“Well, I may express surprise, perhaps even be upset, but just know that I love you, and that I will not judge you or think less of you, and that I’m here for you. I’ll do whatever I can, and we’ll get you through this.”
She sipped coffee. “Thanks.”
“Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“I’m not sure I can dump the whole story all at once. It’s too much.”
“Understandable.”
Our food arrived, and we dug in, both of us ravenous. After a few minutes, she started talking again between bites.
“He taught a class on sexuality through history. My favorite course. He wasn’t…gauche, or lewd. Matter of fact, and a wonderful lecturer. Eloquent, and a great storyteller. He could tell all these historical anecdotes off the cuff.” She chased a piece of sausage around her plate. “He was…I don’t even know how to describe him.” Her eyes closed. Pain filled her features. “Tall, really tall. Like six-four, six-five. Strong, fit. Not a dad-bod, but not, like, an athlete. Dark salt-and-pepper hair, a neat beard. His voice was this silky magic. He had the hot, sophisticated professor look down pat—chic round-framed glasses, tweed or wool blazers with actual patches on the elbow. Wore real oxfords.”
“Wow. Sounds like a caricature of a professor, really.”
She nodded, laughing. “That’s Marcus.” A bitter sigh. “It happened the way it always happens, I guess. I wrote a paper, he gave me a shitty grade. I disagreed, went in to argue with him about it.”
“Of course you did.”
“It was a good paper! I had sources, and a logical development of my thesis. I was articulate. He just didn’t like my position, I guess, so he gave me a shit grade. We fought. It got ugly. Finally, he agreed to let me rewrite it, so long as I, and I quote, ‘toned down the hard left feminist vitriol.’”
I winced. “Ooh, I bet that went over well.”
She bit her lip, holding back laughter. “Yeah, not so much. I rewrote it, all right.”
“And let me guess…the hard left feminist vitriol went on afterburner.”
“Yeah. I tripled my sources. Wrote an additional eight pages. When I turned it in to him, he called it inflammatory rhetoric of the worst sort. But, he gave me a decent grade.”
“And that was that,” I said, smirking.
“I wish. But no. Once that class was done, he emailed me, asked to see me.”
“Oh dear.”
“It was innocent enough. At first.” A long pause. “He said he’d been doing his job as a professor in the grading of my papers, but that he admired my passion. Got me a gig writing for an underground campus paper. We’d meet once a week in his office to talk. He was…smart. So smart. Interesting. He knew so much—he could talk off the cuff with absolute authority on everything from the Boxer Rebellion to Stoic philosophy to the hippie movement of the sixties. We could talk for hours, and we did.”
“And then?”
A shrug, a shake of her head. “And then nothing. That was it, for months. We just talked. Emailed. It was all on the up and up.”
“But?”
“I fought it, Charlie. I fought liking him. He was a professor. He was married. He had kids, three of them, not that much younger than me.” She rubbed her forehead with a knuckle. “But he was so interested in me. When we talked, it felt like I was the only person on earth. I liked that. I’d never felt that way before, you know? Most of my relationships, before him, were, honestly, mostly just casual sexual liaisons, at best. Louis, in high school, but that’s really it.”
“He paid attention to you.”
She nodded. “You could hit that with a pretty heavy psychoanalytic hammer, if you wanted. I talked about Dad, how he had been gone a lot, and not really there, despite being there.”
“Now that I understand completely.”
“You too?”
“Oh yeah.” I touched her hand. “All of us have that stuff. But that’s a different conversation.”
“Yeah, it is.” Another long silence, as Lex dredged through her memory. “Shit went down kind of unexpectedly. I was at a party, off-campus. I’d ridden with friends, but then we all got hammered, and we got separated, and then Tanya, who’d driven, went home in someone else’s car, and Leah was off chasing dick, and I was bored. The only hot guys at the party were the most cliche fucking douchebag jock frat bro assholes, and dumber than a bag of hammers, which is just a turn off. So I was just bored. So I left. Alone. On foot.”
