by Max Monroe
Things had changed. For me, personally. Between Zoe and me. The entire way I ran my company.
Hell, I’d been avoiding doing a line of boards for beginner surfers for the entire life of the company.
But suddenly…it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
Of course, the biggest change—the actual turn of the tide—had yet to come. It wasn’t far off…only minutes…but the impact it would have on the way I moved forward was monumental.
It was an affirmation.
A motivation.
It was everything I’d been waiting for and more.
It was a sign that you…my dear, sweet, stubborn Lucky…had finally let down your guard just enough to care about me.
Where are you? your text read. Three simple words to make up one simple question. But it was a whole hell of a lot more than that.
That morning, you made up my mind. One way or another, we would be together.
Even if you barely even noticed it happening.
When I made it to Tahiti three days later, I put my foot to the floor. There was no turning back, no slowing down, and as far as I was concerned, no question about where it would lead.
As you’d taught me in your first lesson, taking no for an answer was a loser’s option.
In the spirit of that, as I’m sure you’ll recall, my first contact with you in over forty-eight hours was a demand.
Meet me on the beach in fifteen minutes.
You might have put up a little fight, but as you know, it worked.
You met me on the beach. Zoe produced the board. And just like that, I taught my favorite beginner surfer fashionista the basics of surfing on a board made just for her.
Then you went and passed out.
[laughs]
Scared me half to death. Seriously, Lucky, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.
I worked for an entire minute trying to get you to wake up, but you wouldn’t. Probably the worst sixty seconds of my life.
The only upside, of course, was that they led to the very best night.
After getting you up to your room and the visit with Dr. Elders, you started to fade fast.
You were sleepy and overwhelmed, and holy hell, I was excited.
I know that sounds awful, and you’re probably glaring as you listen right now, but the sleepier you were, the less you would fight me.
I knew it. You knew it. Fucking Dr. Elders knew it. Frankly, I have my suspicions that he put a little something else in your IV other than just fluids, but accusing a good doctor of undisclosed drugging goes a little far, even for me.
So I’ll chalk it up to a long day, a lot of stress, and a month’s worth of travel, and leave it at that.
But as you faded out, my resolve settled in. I’d stay the night with you. Help you. Watch over you. Whatever you fucking needed, I’d be there. And if I were really lucky, Lucky, you’d wake up the next morning with a new sense of perspective on what a gentleman I could be.
At the time, that was the extent of my plan.
Signed, sealed, and delivered, I didn’t even anticipate any cuddling.
Just being there was enough.
[sighs]
I totally underestimated how popular you were.
I’d just finished sidestepping an inquisitive Allie’s call when a knock sounded on the door.
Jordy, as it were. Stopping by for his visit, as you’re aware.
Of course, a detail you might not know—couldn’t know—is that before the call, six hours into your sleep, I’d finally broken down and hopped in the shower.
I had nothing more than my boardies on, and the salt and sand from our time by the ocean was starting to turn my then-cool skin sticky. I’d been avoiding the task, convinced as soon as I did, you’d need me, but your ability to sleep is truly impressive.
You didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t even fucking roll for eighteen hours.
Finally convinced of your sleep longevity, after six, I’d rinsed off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and then gotten interrupted by my sister’s call.
Now, you might be following along pretty well and know where this is going, but I’ll just give it to you explicitly. When Jordy knocked on your door at eight that night, I answered in nothing but a towel.
Wet hair, dewy shower skin, and mostly naked, my appearance practically drew the conclusion for him.
You and I had been intimate. Were maybe even in the middle of it.
I didn’t correct him.
[pauses]
I reckon I better stop here for now. Leave you alone to stew until the next time.
You should know, though…I regret the behavior.
But I sure as fuck don’t regret the result.
* * *
Episode 11: The Date
Day 37 of Falling
July 9th set itself up perfectly. The waves. The competition. The amount of time I’d spent around you for the last five days.
It was all clean and rich and perfect.
I know you didn’t have much to say about the days in between our sleepover and the day of our date, but trust me, they served their purpose.
I was busy as always, setting up for yet another competition and sorting all the logistical problems as they arose. The weather was fantastic but unpredictable in the afternoons, and there had been several questions about whether we’d get all of the competitors’ runs in without extending a day.
You’d been busy on your own, both with work and exploring Tahiti, so I’d done the best I could at being present but occupied.
I think the time away from me helped to build your anticipation.
Every time I ran into you, you’d smile rather than scowl. Your body language was engaged rather than hostile, and somehow, I always got called away before we could finish our conversation.
There’s a lot to be said for wanting more, and I believe wholeheartedly that’s how I got you to say yes that day.
To the date.
