Page 7 of When It's Us
I’ve had three mind-melting sexual encounters in my life, and none of them involved my ex. The first was a one-night stand with a boxer I’d met while on business two years ago, when ‘dry spell’ didn’t even begin to describe my sex life. And the lasttwoorgasms I’d had that didn’t involve silicone and triple-As were quick, hot, and dirty one-offs that never even led to penetration.
Hutch Hayes had commanded my body with nothing but his filthy words and skilled tongue. Too bad he was a vapid, shallow, asshat who never passed up the opportunity to push my buttons.
Actually, it makes perfect sense that I’d be turned on by what I saw. I mean, I’ve watched porn. Doesn’t really do it for me; it’s all fake moans, faker tits, and female crotch shots aimed at men and their pleasure.
But Josh, Ryan, and Vanessa are soveryreal. It’s been six months since I’ve been touched. So after watching that, it stands to reason that I’d be turned on.
I wouldn’t mind my very own Ryan or Josh right about now. Except maybe a little older? The last thing I need in my bed is a college kid with mommy issues. I have real mommy issues of my own to navigate without adding someone else’s shit into the mix.
I toss back another swig of lukewarm beer with a grimace. “Men only complicate shit.”
I have zero time for a relationship. And even less desire for one. But I wouldn’t be opposed to some hot, steamy, freaky sex.
Unfortunately, having two almost six-year-olds around doesn’t make hooking up easy, especially when one or both end up in my bed at least once or twice a week.
Still, I find myself crossing back over to the window. I could peek and see if they’re still there, right?
Rolling my lips together, I part the curtains. I can’t tell which emotion is stronger when I find the pool empty and the yard dark: relief or regret.
After dropping the curtains back into place, I head for the couch, feeling a bit annoyed and a lot turned on.
I used to have a life. Not one likethat—with tiny bikinis, pool parties, enough weed to kill a horse, and two dudes railing me at once, but a life, nonetheless. Now my life is one long boring string of the same sequences of events day after day, where nothing changes, and everything stays the same.
Instead, here I am on Friday night, watching my twenty-something neighbors screw in their pool and drinking alone like some kind of middle-aged sad person. Fuck, at least I don’t have three or four cats. Then I’d really be pushing it.
Hutch
Filteredlightslowlyrousesme from sleep. When I crack an eye open, an unfamiliar ceiling greets me.
Where the fuck am I exactly?
I expected the wood-grain paneled ceiling of my VW, but instead, I’m met with smooth white metal, dozens of silver rivets lined in neat rows. And it’s warm. Too warm. Soft breathing and the weight of an arm around my torso tug at my gaze and memory. But it’s…elusive.
A groggy glance around registers windows—rows of them. Fog hangs like a mist beyond them, obscuring the view outside. I let my eyes roam, and the blonde draped across my naked torso stirs. A few colorful beads weave through her full head of dreadlocks. A gold septum piercing catches the light. Her lashes flutter as I look away to take in the rest of the interior of the apparent school bus turned caravan camper.
A sea of colorful tapestries, blankets, and bedding covers the floor, some occupied, some not. No one else appears to be awake. A hint of weed clings to the air underneath the unmistakable scent of incense. Patchouli. Something musky. Sandalwood, maybe. Something is there, just out of reach. A dude with spiked blondhair and stacked hemp necklaces. Puka shells. A bong, shot glasses, and…a monkey?
What the fuck happened last night?
A sleepy sigh to my right pulls my focus, and the brunette on the other side of me stirs, tossing a long leg over mine. I squint, trying to bring back memories of last night but it’s foggier than the weather outside. IthinkI fucked them both.
Who am I kidding? I absolutely fucked them both.
Empty condom wrappers lay discarded next to the pallet I’m currently pinned to, real classy-like.
At least I had the wherewithal to wrap my shit up. Not that I’m in the habit of fucking without protection. Made that mistake once.
Yeah, it’s too fucking early to think about that clusterfuck.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I try to figure out how to get out from under these two chicks without waking them. Because while I’m sure I had a great time, I don’t do morning-after shit. In fact, I rarely stick around long enough for there to be morning-afteranything.
Do I have a headache? I lift my head and a searing pain slices through my left eye.
Yep. Definitely hungover. Fucking tequila. That and all the weed. I’m not a big smoker, but it’s damn hard to stay sober when you’re buried balls deep in a hot surfer—scratch that,two hot surfers—inside a forty-foot hotbox on wheels.
Coffee is a need, not a want.
“Mmm…morning,” the blonde mumbles, stretching out her neck to gaze at me with a sleepy smile. Pressing her cheek back to my chest, she lets out a sigh before she also throws her leg over mine, bumping the knee of the brunette, who grunts in her sleep.
