Page 11 of Come Back to Bed
“Okay, he’s obviously a genius,” my friend says once we’re outside, “and he’s definitely a sexy motherfucker who is very fond of you, but I really think your vagina deserves to have way more fun than you’re allowing it to have at this point in your life. I mean let the poor thing loose on Manhattan every now and then! LikeFerris Bueller’s Day Offfor your pussy. I want to see that thing drive around in a stolen Ferrari and sing ‘Twist and Shout’ on a parade float!”
Tommy Blank, ladies and gentleman. The 27-year-old gay pretty boy potty mouth who has been my best friend since we were at Bennington. He looks like Zac Efron, if Zac Efron didn’t give a shit about how he looked. Tommy has so many talents and interests that he’s not capable of being truly successful at any of them, but he gets by and he is doing a lot more than me and having a lot more fun than I am. Like, a lot more.
For instance, right now we’re walking down the sidewalk away from Sebastian’s place and he is talking to me while texting someone else and maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. That’s one of his talents. Envisioning an extravagant life for my lady bits is another.
“I don’t think my vagina is licensed to drive in the state of New York.”
“I’m just saying that if Sebastian Smith won’t fuck you –”
“Shhh!” I look around to make sure my boss isn’t behind us, as if he’d quietly follow us around instead of calling Ethan Hawke to talk about jazz or whatever the hell they talk about.
Tommy lowers his voice a tiny bit. “If he won’t have sex with you then why aren’t you having sex with someone else?”
I truly have no idea why I immediately think of my new temporary neighbor again. “I do have sex. With other people.”
“When?”
“Up until several months ago.”
“Several months ago?! That’s like three decades in New York time.”
“It’s just a phase. Sebastian’s been extra busy and stressed-out lately and I had to get all his tax stuff in order for his accountant, and it’s just easier for me if I can focus on him all the time.”
“Wow.”
“Professionally, I mean.”
“You’re a professional obsessed stalker lady. So modern! So, soooo sad. Hey, what are you planning to go home and watch tonight? Because first let me invite you to my thing which I promise you will be nine thousand times more exciting.” He pauses for effect and holds a hand up, daring me to picture the evening he is about to describe.
I hold back on telling him that nothing could be more exciting to me than watching Season 2 of “Sherlock” for the fifth time and starting on the list that Sebastian asked me to make. But I still want my friends to invite me to things even though I never actually want to go them.
“First, we grab a matcha green tea soft serve in Little Italy…”
“Damn you.” I love me some green tea ice cream. But not as much as I love Benedict Cumberbatch and list-making. “Go on.”
“Which we consume on the way to the Lower East Side, where we meet Portia and Damian and whoever he’s currently fucking because it’s her birthday—at Blue Ribbon for sushi.”
I nearly trip myself up and make a sound that’s something likeNUH!because dammit I love Blue Ribbon sushi.
“And Damian’s paying for everyone. And then we sidle on over to Garfunkel’s for drinks—super chill room that you would love --”
“Okay now I’m already tired.”
“There are bookshelves lining the walls of Garfunkel’s, with real books on them! You can take a nap there, and you’ll need to because then we Uber to Williamsburg for a warehouse party where two super-hot LA guys are DJ-ing and one of them might be straight!”
“Nope.”
“Gah!” He throws his hands up in the air. “I almost had you. I should have just told you about sushi and then kidnapped you for the rest of the night.”
“I just want to be mentally functional for work tomorrow. Man, I miss being an irresponsible entitled idiot.”
“You wore it well, my friend.”
“I love you.” I hug him and kiss him on his cheek. “Thank you for the invitation, but my bed is calling me.”
“Your bed is calling you a boring loser!” he yells out to me, as I skip away from him.
While I’m waiting for the train, I read the text that Tommy sent me as soon as I left him:FYI your ass looks hot in those jeans and also you need to get laid like yesterday but also you probably should just have a boyfriend since you’re already so lame anyway, just sayin’
He’s not wrong, but he’s also not exactly right. I send back an emoji of a squirrel holding a nut, just to confuse him, and because my train is here.
I’m so excited to go home, not just to get into bed and watch Netflix, but because I may get to see that beautiful neighbor I met yesterday. And her grumpy lawyer roommate.
