Page 2 of Pretty Please Me
I wasn’t always so desperate, but having my two best friends, the two most important people in my life, get married within the last year has been hard. Seeing them so happy feels like someone’s shining a spotlight on my loneliness.
I’m used to being needed, and now that Elliot and Gwen don’t need me, I don’t know where I fit into their lives anymore. It’s not their fault, and I’m happy they’re both happy, but sometimes I wish we could go back to how things used to be when I took care of everyone and felt needed. I don’t know how to feel satisfied if I’m not playing caretaker.
That’s why I need to meet someone, learn how to sexually please him, and fall madly in love, so I have a companion to come home to. So I never have to feel this alone and useless ever again.
It shouldn’t be so difficult, but I suppose it’s my fault for notpracticingsooner. Sure, I slept with men in college, but after a couple of embarrassing encounters—not so different from tonight—I quickly gave up. I didn’t see the point, and because of my limited distractions, I could focus on my goals. I got my five-hundred-hour yoga certification and worked my butt off until I saved enough money to buy this apartment connected to my yoga studio downstairs.
I’ve done everything right, yet I still can’t get a man to sleep with me twice.
I’m pathetic.
You just laid there like a plank of wood. I wince as Kyle’s words echo through my mind.
It’s not like I haven’t heard the same variation of rejection before. I shouldn’t be surprised that once I get as far as sex, guys lose all interest in me. I’m like the opposite of Viagra, and I don’t know how or what to do to fix it.
I mean, he compared me to spoiled milk! How am I ever supposed to recover from that? It’s not like I can talk to my friends about it. All they do is brag about their amazing sex lives with their husbands. I’ve tried to mention it in the past, but the only advice I got was “Clear your mind and focus on the sensations”and “Try drinking a glass of wine first.” Believe me, I’ve tried all that stuff, and it’s never helped. So then I decided I just needed to be a little more convincing to the men that I was enjoying myself.
I started watching porn, and there were so many responses to choose from, so I went down the list. I moaned loudly, but that only seemed to scare my partner. Maybe my tone was too deep? Then I added some twitching and eye-rolling, but the guy I was with thought I was having a seizure when I accidentally kicked him in the face. Needless to say, he didn’t ask me out again.
So, this time, I tried staying silent, and I guessthatwas creepy.
Maybe if sex actually felt good, I wouldn’t struggle so much acting like it does.
With a sigh, I pull my fuzzy blanket off the back of the sofa, wrap it around myself, and turn on the TV, happy for the distraction.
I can tell the wine is finally starting to kick in when the warm buzz calms my nerves. Maybe tonight wasn’t so bad… I suppose everything’s funny eventually? No matter how disgusting or embarrassing.
Maybe this is just a little speed bump I can learn from? Like whatnotto do during sex. Eventually, I’ll get it right. At some point, it’s just a numbers game, isn’t it?
I take another long sip of wine as I scroll through my social media feed during the commercial break when a familiar image catches my eye.
I sit up a little straighter as I take in the image of Trent Cane. My childhood crush. The captain of the football team and the student council president.
He’s tagged in one of our mutual friend's pictures with the caption,“Ready to mingle.”
I’m only one glass of wine in, but this kind of recall definitely calls for a second. Reaching behind me, I grab the bottle and pour myself another before clicking on his name.
Of course, we’re not social media friends–not that I have many of those anyway–so I can only see a limited amount of public information.
Trent was wildly popular in high school but in a humble kind of way. I still remember his piercing blue eyes and how his long tousled hair flipped to the side in the front. He was dreamy and perfect, and he didn’t even know I existed.
How could he really? I was the shy, skinny, fair-skinned redhead who sat in the back of every classroom with my nose in a book. I didn’t even get boobs until my junior year, all gangly legs and freckles.
I look down at my perky B cups and shrug. They may not be huge, but Gwen’s told me many times that I’ve got a perfect rack for my frame. And Gwen’s not one to lie about boobs.
As I study his picture, I bite my lip. Maybe it’s the liquid courage, or maybe it’s those familiar blue eyes that feel like home staring back at me, but a strange sense of curiosity urges me on.
He looks just as I remember, though he’s traded his long tousled locks for a nice crew cut. There are slight creases around the corners of his eyes, and his muscular frame is a bit softer but still lean. He’s just as handsome, and seeing him as a man has all my senses on edge.
I dive into his profile, devouring every piece of him that’s available for public viewing. I’m taking another sip of wine as I scroll down to three months ago when his relationship status changed from married to single, and my finger accidentally presses the like button.
I choke on my wine as I frantically hit the button again and again, trying to undo the reaction. Liking it and unliking it with rapid-fire speed when a friend request pops up on my screen.
If it were possible to die of embarrassment, this would be my moment to ceremoniously be sucked up into the heavens, where I’d be crowned the Patron Saint of Humiliation. Seriously. I’m two for two tonight.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I look around the room as if the answer is somehow written on the wall, but it’s no use.
I grit my teeth as I click accept. I’ve already liked a three-month-old post from his divorce. Things can’t really get much worse, can they?