Put simply, I’d never had a more intimate dinner than the one we shared that night, and I’m certain I never will. And more than that, I never want to again unless it’s with you.
Alas, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.
There’s another secret to be revisited before we move on to the fun part, and that’s the fact that your first surfing article went live that day.
As you know by now, that wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, but I’m sure you’re remembering now, I definitely didn’t present it that way.
I lied. Again. Bald-faced and specific as I texted you about the article to give you my opinion.
Rational thinking suggests I should avoid bringing up so many of my flaws, but I don’t think I do the whole picture justice if I don’t face them head on.
See, if I don’t live in the responsibility of this lie, you go on thinking that everything until this point has been different. You think I was still thinking little of your journalistic skill. You think I was still naïve to the point of your presence on the tour. You maybe even think that my attempts to teach you to swim and to surf were some kind of criticism.
None of that is true.
I’ve been aware of your intelligence for a long time, Lucky—a lot longer than you think—and each occasion I’ve spent time with you has been a conscious choice made by a man striving to be involved with a woman.
I didn’t think you were superficial. I didn’t think you were too young. And I knew you had the talent. That day and for so long before, I’d been anticipating a real date with you, and by God, that’s what that night was.
It was real.
Good food, good company—I couldn’t ask for a better or more romantic setting, and frankly, I’d planned it that way. I put more care and thought into that meal than I had any other I’d ever eaten.
It was raw.
[laughs]
The conversation, not the food. The food was cooked.
We discussed family and life and your mum. You opened up to me, and I l
ike to think I opened up to you. Those aren’t the kinds of things you do with someone you want to keep at a distance.
And it was us.
It was teasing and fun and just slightly antagonistic, but I didn’t know how else to be.
The only thing I know is that I wish I hadn’t initially dodged the question when you asked it.
It was a date.
I’d just been too scared you’d run if I admitted it.
Ridiculous, huh? Not to mention fairly unattractive. I don’t imagine many women like dating cowardly men, but that night, at dinner, I definitely took the easy way out. I have to believe, if I’d just been completely honest from the start that evening, you wouldn’t ever have questioned the rest of it.
I should have told you how I really felt, Lucky.
That I wanted to take you out on a date.
That it was the best fucking date I’d ever been on in my life.
I shouldn’t have waited until after I’d walked you back to your hotel room to weakly offer up something that merely insinuated how I felt.
I should have straight up told you how I felt about it.
How I felt about you.
[sighs]
As it was, I guess I set myself up for the fallout.
Misconceptions and misunderstandings would abound as we went forward.
Forward to the rest of our story.
I can only hope you’ll come back to listen. In order to reset to the truth, I have to start with the lies.
* * *
Episode 12: The Misconception and the Mission
You may have noticed that I didn’t date this episode. I didn’t count the days that I’ve known you, and I didn’t pinpoint a specific event.
That’s because I believe I have to go back now, in order to go forward, to the rest of the ex-boyfriends.
To the articles you wrote to them and the responses they penned back.
And I have to do it because they greatly shaped the way I saw you—beyond the time I’d spent with you in person—and the way I saw you greatly shaped the way I treated you.
The way I treated us.
What in the hell am I talking about, right? I’m a bloody mystery wrapped in a riddle, and can I just get to the fucking point already?
[laughs]
The answer is yes…yes, I can.
And it’s as simple as this.
I treated you like you. But Lucky, I also treated you like the girl who’d dated Josh McClain. And Mac O’Malley. And Ronnie Matthews.
And thanks to the comparison you’d made on that very first day in the wind of Lottie, I’d treated myself like the star of your third Dear Ex-Boyfriend letter.
Ronnie Matthews
The New Jersey tattoo artist who dabbled in a motorcycle gang.
The liar and convict.
I was a little ways off from a ten-year prison sentence, but holy hell, I was a liar. I’d proved it over and over again during our time together, and I’m afraid to even tell you how perfectly I feared you’d hit the nail on the head with the comparison.
Your letter to the current convict went on and on about his nonconformist attitude and need to buck the rules and the excitement you’d found in both of those from the beginning. You spoke of how easily lies came to him and how that carried over into the way he treated you, and in a matter of self-reflection, I cringed.
I’d been working tirelessly toward the goal of holding your interest, but despite my best efforts, I’d focused on the wrong thing.
That’s the misconception.
That you simply needed a man who could hold your interest long enough to make it past the hump.
I know, I’m rolling my eyes too. It’s so clear now that it wasn’t about holding your interest at all. It was about treating the interest with care. Cultivating a meaningful relationship based on truth and honesty and openness.
[laughs]
It’s safe to say we missed the boat on the right beginning, but I hope you’ll consider this as a point to start over. I certainly did.
