Looking to Score(50)
Yep, a period party.
She made us eat tomato soup. She also had a vagina pi?ata and filled it with pads. It was seriously traumatizing to beat it with a baseball bat. Then, she dragged me kicking and screaming up the stairs so she could tell me about the birds and the bees. I’d already known the mechanics of sex thanks to health class, but after four Bloody Marys, my mother felt like she needed to give me the nitty gritty.
“Anal is painful, Amanda,” she’d said. “Even if he begs, don’t do it. You’ll never be the same, and the pain isn’t worth it.”
I’d scrubbed the conversation from my mind while keeled over with cramps. It was terrible.
The second worst conversation was when I had to explain to President Gentry why I was buck naked on his lawn. Listing the amount of Four Lokos I’d had seemed appropriate at the time, but I still felt a twinge of secondhand embarrassment every time I thought of it.
But the third worst conversation? It was happening right now. “So what is this?” I asked with my heart pounding. Defining the relationship was like getting an annual pap smear: No one really wanted to do it, but it was necessary. If I had to compare this conversation to having Dr. Johari’s hands up my tunnel of doom, I’d say her tender touch and the feet stirrups were preferable.
We were lying in my bed, my head nuzzled into the crook of his arm that was holding me tight. It was the darkness of the room that gave me the courage to even ask in the first place. Not being able to see Oakley’s intense eyes, especially when I looked a hot mess, was definitely a plus.
Oakley shifted onto his side. He turned to look at me as he adjusted his arm so that he could rest his head on it. I closed my eyes and breathed in slowly as I waited for him to answer. Now that everybody knew just how close we had gotten, I felt like I could finally admit to myself how much I wanted this. Wanted him.
“I like you a lot, Amanda.” He paused, and I waited for the but that always seemed to follow that statement. “I know I said that I’m not a relationship guy and I don’t have girlfriends. But...”
Ah. There was the but. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, but this seemed like it was going in a good direction. A good but. Like a superhero’s ass in spandex kind of but. I gave in to the flood of excitement, and my whole body started to tingle.
“I can’t stop thinking about you. When I’m not with you, I want to be. I feel like I can talk to you about anything, and I’ve never felt this comfortable with anyone. Plus, you’re hot as hell and fuck like a goddess. I can’t stand the thought of you being with anybody else. I want you to be mine.”
Well, put me in spandex and let’s save the world.
“That was quite the romantic speech,” I replied. “I’m just not sure if I’m sold yet. I need some convincing.” I wiggled. I knew he was packing some impressive morning wood under these sheets, and I wasn’t against telling Oakley junior gooooood morning.
Oakley chuckled and grabbed my wrist. “You’re mine,” he growled playfully. “But let’s not do any labels.”
Ah, and in the words of Tag Team, Whoomp, there it is.
Red flag. Bright red fuckboy flag of surrendering shame.
“No labels, huh?” I asked, scooting away. His grip on my wrist tightened.
“This is new. I finally convinced you to go on a date with me. And yeah, I’d like to pretty much stab anyone in the eye that looks at you for too long, and the idea of anyone touching you sends me into a fucking rage.”
“But no labels,” I repeated dryly, distancing myself even more. No labels was the hallmark of man whores. I’d had my fair share of commitment phobes, and I knew that was code for, if I don’t call you my girlfriend, there’s no accountability if I find something better.
“Stop pulling away from me,” he growled as he pulled me back. One minute I was ready to run to the bathroom and to kick myself for risking my career for this dude, and the next he had me pinned to the mattress with his hard body. The feminist in me didn’t like being manhandled, but also that simple move had me wetter than a slip and slide. Maybe I did like being manhandled?
“You wanna know why I don’t like labels, Solver?” he asked, pressing into me. “It becomes a game.”
“It’s not a game. It’s a way for us to know the clear boundaries of our dynamic. What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, squirming.
“I’ve been with a lot of girls—” My groan of annoyance cut him off. “And all of them wanted to know what we were so they could hashtag boyfriend me on Instagram. I like trophies, but I don’t want to be anyone’s participation badge.”
I thrust my hips up in annoyance. The move simply added more heat to the moment. “And you think I’m just some girl looking to brag about my football star fuck buddy?” I asked. “I didn’t want this.”
“And I know that,” Oakley purred, kissing my neck. I don’t know how he knew where every sensitive little spot on my neck was, but he teased them expertly. “It’s a hang up I have. I’m working on it, okay? I’m trying to navigate a lot of change right now. My party life. My image. My...my future.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant. I really fucking did. But he looked like he was about to run from the room. I recognized how vulnerable he looked and didn’t want to pressure him.