“Oh dear, not a great move.”
A snicker. “No shit, considering I was smashed out of my head and had no idea where I was. Not a great part of town, and dressed like a skank.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You go apeshit if anyone says that about you.”
“I can slut-shame myself, but no one else can. And I really was dressed pretty slutty. Basically, I may as well have been carrying a sign that said ‘please rape me.’”
“And cue Professor Marcus Tyne to the rescue.”
“Not quite. Sort of. I emailed him. I didn’t have his phone number, just his email address. I don’t remember how it happened, but he emailed me back like, tell me where you are. So I told him I had no fucking clue. I think I gave him my phone number, and he FaceTimed me. Triangulated my location based on who the fuck knows what, and next thing I knew I was in his car.”
“Drunk, dressed like a slut.”
“Yep. Gold sequin miniskirt so short the bottom of my ass cheeks hung out, a see-through gauzy white half-shirt. Like, nothing under it. Tits totally visible. It was fun, actually. Guys would all but shit themselves trying to get a better look.”
“Oh my god, Lexie.”
“Yeah.”
“And how did Mr. Professor respond to the outfit?”
“He gave me his jacket. And I thought then that it was just because I was cold. Later, I realized it was his attempt to keep himself from wanting me.”
“Did it work?”
“Nope. Well, in that moment, yes. Later, not so much.” A pause. “He took me home, back to the dorms. Total gentleman.”
“So…”
“So get to the juicy part?”
I sighed. “It’s not gossip to me, Lex, it’s your life.” A slight smirk. “But yeah.”
“Well, he had my phone number. So we started texting. A lot.”
“You knew he was married?”
She frowned down at her coffee. “Yes. I can’t excuse it. I knew then I shouldn’t be texting a married man. But mostly, it was just innocent stuff. Just talking. But still, I was a twenty-year-old college student, and he was a professor. It wasn’t appropriate. Knew it then, know it now, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But he was funny. He made me feel good. I looked forward to every text he sent me, and spent a lot of time perfecting my responses…or I’d fire off whatever I was thinking without filtering it.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah.” Her fingertip traced circles on the table. “Then, one night, I got tipsy and started drunk-texting him.”
“Ohhh dear.”
“Oh dear, especially because he was drunk too. Admitted it. His wife was out of town for the week with their kids—we’d just finished finals, and he was buried in grading, so I guess she always took the kids to her sister’s for the week of finals grading. Gave him time to grade without interruption, and then some time to unwind, and then he’d meet up with them—they lived in the Poconos, I guess.”
“And here it is.”
“Yep. Drunk Lex, drunk professor home alone for a week with nothing to do but grade papers.” She sighed, long and bitter. “I have no memory of it, but I went to his house. How I knew where he lived I still am not entirely sure. But I was drunk and horny, and so was he. He let me in, and we got even drunker, together. Important note, I walked to his house, by the way. I never drove under the influence.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Well at least there’s that?”
“So, anyway. He cooked food. We kept drinking. Grading papers. Talk
ing. His sweater came off, and then my shoes. His button-down, my cardigan. I mean, it was just so hot in that house, you know?”
“Ohhh, Lexie.”
“I ended up naked, dancing in his living room to Miles Davis.” She closed her eyes, and it was obvious this memory was…bittersweet. “He touched me first. Granted, I was dancing to get his attention, and it worked. But he grabbed me, and kissed me, and…Charlie, it was…fuck. The kiss of a man his age, who knew what he was doing? Fucking amazing.”
“I bet,” I managed.
“And he could use that mouth for a fuckuva lot more than just kissing. Oh god, so good.”
“Lex, I don’t need the details.”
“Yes, you do.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Kept going. “We didn’t leave that house for four days. We fucked so many times. On the couch, on the kitchen counter, on the dining room table, on the floor, on his desk—apparently that was his big fantasy, bending me over his desk in his study.”
I blushed. “Lex, come on.”
