Page 7 of Love Undiscovered
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t a carry-over from the night before?”
“No. I’m telling you, this girl has a crazy schedule.”
“Doing what? Saving the world?”
“Kind of, yeah. She does—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Chicks aren’t that busy unless they just aren’t interested.”
“Oh, she’s interested,” Alex huffs. “Trust me. The texts she would send me… dude, let’s just say she was hot for it. Smokin’ hot for it.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you the problem,” Alex says. “She says ‘hey, meet me at this champagne brunch.’ We meet, we have a good time, she invites me back to her place, and I know where this is going. This chick is hot. And she wants it, man. Wants it bad.”
“Not seeing a problem.”
“Quit interrupting, dickhead.”
“My bad.” I hold my hands up, palms toward him as a show of regret. He seems satisfied with that and gives me a nod.
“Okay, so we go back to her place, have some more champagne, one thing leads to another, things get seriously hot, and then she fuckin’ taps out,” he pauses to take a drink, so I assume it’s okay to interject a question.
“Taps out, taps out?”
“Taps. The. Fuck. Out.”
“No shit? Before you slip it in?”
“After. A while after. Like right in the middle.”
I choke on my beer. Alex pounds me on the back to make sure I’m okay.
I catch my breath and look at him. “She tapped out in the middle of sex?” I say a little too loudly as the music is fading.
“Can you say it any louder, dude? I don’t think the guys at the fucking pool table in the back heard you.”
The girls at the next table turn to look at us, giggling. A new song starts on the jukebox. Some pop song and the same girls start squealing and bouncing in their seats. I turn away from them and back toward Alex, then scoot my stool in closer.
“Sorry, man.” I motion for him to continue.
“She literally tapped me on the fucking shoulder, while I’m going at it, and says, and I quote, ‘this isn’t working for me,’ end quote.”
“Dude,” I say. “I’ve never even heard of that before.”
“Yeah, well, me neither until today. No complaints. Not ever. It’s just this girl, man. She’s cold as fucking ice.” He hangs his head and twirls his pint glass in the condensation on the table top.
“It’s not like you’re a bad looking guy,” I say.
“Thanks, dude,” he says smiling.
“You got a real purty mouth.”
“Okay,” he says, dragging the word out.
I get the feeling he doesn’t get the reference. I don’t want him thinking I’m actually complimenting his mouth.
