Not So Goode

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Ohhh my.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. And not even the worst part.”

  “You got caught, didn’t you?”

  She yanked the bill tray toward herself, scribbled a zero on the tip line and totaled it, tossed a generous cash tip onto the tray, and slid it back to me to sign.

  She adopted a smooth, low, sultry, announcer-type voice. “Next time, in the ongoing saga of Lexie’s Fucked-Up Life…find out if the wife and children caught her in flagrante delicto with the hunky professor, or will she get away with her sinful rendezvous? Also in our next episode we answer the question, is anal really worth it?”

  I snorted. “Lex, jeepers criminy.”

  She sputtered a disbelieving laugh. “What…the hell…did you just say?”

  “Jeepers criminy. I don’t like taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Didn’t know you were religious, Charlie.”

  “I’m not, really, but it doesn’t seem logical to piss off a potential deity. Plus, it’s just crass and unnecessary.”

  “God, you sound like Mother.”

  “Why thank you.”

  “Considering you’re twenty-four, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” She slung her purse over her elbow. “Come on. Let’s hit the road.” And so we left the restaurant, stretching in the sunshine with the towers of Chicago all around us. “You want to just walk a little bit?” Lexie suggested.

  “Sure,” I said. “Stretch our legs, maybe hit a couple stores.”

  And so we passed most of the day—shopping, walking, talking about anything but our messed-up lives. She told me stories about her various college escapades, I told her funny and embarrassing tidbits about Glen—such as how he once made an appointment for a massage, not realizing it was actually an illicit “happy endings” massage parlor slash prostitution front. That was hysterical, until he’d admitted he had actually, out of overly polite confusion, allowed the “massage therapist” to give him the happy ending. And that it had happened while we were together.

  I had been less than pleased, but had chalked it up to him being naive and just too polite to tell her to stop.

  Now, I wondered.

  But I still told the story, because it was funny.

  Lex told me about the time she went on three or four dates with this super-hot, beefy, charming Army officer on leave and in uniform…only to find out that he had an actual micro-penis, and hadn’t been able to go through with sleeping with him for the gales of helpless, stunned laughter.

  For which she still felt guilty, and claimed to have actually tried to find him later so she could apologize and possibly even make up for it—to no avail, as he’d shipped back out.

  “Like, god,” she said, “it’s not his fault—I know that now and I knew it then. Nothing he can do about what he was given by nature. And even teeny weenies need love. I should’ve been able to woman up and still have fun with him. But I was just so shocked, because everything else about him, including his hands, was just enormous. I was fully expecting a serious pocket python when he dropped trouser, but no. It would’ve fit in a damn Tic-Tac box, and I’m not lying. What was I supposed to do with it?” She held her index finger and thumb apart as if holding an invisible pencil, and mimed a vigorous up-and-down motion. “It would’ve been like this. Ridiculous.”

  “Lexie, you’re still being mean.”

  She sighed. “I know, I know. I should have more compassion and understanding. But I just…I like big dicks, and I cannot lie.” She glanced at me. “What was Glen packing? I’ve always been curious.”

  I bit my lip, half hiding a grin. “You’d probably be a little surprised.”

  “Yeah? Nicer than expected?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, I have no frame of reference, because he’s the only man I’ve ever had sex with.”

  She huffed. “We have got to fix that.”

  I shook my head at her. “I’m really not interested in casual sex, Lexie. I’m just not. I don’t say that to cast any judgment on you. I mean that. What you do with your body is your business, and as long as you’re being honest with yourself and respecting yourself and sticking to whatever morals and convictions you hold, then more power to you. But for me, personally, the idea of having sex with a perfect stranger just doesn’t sound fun or exciting, it sounds terrifying and impersonal.”

  “That’s part of why it’s fun,” she said. “But I get what you mean. We’re just different people, I guess.”

  I hugged her sideways. “And that’s okay. I love you for you, sister.”

  She shoved me off. “Oh stop being saccharine, Charlotte. It’s gross.”

