Page 9 of All Twerk, No Play

I sang along with Melissa Etheridge about her lover who believes a new woman is the solution to their boredom. I let myself truly belt along about being the only one who would walk across fire, my throat raw with the song’s rage at the sabotaged relationship.

Climbing out of the shower, I put on my silk pajamas and lifted Jurisprudence. She yowled her protest at being moved, but settled in on the pillow beside mine—she'd claimed as her own three years ago, the day Alexander had moved out.

I laid down on the god-awful air mattress and counted down: only two nights left on this piece of shit. Before I left work, Alexander told me Mallory was planning a welcome party the next night at Donnelly's, some cheap-sounding bar that had dancing on weekends, which was the last way I wanted to spend my Friday night.

I fell asleep brainstorming excuses to avoid it.

"Times Like These," Foo Fighters

Cruz

“Cruz,turnoffyouralarm,” a voice murmured into my neck.

I covered my eyes with my bicep, blocking the dawn light creeping through the unfamiliar window. Pulling her stray hairs out of my mouth, I fumbled for my phone to snooze the song that woke us.

Shit, who was ‘us’?

I blinked at the naked white girl sprawled over my chest: Dark hair, lush legs, soft mouth, great tits. As her fingernails trailed down my abs, my half-hard cock swelled.

Shit, what was her name? Jessica, Jane?

Tapping the song’s beat on my leg, I scanned her apartment for a hint: Too many throw pillows, framed photos of duck-face selfies, generic girl crap.

“Good morning,” she said huskily, pressing up for a kiss. Ugh, morning breath. My cock hardened more. Traitor.

“Good morning,chiquita,”

“Last night was incredible.” Her hand loitered on my lower abs. “Do we have time for another round?”

Thankfully, I was saved by my alarm's post-snooze strum of the Foo Fighters. I answered her questions by singing along with Dave Grohl about being a one-way motorway that only goes away. The song was three minutes long, could I get out before the final chord?

Extracting myself from her claws, I rolled away and pulled on my workout gear, popped a mint, and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

“Text me,” she said, lifting onto her elbows. “Let’s do this again.”

That would be one way to get her name—not that I wanted it. Was it Jolene? No, but now I had the Dolly Parton song in my head, an awesome country-rock mashup duet of Dolly over Dave that I was going to be humming about all morning. Great way to start the day.

“You know my policy,” I said, pulling on my socks. She let the sheet drop, displaying those great tits, but I held strong, lifting one finger. “One night.”

Everyone in town knew about my one-night policy. I’d made the strategic decision to tell Mallory Clarke, who shared the hot gossip with every single woman in town.

“But I won’t tell anyone,” she protested. “Come back tonight.”

Even if I’d wanted a second night—and I didn’t, because she might get attached and expect me to spend time I didn’t have going on dates I couldn’t afford—I had Pike’s going away party tonight at Donnelly's. I kissed her again to silence her … although her breath tasted like ass.

I hadn’t even wanted a hookup last night. Rodriguez asked me to fill in on drums. After the show, he invited people to his condo on the fourth floor of our building, including this girl—probably because he wanted her. The party was loud enough to muffle a faint voice singing an ancient Melissa Etheridge song. I inched closer to the vent, straining to hear the powerful voice, raw with torn-up emotion.

As the superintendent, I knew this place better than anyone. I’d cleaned the air ducts between units, so I knew the sound carried from 501, the building’s most impressive condo, recently purchased by ‘Obsidian Properties.’

That apartment was a three-bedroom, so most likely Mrs. Obsidian was a WASPy botoxed mother and I’d soon get called to extract Superman action figures from their garbage disposal. Or maybe she’d hire me as a trainer to help ‘tone’ her muscles with two-pound dumbbells … and then expect a happy ending.

Regardless, her raging voice turned me the fuck on, so I let this brunette drag me to her dingy apartment. I’d stripped her down with eyes closed, put her on her hands and knees, and hummed that song while I fucked Joanna. Aha, that was her name.

“Sorry, Joanna, I’ve gotta go," I said, letting myself out as she pouted, taking the stairs two at a time and popping in my earbuds.

Dave Grohl crooned about a new day rising and I faced east, hoping maybe this sunrise would be the moment of inspiration, when the sky's rose and copper streaks revealed what to do with my life.

But there was no sudden revelation about whether to stay in my dead-end job or finally go to college. No voice from on high telling me to move back to my mom's cramped house in Queens or stay in the town that was supposed to be temporary.

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