Page 93 of Enemies to Prom Dates
Her eyes narrowed as if she was on to something. “You don’t want to show me, do you?”
“My dick?” I asked. “I can show you if you want.”
“No, I meant you don’t want to show me how to do it. How to make you get off. You like getting me off because it means you’re in control. You said it yourself.”
I groaned and lifted her off my lap, moving her back to the passenger seat. “This isn’t a competition, Beth.”
“Right, because you’re not letting me compete. You’ve been in control of everything since the beginning. You know how it makes me feel?”
“I don’t know. Orgasmic?” I quipped.
Another scowl from her. “Out of control. I don’t like being out of control.”
“Deal with it.”
“No, show me you your dick,” she snapped.
I laughed. “Uh, no. You’re not giving me a revenge hand job. That can’t end well.”
“You might possibly be the only guy in the history of guys everywhere to turn down a hand job.”
“Maybe. But the next time you offer, I would prefer it was about making me feel good and not about winning some stupid competition!”
That shut her up. I started the car and pulled out of our spot, heading for the main road out of the park. After a few minutes of silence, I could feel her eyes on me.
“I do want to, you know,” she said quietly.
“Words, Bennet.”
“I want to make you feel good,” she said. “I mean, yes, part of it is knowing I can reciprocate. And you’re going to say that’s transactional, but it’s not. I want to give and not always get. Also, I want to see your face when it happens. Like I know you watch mine.”
That made me wince. “It’s not good. My O face looks a lot like I’m about to puke. Trust me, I know. I watched myself in the mirror while jacking off just so I could see it.”
She laughed and I laughed with her. I put my hand out and she grabbed it and squeezed. This, I thought, this was who we were. There was not another soul in the universe I would describe my O face to.
“Okay, but I still want to do things to your body because I like the idea of making you feel good. Not just to have control over you.”
“Next time,” I told her. “We’ll do me.”
She beamed. “When’s next time?”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“Yes, but an early shift. I should be done by nine.”
“Fine, I’ll pick you up and—”
The police siren behind us interrupted what I was going to say. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw the lights flashing in addition to hearing the sound. They weren’t trying to get around me. They wanted me to pull over.
“Fuck,” I muttered. I knew I hadn’t been speeding, hadn’t rolled through any stop signs. If they were pulling me over, it was for some bullshit reason. My heart sped up and I tried to tamp down that initial burst of fear.
The trick, my dad said, was to always maintain your cool. No matter what. That and talk it through.
Having a plan, I pulled over and turned off the ignition. I brought my hands to the steering wheel in ten and two position, so the officer could clearly see them.
“Beth, hit the top button on the left to roll down the window. Then I need you get your phone out and start filming this.”
She did as asked.