  I laughed, leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek, a wet, sloppy one. “Oh come on, Alexandra. Don’t be squeamish. I’m your big sissy!”

  She cackled, pulling away, and then abruptly turned into me and licked my cheek. “There.”

  “Eeew! Oh my god you licked me!” I screeched, wiping at my face.

  She just laughed, and wiped off her own cheek.

  I had a thought, then. “You know, I would normally never, ever, do this. But seeing as he violated my trust and broke my heart, and I need to delete them anyway…”

  I dug my phone out of my purse and scrolled backward through my photos to March of the previous year, when Glen and I had had this brief, short-lived, and utterly unsuccessful attempt to “spice up” our sex life by sending each other nude pictures. I knew he still had some of me, but I’d only gotten as far as an awkward topless shot before giving up, so I figured hell, let him have it.

  I still had these…and god, they were glorious.

  Gloriously awkward, and funny as hell. Which was why I was showing them to Lexie.

  I handed her my phone. “Swipe left,” I said. “And behold the glory of Twinkle Mouse.”

  She took the phone, but her eyes stayed on me. “You have dick pics of Glen?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why did he send you dick pics?”

  I sighed. “We were trying to spice up our sex life.”

  She closed her eyes slowly. “And that, my dearest sister, is when you know the sex is shitty: if you’re twenty-four and need to ‘spice it up.’ That’s fine for a couple in their forties who have been married for like twenty years. People fall into patterns. Life weighs you down, and you get stuck in ruts. It’s totally normal, and that’s when you do something like that, to shake it up. But at twenty-four, you oughta be boning each other on the hood of the car just for the hell of it. You’re a beautiful, funny, assertive, athletic young woman, Charlie. Sex should be fucking wild, honey!”

  I couldn’t look at her, because I knew she was right. “Just look at his dick and give me my phone back so I can delete the stupid photos.”

  She looked.

  And burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh, my god. Did he Photoshop in a sun flare?”

  I nodded, biting my lower lip. “Yes. Yes he did.”

  “Is that, in fact, a shag throw rug he’s kneeling on?”

  I nodded again. “A bearskin rug, as a matter of fact.”

  “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but…did he…oil himself down?”

  I couldn’t contain the splutter. “Yes.” I had to focus on not losing my shit. “He took a whole series of these. With his professional grade Nikon DSLR, and a tripod, and a timer. He had a photoshoot with himself.”

  She swiped. “Wow. I mean, bonus points for going all out, but…wow.” She pinched to zoom in. “You weren’t wrong, though. He’s bigger than I’d have thought. Smaller than what I would consider minimum for me to want a repeat, but I’d fuck it once.”

  I eyed her. “So, from your much broader range of experience, where does that fall in the spectrum of average penis size?”

  She bobbed her head to one side, glancing at me. “Honest?”

  I nodded. “I’m very much and very gladly done with him, so yes.”

  “It’s on the small side. Length isn’t that bad, but it’s thin. Narrow. Pointy. Kinda weird lo
oking. I mean, as a penis expert I can tell you authoritatively that is not a pretty penis. But, if he used it well, like you felt good with him and enjoyed sex with him and had yourself a nice little O when you were fucking him, then size doesn’t matter. I’ve had giant dicks that weren’t as fun and enjoyable to fuck as smaller ones that the man in question knew how to use. So, people say size doesn’t matter, and others say size does matter—in my experience, both are true. It does matter, because there really is too big, and too small. But as long as it’s inside the range of not too big and not too small, it really doesn’t matter as long as he knows what he’s doing.” She swiped again, spewing laughter through a cupped hand. “Oh my god, so glamorous. The sultry look, the slicked-back hair, the oiled beer belly.”

  “Right?” I said. “That was the end of that experiment. I was laughing too hard to feel sexy when he sent them.”

  “Did you enjoy sex with him?”

  I sighed, shrugged. “Well, again, I have no frame of reference. I’ve had plenty of sex, just all of it was with him. So I don’t have any other experience to compare it to.”

