The Exact Opposite of Okay(19)
You know what happens next. Yes, I take his virginity on the garden bench.
Izzy O’Neill: keeping it classy since never.
12.42 p.m.
Betty just came knocking on my door with a bacon sandwich and a glass of extra pulpy OJ like the true legend she is, and demanded to know everything. I told her the abridged version. She laughed so hard at the burping incident she almost gave herself a hernia.
[Most of you probably find it really odd that I tell my grandmother about my sexual conquests, but she’s just never been weird about it. She’s of the general opinion that my mom (her daughter) led the life of a saint and she still ended up dead at the age of twenty-four, so I may as well enjoy myself because this could all be taken away at any moment, and do I really want to be at heaven’s gates/hell’s trapdoor thinking about all the things (read: people) I wish I’d done?]
[In hindsight, it’s possible my grandmother is partially to blame for the sex-scandal situation.]
Okay. So remember Carson Manning? Hot-yet-unintimidating, class clown, alpaca doodler? Yeah, him.
Vaughan and I come in from outside, and it isn’t like in those cliché movies where people who’ve just had sex look very obviously like they just had sex. There are no tree branches in my hair, for example, or dirt on my knees.
Much like Vaughan thirty seconds ago, the party seems to be reaching its climax. There are several people passed out in corners, several people making out against kitchen counters, and the music is now some sort of soft remixed reggae I don’t actually hate. The windows are steamed up with sweaty condensation, which is quite gross, and there are plastic cups scattered all over the floor.
I disappear to find Danny (oh shit, Danny!!) and Ajita, leaving Vaughan in the kitchen with Baxter and some of the other basketball guys. Vaughan doesn’t do anything gross, like squeeze my ass as I walk away, which I appreciate because catcalling-construction-worker-style romance is not really my idea of a good time. I know some of you may find this unreasonable and absurd, but it’s true.
Ajita is in exactly the same spot on the sofa, playing on her phone and looking generally bored when I track her down. A quick scan of the room shows me Carlie is still MIA.
“Where’s Danny?” I ask, only mildly terrified of the answer on account of his inevitable wrath.
She cocks an eyebrow, knowingly, like Buddha or some other wise religious figure, and points.
Huzzah! Danny is playing tonsil tennis with Michelle Obama Junior! This is excellent news. He can no longer go all Judge Judy on me for my romantic escapades. I celebrate with another beer and plonk myself down on the sofa. Ajita and I play a game of Shut Uppa Yo Face, whereby we watch other people’s conversations from a distance and improvize what we think they’re saying, each of us taking a character. The loser is the one who can’t think of anything to say and stalls, ultimately conceding with the words, “Shut uppa yo face.” I will admit this is a very niche game and not suitable for most social situations.
We’re right in the middle of an epic duologue – a big-issue argument over whether shredded cheese tastes different to its blockier counterparts [obviously I prefer shredded because of my fundamental laziness] – when Carson approaches us. As Ajita and I are both deeply competitive souls, neither of us wants to lose, so we just keep going and going and going, debating heatedly about the merits of grated cheddar. Carson finds this difficult to respond to. Interestingly he does not contribute to the conversation, given he has no idea it is part of an elaborate improvization contest. Maybe he just doesn’t have strong opinions about cheese, which I have difficulty wrapping my head around.
Eventually I lose the game because my beer-marinated banter is not on top form by this stage. Ajita politely excuses herself, disappearing in the direction of Baxter’s hotel-like bathroom.
“O’Neill,” Carson says. His voice is amazing, all warm and gravelly. “Can I sit?”
I resist the temptation to sarcastically reject him and say, “Sure.”
He seems genuinely pleased as he sinks into the sofa next to me. He’s close enough that his arm is pressed against mine, and I can feel his muscles bulging. The smell of his cologne makes me want to lean in even closer, but I manage to control myself for once. The soft remixed reggae continues to play in the background.
“This music’s pretty cool,” I say, bobbing along idiotically to the laid-back beat. I wish I could stop myself from looking like such a moron at all times, but alas I cannot. I’m actually pretty nervous, though I hate to admit it. It’s rare for me to like someone for more than sex – I’m no virgin, but I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. Or, you know. A relationship, period.
“Thanks!” he grins. “It’s actually my iPod.” Again he looks genuinely pleased with the compliment. He’s peeling away the label on his beer bottle and not actually looking at me, though, which makes me think maybe he’s feeling the same nerves as I am. I hope.
We chat idly for a while longer. I would love to give you a play-by-play of this conversation, but frankly it’s a little fuzzy. But what I do remember is . . .
“So, hey,” he says, slurring his words slightly. “I found your blog.”
Any blogger in the history of the internet will understand the sheer horror and humiliation associated with this sentence. It is the stuff of nightmares. It is legitimately enough reason to load yourself into a cannon and fire yourself into the ocean, clutching your laptop to your lifeless chest.