The Exact Opposite of Okay(20)
I start scanning my mental archives for any and all mentions of a) periods, b) other bodily functions, or c) Carson himself. Ding ding ding. Pretty sure I’ve covered all the important shame bases with my now-not-so-hilarious anecdotes. I’m about to excuse myself to go and immediately change my URL and install a password [which you will be relieved to know I have now done] and swallow a liter of bleach [have not yet done this, but give it time] when he adds: “So you like me, huh?”
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “I just think you’re hot in a sexy-yet-unintimidating way.”
He grins wolfishly. “Always the goal.”
I think I might as well just tattoo perma-blush to my face at this point because the amount of time I’ve spent in a state of embarrassment tonight is unprecedented and deeply concerning. I should just save my blood the hassle of having to rush to the surface of my skin and have red ink injected into my cheeks. Fortunately for my Corona-addled voice box, Carson picks up the conversational baton once again.
“And I think you’re hot too. In an entirely intimidating way.”
Then he kisses me!!!
Lest you think I am an even worse homo sapiens than you already do, let me just say that I am fully aware of how inappropriate this is. I can’t even enjoy the moment I’ve fantasized about endlessly through classes on trigonometry, because I’m scanning the room for Danny and/or Vaughan through the corners of my eyes. For a minute I wonder why I am so concerned about Vaughan, and it’s not just that I don’t want him to tell people about my gas problems. I think it’s maybe the fact I’ve recently learned he’s not a grade-A asshole and actually has a soul? Who knows?
Clearly I am not ashamed enough to stop the Carson-kissing and such, but just so you know, I do have a conscience, although it is perpetually buried under several liters of beer and an abnormally high sex drive.
The music is very loud and most people are very drunk, and I’m very dizzy like I’ve spun around in circles for eleven days, so eventually I just relax and let myself enjoy it. Surprisingly Carson is not as good a kisser as Vaughan – too much Dorito-flavored saliva for my personal taste, although I am sure others are into that particular sensation – but he’s kinda cute in the way he keeps pulling away and smiling bashfully before diving in for another round of tongue hockey. Don’t worry, he won’t read this review of his snogging technique. Like I say, I’ve password-protected my blog now. [Which should have really been my first move upon its creation, but you live and learn.]
I’m in a slight quandary.
Part of me – the biggest part – wants to get it on with Carson. He’s cute and funny and, well, I want to, which should not be too hard for you to grasp.
Then there’s the annoying, niggling part of me that worries what people will think of me if I do. If the school population discovers I banged two dudes in one night, the girls will call me a bitch and a slut, and the guys will high five and call me easy while flinging their own feces at each other.
Anyway, due to that abnormally high sex drive I mentioned earlier, I’m soon following him upstairs to Baxter’s parents’ room, where we proceed to have a lovely time. Ten out of ten would recommend having sex with Carson Manning. You can do it at least three times in one commercial break, and I sometimes think brevity is an underrated quality in coitus. I’d rather have short and sweet than cross over into slightly-boring-and-chafey territory.
[I know you’re probably reading this thinking, Oh my god, what an unbelievable whore! even though you generally consider yourself to be fairly progressive, but don’t worry. Later in the book I plan to address your problematic concerns about my promiscuity in a personal essay titled “Old White Men Love It When You Slut-shame”.]
Monday 19 September
5.47 a.m.
I know! Look at that time stamp! While I am generally of the opinion that one should not rise before the sun unless one has been roused by a swarm of locusts, I can’t sleep. Not only because I find out whether I’ve made it to the next round of the screenplay competition this week – have already refreshed emails six thousand times this morning, despite the fact it’s still 1 a.m. on the West Coast – but also because even more shit went down last night, and my metaphorical tail is well and truly between my legs. I did a Really Bad Thing. I’m too ashamed to even tell Betty, which gives you some indication of its magnitude.
After I finish typing out the full recap of the party yesterday afternoon, Ajita texts our group chat and invites Danny and me over for a full debrief and twelve tons of extra-jalape?o nachos. This makes me slightly nervous because I’m not sure how much Danny already knows about my sexploits at this point. By slightly nervous, I mean a herd of rhinos are stampeding my guts. But like the brave soul I am I abandon my physics homework and head over on my rusty deathtrap of a bicycle.
Five treacherous miles later I arrive at Ajita’s, and Prajesh greets me at the door with a berry and spinach smoothie. Because he’s one of those student athlete types he’s always talking about The Daily Grind, and also lecturing me about the fact I’m probably vitamin deficient in basically everything. [Do not fear, I did not have sex with him, for he is thirteen and even I draw a line somewhere.]
“Hey, Praj,” I say as warmly and big-sisterly as I can. “How you doing?”
He zips up his hoodie. “Yeah, I’m cool. You?”