Page 32 of For Cowgirls and Kings
ADALENE
December 25th, 2024
I tracearound the peak of my nipple with a gentle finger, lost in the memory from only nights ago. Who the fuck did I think I was, getting naked and fondling myself in front ofhim?And who the fuck did he think he was daring me I wouldn’t?
And whythe fuckdid I bring up the topic of my virginity?
It’s not something I’m proud of—being a virgin at nearly thirty is a stain on me that I simply cannot wash away, no matter how hard I’ve tried otherwise. It’s not something I’ve planned, or wanted. I don’t care about saving myself for marriage or finding“mister right”before I lose it.
I’ve simply never done it.
At first I was scared. Now I’m embarrassed—disgusted even.Who would want a thirty year old virgin?Certainly not me.
I blame my religious upbringing and severely strict parents. Why else would I feel filthy thinking about having sex? And feel filthy with the fact that I haven’t yet had sex? It’s a vicious, physiological cycle.
Trauma, am I right?
I scrub my hands angrily over my face, trying to clear my head of the swirling thoughts that threaten to consume me ona daily basis. I don’t want to think about this now.Or ever.Especially now that Mateo knows—I’ve never felt more pathetic in my life. My skin crawls with the knowledge that he’s somewhere right now, disgusted with me, or worse—pitying me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Standing up, I stomp to the fridge, yanking it open to pull out a beer. It’s 10:00 a.m. on Christmas morning and I have no plans until later. Thankfully this year, my holiday’s will be slightly less pathetic than the previous years I’ve spent alone. Stetson insisted I join them, not that I would have denied her in the slightest.
So for now, I’ll have a beer, or three, numb my whirling brain, and wait for my mother to call, giving me the greatest ass-chewing of the year, as she always does on Christmas.
I used to love Christmas growing up; it was my favorite. But now it’s a day I dread.
The couch swallows me as I nestle into its velvety purple cushions. Queen Tut wastes no time, stomping his furry orange butt toward my lap, pausing with his front paws resting on my thigh. He remains frozen, his eyes fixated on the door, tail swishing slowly back and forth, and I run a loving hand along his back. “On or off big guy. Those two paws weigh seven hundred pounds and I’m pretty sure you're going to snap my femur in half.”
Large gold-ish orbs flash up at me, and he begins kneading said paws, as if to massage where he was previously hurting me. I shift my hips, picking him up with my free arm to set him in my lap completely. Why do cat paws weigh so damn much? How does that even work?
He spins once, before curling into a ball, tucking his tail beneath him. Purring vibrates through his chest, and my heart squeezes tight. It’s a gift, being an animal’s safe space. Little does he know, he’s mine too. Without Queen Tut, I don’t evenknow if I’d have a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. He keeps me going.
Scruffing the mangy hair by his ears, I stare at the Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with bulbs, tinsel, and icicles all in shades of purple, green, and gold—anything to make it gaudy and over the top, just the way I like it.
You’d never know it, with how much black and dark colors I wear, but I much prefer purple and greens. I prefer girly, frilly, gaudy styles and designs, over dark moody ones.
But somewhere along the line I decided black was cooler. Black was more womanly and dominating, versus girly and gentle. And once I made the mask, I found it impossible to come out from under.
Which is why I love my house so much. And why I hate sharing it with anyone. It’s my safe space; a true peek beneath the dark exterior I keep. A place where my secrets live on the outside, instead of buried beneath black denim and plum lipstick.
The shrill chime of the phone slices through my Christmas tree admiring, and I turn to where it sits on the cushion next to me. I know what’ll be said; it’s never anything new. I also know I’m doing what’s best for me, and even if I miss them, and I’m sorry that I’m hurting them, I’m not sorry that I’m protecting my peace.
Even knowing all this, I still dread the calls. I still don’t want to pick up and sit through the verbal beating, even if deep down I feel like I deserve it.
I answer, taking two deep breaths, and press it to my ear without looking at who it is. It’s always my mom.
“Mama, Merry Christmas,” I begin, doing my best to smother the snakes coiling in my stomach.
“I think I’d prefer Daddy, if we’re going with endearing terms now. Suits me a little better at least.”
My brain sputters at the words, too confused by the voice I recognize but don’t expect filling the line.Why is Mateo at my mother’s house?
“What the hell—” I pull the phone from my ear to check the screen and realize it’s his phone number and not my mother’s blinking back at me. I really need to pay closer attention if I have any hope of avoiding him from here on out. I can’t be making stupid mistakes like this—my poor heart can’t take much more. I lift it shakily back to my ear. “Mateo, can I do something for you?”
He pauses, his breathing heavier on the other end than before, like he’s irritated. I feel a twinge of guilt at my snotty tone, and then memories of our last encounter flit through my mind and it disappears as quickly as it appeared. “Just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, cowgirl.”
That’s the last thing I expect. When did we become close enough to share phone calls on holidays? When did he start calling me cowgirl? I feel like nothing makes sense with him—up is down, left is right, that kind of thing. “Uhm, you too Mateo.” I haven’t forgotten all my manners, thank god.
He breathes out, the woosh filling my ear, and I can’t fight off the guilt once more. He seems disappointed, and that’s even worse than irritated.