She just laughed, poking at me. “You come on, you silly prude. Have you never made a man’s fantasy come true? There’s nothing in the world like it.”
I thought about Glen—practical, considerate, and knew one sex position: missionary, in bed. Had I ever done it any other way, any other place, except with Glen, in a bed, missionary? I didn’t think so.
I’d certainly never made his fantasies come true. What were his fantasies? Did I know? If he had them, he’d never shared them, and it had never occurred to me to ask.
She was watching me. “You haven’t, have you?”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So, bucket list, Charlie. Make it a top priority—get a man to tell you his deepest, darkest, dirtiest fantasy, and do it for him, as long as it’s within your parameters of safety.”
“What if his fantasy is something messed up, like…I don’t even know. Rape, or a golden shower, or something gross?”
“The whole point is to make it something hot, and kinky, but fun. More for him than you, but I guarantee you, if it’s with the right person, you’ll enjoy the hell out of it. With Marcus, it really was just the desk thing. But with me. His wife couldn’t have fulfilled that one for him, even if she’d been willing to. That’s the kind of fucked-up part about that, I guess.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“So, four days. Fucking all day, all night. Eating, hanging out, him grading papers, and fucking.”
I couldn’t help the crimson blush. I could never talk like her, never, much less do what she’d done. “Four days?”
She nodded, shrugged. “Not my record for sex marathons.”
I blinked, eyes wide. “Jesus.”
“That would be…” she paused for effect. “Jimmy Nawrocki, sophomore year at U-Conn. We rented a hotel for a week, and never left it. Ordered room service, binged Netflix, got hammered, and fucked literally until I physically could not tolerate it. My poor pussy was so sore I could barely walk by the time we were done. But fuck, was it worth it. That boy was a god in the sack. The things he could do with his mouth? And that dick, man, it was—“
“Alexandra!”
She just grinned. Held her hands up, indicated an improbable length, and then made an improbably wide circle with her middle finger touching her thumb. “Like that. A fucking kielbasa, is what it was. Similar curve, too, now that I think about it.”
I hissed at her. “Alexandra Rochelle.”
She just laughed out loud. “Oh shut up. You’re just jealous because all you’ve ever had is Glen freaking Twinkle Mouse the plaid wonder lad.”
I snorted. “The what?”
“Me, Poppy, and Torie all called him Twinkle Mouse.”
“Why?”
“Because when he thought he was being funny, his eyes would twinkle. And he looked like a mouse, and acted like one. Those ears, and the pointy face. The big teeth. Twinkle Mouse.”
“That is not nice,” I said, but I was laughing, because now that she’d pointed it out, I couldn’t unsee it. “But true.”
“Right?”
“Who came up with that?” I asked, expecting it to be her.
“Oh, Torie, I think. The first time you brought him home, she was stoned out of her head, like always, and was like, ‘He twinkles. And he looks like a mouse. I shall call him Twinkle Mouse.’”
“Sounds like Torie,” I said, still laughing. “God, now I’m gonna call him that.”
“He was a Twinkle Mouse.” She frowned at me. “None of us ever understood what you saw in him.”
“That’s a different conversation,” I said, accepting a refill from the waitress and putting my card on the tray to pay the check.
“No, it’s really not,” Lex said, spinning her empty mug like a top. “You just tell me his redeeming qualities, and I’ll destroy them one by one.”
“He was nice,” I said.
“Okay, and?”
I arched an eyebrow. “And what? No snarky comment?”
She shook her head. “I mean, nice is fine. Nice is boring as fuck, but I get it.” She smirked. “But, if you want snark…they say nice guys finish last, but in my experience, nice guys usually finish first, and have no clue how to finish you off.”
I sighed. “Yep, there we go.” I shook my head. “Anyway. He was very, very smart. He knew what he wanted, and he had a plan to get it, and he was following the plan.”
