to fuck for fuckin’s sake, we’ll have a beer and call it a night.’”
“And she agreed?”
“Fucked her, didn’t I?”
“You question my methods, and I question yours. End result’s the same,” I said. “Neither of us do relationships.”
“But I don’t lead ‘em to believe there’s ever going to be a chance. You do.”
I laughed. “Don’t think just because you tell them up front that you’re just ‘throwin’ ‘em some dick’ that they don’t secretly hope that it’ll turn into more. For a girl to agree to that, she’s got to swallow a gut full of self-worth.”
“I’ve never pressured anyone into anything.”
“Bottom line is this. You make them feel bad when it starts, and I make them feel bad when it’s over. We both make them feel bad.”
I wished things were different. That I was different. But I wasn’t. I never would be. Change would require believing that a relationship could survive.
Flourish.
Go the distance.
I had the luxury of knowing better. Relationships were like turds floating in the toilet of life. Eventually, they all got flushed.
It was just a matter of who did the flushing.
13
Jo
My father wagged the tip of his fork toward my plate. “It’s not going to eat itself, Jo. Get busy.”
“Leave her be,” my mother said without looking up. “She might not be hungry.”
“She’s hungry enough to eat the rice casserole,” he replied. “She’s done nothing but poke the meat.”
“Medley,” my mother said. “It’s called a rice medley.”
The meat was gray on the outermost edge and bright red in the center. Regardless of what they’d labeled it, it was fish.
“It’s fish,” I said. “It’s not ‘meat’.”
“It’s a steak,” my father argued. “Said so right on the package.”
I pushed it across my plate with the backside of my fork. “A tuna steak.”
He gave me the death stare. “You know the rule.”
I glanced across the table. My brother was elbows-deep in his piece of fish, devouring it one over-sized chunk at a time.
I shifted my eyes to my father. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to it,” I assured him. “It’ll be last.”
“Don’t make yourself sick,” my mother said.
My father’s brows knitted together. He pointed the tines of his fork at her. “Rules are rules,” he growled. “She’s taking two bites of the steak. End. Of. Story.”
He never wavered from enforcing the rules. The two-bite rule was my least favorite of them all. We were required to take two big bites of everything we were served. If we didn’t like it after two bites, we weren’t forced to continue. My father believed two man-sized bites would allow anyone to truly determine if they liked something or detested it.
I didn’t have to take a bite of the tuna to know it would be repulsive.
“I met someone,” I said.
The statement was more of a diversionary tactic than anything. It was one of the few ways I could draw my brother’s attention away from eating. His comments would undoubtedly capture my father’s attention. While my father was immersed in my brother’s snide remarks, I could cut two bites from my fish and slip them into my purse.
In response to the declaration, my mother and my brother looked up at the same time.
“That’s terrific,” my mother said. “Tell us about him.”
Midway through shoveling a forkful of rice medley into his mouth, my brother paused. “All she knows is what she read about him on his Tinder profile. Let me guess. He’s educated, financially secure, drives an Audi, and he enjoys reading books on the couch with his cat after he gets off work. You probably haven’t even met him yet, have you?”
“That’s enough, Jarod,” my mother hissed.
“What the hell’s a Tinder profile,” my father asked.
“It’s a dating app,” Jarod explained. “From the comfort of your home, you can pick a guy that meets your interests and criteria, just like Jerry Jones selecting a draft pick for the Cowboys. All your prospective dates are right there on your phone with their information on display. It’s perfect for Jo, she doesn’t even have to go out in public and meet anyone. The men all lie, though. Everyone claims to be rich, educated, and single. In reality, they’re poor, uneducated, and married. It’s a place for guys to get laid.”
My father shifted his eyes from Jarod to me. “Is that true?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Sounds like Jarod’s pretty knowledgeable about it. Maybe he’s been using it.”
My father sipped his tea. “Stop trying to piss your sister off.”
I cut a one-inch square off the corner of the tuna and raised it within smelling distance of my mouth.
While I struggled not to vomit, Jarod let out a laugh. “The day she meets a normal guy,” he said. “Is the day I’ll kiss Smokey’s hairy ass.”
My father gave him a look. “Smokey doesn’t want your lips on his pooper.”
I snatched the tuna from the tip of my fork and attempted to hide my hand in my lap. The process failed miserably, with the tuna slipping from my grasp at the last minute. A quick scan of the floor revealed the chunk of raw fish had landed at my feet.
Feet that rested on top of a rather elegant Oriental rug my mother purchased while in Barcelona, Spain. With some hesitation, I pressed the toe of my shoe against the wad of fish and smashed it against the irreplaceable rug.
“Stop it, Jarod,” my mother said in an assertive tone. She looked at me and smiled. “Tell us about him.”
“We met at the store,” I said. “He asked me on a date. He drives the FedEx truck. He’s really cute, and he’s super nice. We went to Lockhart’s and ate on Friday night, and then we went out again on Saturday night and had Mexican food.”
Jarod chuckled. “FedEx driver? FedEx drivers are old retired child molesters and serial killers. How old is this guy?”
“He’s your age. And, he’s not a weirdo. He’s nice.”
“My age? Where’d he go to school?”
“Plano Senior High.”
“Does he wear Coke bottle glasses?”
I reached for my glasses. “No, he doesn’t wear glasses at all.”
“Rules him out as being a pervert,” he said with a laugh. “What’s his name?’
“Why?”
“Might kn
ow him from football, unless he played baseball or some other stupid sport. Plano hasn’t won a championship since 1994. Lost most of their good players in 1999. If he’s my age, he would have been a senior before they lost everyone. Did he play football?”
I shrugged. “I pretty sure he didn’t play football.”
“Is he a pot smoker?” Jarod asked.
“Josephine, I don’t want you seeing a pot-head,” my mother said.
“He’s not a pot-head,” I insisted. “He’s normal.”
“If he’s normal, he would have played football,” Jarod said under his breath. “What’s his name?”
I sighed. “Tyson.”
Jarod’s brows went together. “Not Tyson Neese?”
My heart nearly leaped from my chest. Jarod knowing Tyson couldn’t be a good thing. A softball sized lump crept into my throat, nearly cutting off my ability to breathe. I swallowed against it and gave Jarod a bug-eyed look.
“I uhhm. You…you know him?” I stammered.
“It’s Tyson Neese?” he screeched. “That’s who you’re seeing?”
“TJ Neese?” my father asked.
“She’s seeing T. J. Neese,” Jarod blurted. “The kid that threw for six thousand yards his junior year.”
“Nineteen ninety and eight,” my father said as if reading the facts from mid-air. “Kid nearly set a world record in passing yards. Six thousand and thirteen yards. Beat all my old records to hell. Damned shame about him breaking his ankle. One of the best football players this state has ever seen”
I spent a lifetime detesting football. Oftentimes, it seemed it was all my father and brother cared about. Nonetheless, I swelled with so much pride my posture straightened. “A local celebrity, huh?”
“National,” Jarod said. “The summer between his junior and senior year he broke his ankle, or he’d be playing pro right now.”
“Sounds familiar,” my father said beneath his breath.
According to my mother, my father was a fabulous football player. One would never know it from speaking to him. He would talk about the sport until he was blue in the face but never spoke of his accomplishments.
“Well, we’re seeing each other,” I gloated. “Oh, and he drives a car like your old car. The red one.”
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 10