That, you see, was the mission.
From that point on, I swore to myself I was done with the lies. I’d give you the truth, I’d give you attention, and I’d give my relationship with you the very, very best chance to survive.
I cleared the slate of my evils as though I’d never committed them, and I set my sights on the future.
Because, let’s face it, it’s much easier to commit to change and ignore the past than it is to face it.
Facing it, in fact, is still challenging.
It’s not like this podcast is bloody easy.
There’s a large part of me that would have loved to shove all of this under the rug in the name of saving face.
But, as I’ve said from the beginning, I know I can’t start fresh without coming clean.
And the truth of it is this: You weren’t a toy to play with or a chase to keep me challenged.
But you were a mission. My mission.
Love isn’t supposed to come with a strategy. But like an idiot, I’d gone and drawn up a thousand-point map.
* * *
Episode 13: The Sex
I’ve officially Fallen, and I can’t get up
[laughs]
With an episode title like that, I’m sure I’ve upped my listenership by fifty percent.
The thing is, if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of gunning for one specific listener. And from what I know about Lucky Wright, a podcast entitled “The Sex” is probably about as much of a draw to her as an appointment to have her eyeballs stabbed out with a bag of rusty nails.
Don’t get me wrong, baby. If you actually are listening, know this: You’re good at sex. You’re… Fuck, you’re the best. I’m going to get into the details later, so I’ll save the good stuff for now, but I just want to clarify that I’m not suggesting you won’t listen because of performance issues.
Instead, I imagine your avoidance of this would have a lot more to do with embarrassment, and, if it meant as much to you as it did to me…memories.
Anyway, as I go back to the beginning for this episode, I have to go back to what I’m sure you would have expected to be at the end of another.
I wouldn’t know, because we haven’t spoken, but I imagine you were wondering at the end of the eleventh episode why on earth I’d go into all of those details about our date and leave out the, unquestionably, most thrilling part.
Accidental kissing.
I understand. It was a part of our date—a really fucking important part, at that—and to you, it would belong at the end of the date episode.
I totally get it.
But, as is the point of including it today, what you need to understand is that as much as that kiss related to the date for you, it related far, far more to the sex for me.
But how is that possible? I imagine you’re wondering.
Well, I’ll tell you how. Biology.
[laughs]
I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that I passed puberty quite some time ago. As such, my mind works on a sliding scale from zero to one hundred, based on the amount of blood delegated to my brain.
On any given day, as an average adult male, I’d estimate that my brain functions on eighty or so percent, while the other twenty percent is allocated to arousal, the possibility of arousal, and thoughts that lead to the possibility of arousal.
During that accidental kiss, with your creamy skin rosy with the prettiest flush and the most scrumptious, delicate heat in your eyes, my brain function plummeted from eighty to nearly zero in an instant.
Your hands on me, my lips on yours, our tongues tangled with one another—it was one of the sexiest kisses I’d ever had in my life, and I’ve spent every other minute since then thinking of making love to you.
[laughs]
I know you’re thinking that’s an exaggeration—that it must be—but I assure you, it’s not.
Put toothpaste on toothbrush, think about Lucky’s legs wrapped around my hips.
Spit out used toothpaste, rinse mouth, think about how Lucky would taste in my mouth.
Run fingers through hair to smooth it out, think about Lucky’s fingers as they pull at my hair and I nibble at her breasts.
I’m sure I’m starting to embarrass you, but I could fill a dozen notebooks with just a day’s worth of fantasies related to you, and I could do it every goddamn day from the moment we shared that kiss.
I can’t even fathom the math of how many notebooks that would be at this point, so you’ll just have to trust me when I say it’s a lot.
The days that followed—ten without any bodily contact…and yes, I counted—were something akin to actual war torture.
I mean, I’ve never been held in a prisoner camp and bloodied slowly, day-by-day, hour-by-hour, but I have to imagine the pain feels the same.
I ached. I bulged. I adjusted.
God, if I counted the number of times I had to discreetly adjust a swollen, stiff cock in a way that you wouldn’t notice, I’d still be counting them now.
In fact, this whole podcast wouldn’t have happened because I’d still be tallying up the numbers.
[chuckles]
Regardless of my suffering—and yes, I’m aware a pitchfork-wielding army of women will probably be banging down my door for the way I’ve teased about this—I still had the time of my life.
That is, once I actually managed to see you again.
Five days, little fire?
You avoided me for five days.
I waited for you to make a move during any one of them, but as the hours ticked by, it became more and more clear that you didn’t have any intention of ending the spell.
So I went back to an old fail-safe. The only thing that ever got any action out of you…