  “But did you finish sexy times feeling satisfied?” She swiped through a few more. “Wow, I mean, wow.” A glance at me. “How often did you feel the need to pop into the bathroom with a vibrator after he was asleep to finish the job?”

  I blushed. “Um. I thought I was the only one who did that.”

  She cackled out loud. “Girl, you need to talk about sex more, if you think that.”

  We passed a group of women who all looked about five or ten years older than us. Lexie hauled me to a stop and waved them down. “Excuse me, ladies, sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping you’ll help me out, here. My sister, my dear sheltered sister, has labored her entire adult life under the sad assumption that she’s the only woman who has ever needed to sneak into the bathroom after sex to finish the job.”

  The women, six or eight of them, exchanged looks, and then clustered around Lexie and I, breaking out in the kind of deafening laughter only a large group of excited women can produce.

  One of them, a woman of either Middle Eastern or Indian decent, with an exaggerated New York accent, hugged me as if we’ve known each other for years. “Honey, I’d say you’re in the extreme minority if you haven’t done that at least once in your life.”

  “That is the damn truth,” another woman said—this one was white and decked out in leather pants and a white silk shirt. “My husband left me like that at first, and then I decided fuck this, I’m gonna tell him has to up his game if he wants to keep fucking me, and he did, and now I get off at least once every time we go.”

  And then there was a barrage of advice and stories, and I couldn’t keep it all straight. I’ve never in my life heard so much graphic sexual detail.

  But, it did help, because I learned very quickly that mediocre sex is normal, and it’s not until you find someone who really lights you up that you truly understand the importance of good sex, and what good sex even is.

  Not that it would do me any good, because I had no intention of having any sex anytime soon. I needed to be emotionally distanced from Glen a bit more before I even thought of sex. And, honestly, I couldn’t fathom what it would be like, to want someone else. There’d only been Glen, since I was seventeen. I met him my first day of freshman orientation at Yale, and never even thought about another man. Five years at Yale, two years in Boston. Seven years, I’d given to him.

  A lot of sex, but with zero variety.

  Given the frequency of our sex, which was, honestly, a lot—two or three times a week, at least—there had been a pathetic number of orgasms for me. I know Lex would call that lame, barely enough to talk about. But to me it had seemed like a lot.

  Because…

  Well, because it felt like a chore, sometimes.

  I didn’t always look forward it. Or, I’d be all excited and horny going into it, but the reality would leave me disappointed. I’d imagine what the sex would be like in my head throughout the day, anticipating being with him, and then when we finally got to it, the reality would be a couple of lazy kisses, his hands groping my tits, a couple quick thrusts and a grunt, and that was it. He’d be asleep, and I’d be like, well hell—what now?

  What usually happened was I’d wait until he was snoring, then dig my vibrator out of the old maxi pad box in the back of the cabinet under the sink, sit on the toilet lid, and finish myself off, biting my lip to keep quiet.

  That’s just what I knew. That was pretty much my sexual routine.

  I couldn’t fathom what else it could be. Certainly not like Lexie’s life. I could never let a stranger kiss me, let alone touch me intimately.

  The group of women had said goodbye, hugged us all around, and went their way as we went ours—me lost in my thoughts.

  Could it be better? How would I know if I wanted it? I’d never let myself be attracted to anyone else, or think about anyone else. How would I know what I wanted, and how would I know it’d be worth the effort of getting it?

  What if mediocre sex was all I’d ever know? What if I only attracted mediocre men? I thought I was pretty enough, with a decent body, and I’d been hit on more than few times by some pretty hot men. But did that equate to being able to find, attract, date, and get into bed with a man capable of more than mediocre, halfhearted sex?

  Was there, in fact, a man out there who would want me for me, and not just because I was a fuckable version of his mother?

  At that moment, Lexie grabbed my arm, hauled me to a stop, and planted her fingertip on a flyer taped to a crosswalk/stoplight pole. “O-M-G! Charlie! Look!” It was a flyer for a country music festival, going on that same weekend. “Myles North is going to be there!”

