The Exact Opposite of Okay(26)
I am slightly buzzed from the couple of beers I’ve necked like a giraffe [I am aware this simile doesn’t quite work], but my inhibitions have not been adequately lowered as of yet. So I simply say:
Thank you for the splendid dick show. Really. You should start charging for admission to this world-class event! I confess this would price me out of action due to the fact I am a poverty-stricken orphan, but as your business advisor this is a risk I am willing to take.
Not sure what possesses me to go all Richard Branson on him, but I’m not in the habit of questioning where my “jokes” come from, and I am not about to start while embroiled in a disturbing dick-pic fiasco.
God, you’re weird. But also very hot. Just one pic? ;)
Then three milliseconds later:
I’ll make it worth your while . . .
Teenage boys really do have precisely zero chill when it comes to nudes.
I leave him hanging for a little while, because I’m very evil and enjoy the idea of him sitting on the couch next to his Republican senator of a father, indiscreetly checking his phone five times a minute, and trying to disguise his lopsided boner with a goose-feather cushion, or whatever posh people use to shield their aroused penises from each other.
But then, once Ajita and Danny have stumbled out the front door like moderately intoxicated baby deer, I retire to my bedroom, whip off my clothes and take the damn picture, hitting send before I have time to talk myself out of it.
[Yes, gasp, sigh. But are you even surprised at this point?]
Wednesday 21 September
7.20 a.m.
I fall asleep before Vaughan replies, but it’s no great loss because he only manages to say “fuck” before I assume making a mess of the goose-feather cushion. And that’s that.
11.57 a.m.
Morning recess is spent freaking out in the bathrooms and trying not to get kicked outside by the power-hungry prefects who take their jobs as school police more seriously than the actual US police force. We have to go outside and get fresh air during recess periods, for no other reason than the school authorities want us to be miserable. Fresh air is number three on my top ten list of overrated things in life, which, although constantly evolving, currently looks like this:
1. Sliced bread. It’s undeserving of its eponymous cliché “the best thing since sliced bread”. Give me a crusty baguette any day. Maybe the cliché-makers chose sliced bread because “the best thing since a French stick” sounds vaguely sexual.
2. The Super Bowl. Its only redeeming quality is the way we as a nation come together to eat chicken wings and yell at the TV, but you can do that any day of the week, without the inconvenient sportsball.
3. Fresh air. Outside = weather, insects and the chance that at any given moment you may be hit by a car. I also think people who love camping should never be trusted.
4. Shower sex. A logistical nightmare from start to finish.
5. Smoking. At some point it became synonymous with cool. Why? It tastes gross. It makes you smell gross. It coats your lungs in ash. [I’m not sure if that’s medically correct. Remind me to ask Ajita.]
6. Reading in the bath. You have to dry your hands every thirty milliseconds in order to turn the page, and you live in constant fear of dropping the book spine-first on your bare foofer.
7. Shakespeare. I personally find it unreasonable that he has the monopoly on inventing words. [For example, I’m sure my copyeditors are going to flag up “foofer”.]
8. TV talent shows. But maybe I’m just bitter about having a face for radio.
9. Yoga. Specifically the way in which it is marketed as a relaxing pastime. There is nothing relaxing about twisting yourself into a pretzel and saying “om” a lot.
10. Dubstep. I don’t feel this requires further explanation.
Thankfully, word doesn’t seem to have gotten out about my controversial sexcapades at the weekend. Earlier in the week, the threat of exposure and ridicule felt very real, but, like the rumored Friends reunion, it didn’t really come to anything. Sexmageddon remains a secret.
But of course, the universe is a hormonal son of a preacher man at times, and I’m well overdue a generous helping of bad karma, so inevitably I meet both Vaughan and Carson in the hall at the same time on my way to fourth period. They’re strolling along together, Vaughan carrying a textbook and Carson a basketball, probably chatting about defense tactics or some other sportsball-related subject I have no hope of understanding.
Despite the flurry of activity around the lockers, they both clock me burying my face into my upside-down copy of Wuthering Heights. Ajita smirks dirtily and ushers them over, which is almost definitely a fireable offense as my supposed best friend, but at this point I just have to be thankful that Danny has double AP chemistry this morning and isn’t here to witness such an unfortunate coincidence.
I mean, they are on the same basketball team, so I should really have anticipated this kind of hideous confrontation, but thankfully it doesn’t seem like either of them are aware that I banged the other. These are their reactions to seeing their latest conquest out in the wild:
Carson: Cocky grin, trademark swagger, “Izzzzaaaayyyyyyy.”
Vaughan: Fierce blushing, frenzied throat-clearing, not a word. [Probably picturing the goose-feather cushion and getting aroused all over again.]