“Again, fine as far as it goes, but boring as fuck.” She faked a gruff, dumb voice. “I have planned out every single moment of my life and will not deviate from this plan for anything. There will be no fun, no adventure, and no spontaneity what-so-fucking-ever.”
I ignored this, because…well, again, it was the brutal truth. That was Glen to a T. “He was articulate.”
She shrugged, made a face. “Can’t knock that one. Continue.”
“He was educated as hell. Stanford, and then Yale. He had connections he’d made himself, in the political world. His dad was connected, but Glen refused to use them.”
“Again, not much to critique there, so I’ll allow those.”
“How gracious of you,” I drawled, monotone, sarcastic. “He was easy to talk to. Good with money. Thoughtful. He always put the toilet seat down.”
“Fine, fine, and very nice. Well-trained.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t teach him that. His mom did, I think.”
“Ohhh, was he a momma’s boy?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
She nodded. “Makes sense.” She cackled. “Did she call him every week?”
I sighed, rubbed my forehead, looking away. “Um. Well?”
“No. No.” She shook her head. “Every day?”
I nodded. “Yeah. On his lunch break, at noon. You could set your watch to it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Did she cut the crusts off his sandwiches too?”
I blushed hard at that. “No, she did not.”
Lexie studied me. And then blanched, pale, visibly nauseous. “You—did—fucking—not.”
“It made him happy, okay?” I ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it on my plate.
She cackled, and then the cackling devolved into hysteria. “You fucking cut the crusts off his fucking sandwiches!” She slapped her forehead. “He was fucking his mother through you! You do realize that, right?”
Me: Five-seven, black hair, athletically slender but with a little extra oomph in the hips and bust. Blue eyes, a recessive trait from Dad.
Glen’s mom: five-six or seven, brown hair dark enough to be nearly black. Slender but with some curve. Light eyes.
Me: Given to nurturing. Authoritative by nature, being the eldest sister, but not a big fan of conflict. Not great at sitting still or being idle.
Glen’s mom: See preceding.
Fuck.
Lex was watching me, and saw the penny drop. “Now you see it, huh?”
“Yeah, and fuck you for that.”
She just laughed. “Ooooh, a swear. I really got you on that o
ne.”
“I’m totally a dead ringer his mom, even physically. I thought I was just nurturing and being a good girlfriend, but he was just looking for a replacement for his mom whom he could also have sex with.” I hung my head in my hands. “I feel gross, now.”
She reached out and awkwardly patted me on the top of the head. “There, there. There, there.”
I blinked up at her. “Is that your version of comforting me?”
She shrugged. “Nurturing, I am not.” She grinned lasciviously. “I’ve got one surefire way of helping someone feel better, and I really don’t think you want that.”
I shuddered. “Yeah, nope.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “I mean, you could probably learn a lesson, here, though. Next time you’re wondering if a guy is interested in you or your nurturing qualities, just do what I do: whenever you feel like he’s down in the dumps and you want to do something nice for him to make him feel better, just blow him. Don’t make him a fuckin’ sandwich, don’t do his goddamn laundry, don’t clean up after him, just suck him off. He’ll feel better, and that sure as shit ain’t nurturing. Save that shit for when you’re really a momma.”
I cackled, stifling laughter with my hands, and then spat laughter through my fingers. “Alexandra!”
“What, Charlotte?”
“You can’t just dick-suck your way through relationships.” I said this not quite sotto voce, but nearly.
“If I’m dick-sucking my way through it, it ain’t a relationship, babe. That’s the real secret.”
“Secret?”
“To not getting attached. Keep it physical. Focus on the peen and the poon, and your heart stays your own.”
I frowned at her. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Worked for me so far?”
“Has it, though?”
And just like that, she was serious again. “Screw you, Charlie.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. I was in a relationship I thought was serious, that meant something, but it wasn’t, and it didn’t. I’m no better off than you are.”
“We are not in the same place, Char. Not even remotely.”
“Why?” I asked.
She shrugged, staring at the table. “Because I’ve only told you part of the story.”
Not So Goode Page 4