  Country music was one of the things we bonded over—none of my other sisters liked it, and even Glen had teased me about my predilection for country music. So, this was the perfect opportunity for Lexie and I to have fun together doing something we both loved, and shared.

  “That will be fun. Myles North is pretty good.”

  She glared at me. “Pretty good? Pretty good? He’s amazing!”

  “His body, or his music?”

  She grinned. “Both! I can appreciate the man for his sexy blue eyes and that rugged jawline, and that body…mmmm-goddamn the man is fine. And he can play the guitar like fuckin’ Santana, and he has a voice I could listen singing me to sleep every single night of my life.”

  I laughed. “Wow, you have a major crush on the man, don’t you?”

  “I mean, it’s a celebrity crush, but yeah.” She wiggled her eyebrows, shook her hips. “I may or may not have had quite a few sessions with Mr. Pickles, thinking of him.”

  I stared at my sister. “With who now?”

  “Mr. Pickles. My vibrator.”

  “Your vibrator is named Mr. Pickles?”

  She cackled. “Yep. He’s long, and thick, and green, and covered in these delicious little bumps. And he looks like a pickle, and one time I was crazy fucking horny and had nothing in the dorm to help out except a jar of pickles and ohmygod do not try that. So I call him Mr. Pickles.”

  I closed my eyes. “There’s so much there I seriously did not need to know, Alexandra. And you’re telling me you’ve diddled yourself with Mr. Pickles thinking about Myles North?”

  “Thinking about? Try looking at pictures of, and watching videos, and imagining him using those hands that play the guitar dancing all over my pussy, ohhh my. Yes. I have, in fact, diddled myself thinking about Mr. Myles Mackenzie North.”

  “You know his middle name?” I asked, half laughing.

  “I know his favorite guitar is a fifty-year-old Martin signed by Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, and Willie Nelson, and that Waylon Jennings himself played an entire set with that guitar back in the eighties, when it was Myles’s dad’s, and the guitar is named Betty-Lou, and she lives in a special case. I know his childhood dog was named Rollie, and she was a beagle, and got so fat that they started calling her Roly-Pol
y.”

  I shook my head again. “Wow.”

  She shoved at me. “Oh, shut up. He’s hot, and I like his music.” She eyed me. “Have you never had a celebrity crush?”

  “Nah. I figured, I was with Glen, and I loved him, and I was going to marry him, so why entertain thoughts of anyone else?”

  “Because there are sexy people in the world, and harmless crushes on people you’ll never meet are totally innocent.”

  “I guess.”

  She just half sighed, half laughed. “We’ll get you thinking outside the Glen box, Char-Char. Don’t you worry.” She tapped the flyer. “In the meantime, we’re going to this, right? It’ll be a hell of a good time.”

  I was already putting the address into a navigation app. “A little less than an hour from here. Let’s go!”

  She was giddy. “Yes! Myles North, here I come!”

  “I don’t think he knows or cares that you’re coming, Lexie.”

  She just bit her lip and smirked. “No, but give me ten minutes alone with him and he’ll know I’m coming, all right. More than once, if I’m lucky.”

  I groaned. “You’re dirty.”

  “Yes, yes I am.”

  And so, we retrieved my car and headed for a country music festival.

  And, honestly, I was excited too—and I resolved to keep my mind open, and really try to just enjoy the experiences, not overthink them, and have fun. No matter what form that fun may take.

  And if fun came in the form of a hot guy and some innocent fun, so be it.

  Crow

  God, what a wonderful clusterfuck this festival was.

  How the organizers had managed to book such big-name, high-dollar acts, I couldn’t figure out. The main stage was tiny and rickety and scary as hell, the so-called “wings” were semitrailers backed up to the stage, the electrical and sound wiring was a godawful tangled mess, and the backstage area was only separated from the pit by a few paltry, handmade white sawhorses with “Do Not Cross” stenciled on with spray paint, and beyond the sawhorses, the equipment trailers were parked end to end.