Page 4 of Champagne Kisses
“Ha ha,” she says dryly. “Iknewyou weren’t listening! I chose this venue because they’re practically full-service. I used them for the Garcia wedding a couple months back, and they were flawless. Of course, Dad is bringing his sous chef, saucier, and pastry chef to handle catering. Also, me and the other bridesmaids are coming early to do a surprise engagement gift for Jessi. All that’s left is to review and revise the guest list, approve the proofs for all the stationary, and bring the party favors. And since I figured you wouldn’t want to deal with the guest list and proofs…?”
She drops the rest of the sentence for me to fill in the blank. She’s totally right. I’d probably break out in hives if I had to spend even a second debating fonts or different shades of white. Plus, the guest list is likely to be a tedious nightmare; I’ll bet Emily lives for that kind of thing.
“Got it. I’ll handle the favors. Do you think Etsy sells classy beer Koozies?” While I laugh, I can almost hear Emily’s brow furrowing over the phone.
“Hmmm. Maybe I should handle favors, too,” she says, clearly not appreciating my humor. Yet another reason I dodged a bullet with her that night all those years ago.
“Emily, c’mon. I’m kidding. I may not be from the Upper East Side, but I can pick out scented candles or custom boxes of chocolate like nobody’s business,” I offer.
“Just shoot me a text for approval before you hit ‘buy’,” she hedges.
“Deal,” I agree. I knew NYC’s biggest control freak wouldn’t leave me to my own devices. I hear her relieved sigh and then…
“I’m glad I can count on you, Adam. You know…I’d be happy to come over and help you go through a few options. You could even help me drink this great bottle of Bordeaux I got from a client. I think one bottle a week is the most you’re allowed to drink alone before you need to seek help,” she laughs.
There it is. She is offering, again, to come over to my place for a nightcap. I get it: I’ve known her brother and, by association, her, for quite some time. But you don’t shit where you eat. That’s one of those core male values of the universe, along with “bros before hos”.
“I think I can handle the favors, but thanks, Em. Listen, I have an early meeting,”and I’m tired of having this conversation, I finish in my head. “I promise I’ll text before I buy and be sure to send you the receipt once they’re purchased. Can we connect again sometime next week?”Or maybe next month?No reason for us to spend any more time together than necessary.
“Okay, sounds good,” she says quietly. I pretend not to notice the disappointment in her voice and hang up.
Outside the windows of my apartment, it looks to be after seven o’clock. Hopefully all our calls aren’t that long. The sun islow in the sky, peeking between the apartment buildings and the elevated J train. The street lights are starting to come on and the ice cream trucks head back to wherever it is they go when they’re not dealing out sugary sweets to kids across the five boroughs. As always, Bachata is playing full blast from an old stereo in the bodega on the corner. Brooklyn in the Summer really comes alive.
After a crazy day at work, plus that endless call, I definitely need to wash off the day. I kick off my Converse All Stars and leave a trail of dark jeans, one of my prized vintage tees, and a flannel on my way to the shower. Thank goodness CloudTech is casual because I couldnotdo a tie for forty hours a week.
I step out of my boxers, turn on the rain shower head, and adjust the temperature to just short of scalding. Standing under the spray, I let out a groan as the hot water erases all thoughts of weddings, server issues, and budget meetings. All of that can wait until later. I squeeze a dollop of coconut shea butter body wash into my loofah and scrub my arms, my chest, my stomach. I swipe further down and run into my perpetual wingman. Lately, he’s been standing at attention almost constantly.
My dick juts out from the suds at the base of my abs—thick and lightly veined. The weight of my balls in my hands as I lather them reminds me that it’s been longer than usual since my last lady visitor. She was saved in my phone as “Legs4Days”, and, though I made my intentions clear from jump, she tried to spend the night, pretending to be asleep when I nudged heraway after the customary fifteen minutes of snuggling. It sucks when they can’t (or won’t) take the hint.
“I had a great time, but I have an early game with my buds tomorrow,”I’d said, which was true. Sex and flag football are essential for my sanity. After a little pouting, she dropped it and called an Uber. She knew we weren’t a love connection. We were just two people using a warm body to blow off a little steam.
Later, things turned hectic at work, and I’ve been head down in team building sessions and change requests ever since. Some days it's even hard to find time to jerk off. My coworkers tend to avoid me on those days.
It’s for the best; it’s been getting harder and harder to find women interested in sex with no strings attached. A woman who’s fine without the boyfriend bullshit is practically a unicorn these days. I blame Beyonce. Not all women deserve the ring. First it’s snuggling, then it’s brunch, then you’re meeting the parents and trying to spend every waking moment with her like some simp.
Bryan’s my boy and I’m happy for him—I’m not going to be some asshole best man trying to talk him out of marrying Jessi.What a cliché.Jessi’s not only awesome, but her dancer friends would probably high kick me right in the nuts if I did anything to screw up her wedding. Even so, I honestly don’t get the appeal. As long as no one’s getting hurt, why bother with the complicated shit likeexpectationsandcommitment?
My mom would probably drag me to church if she knew I felt like this.
“What about your father and I, Adam?”she would day.“Don’t you want what we have with someone special?”
And she would have a point. Mom and Dad have been married thirty years. They raised five kids from hyperactive knuckleheads to successful adults. They own their home outright, and still saved enough that none of us had to take out more than ten grand in school loans.
But all of that isn’t for everyone, and I know firsthand that it’shard fucking work. For some people, a physical connection between two consenting adults with an itch to scratch and a meeting in the morning is enough. We fuck, and then we head home for a good night’s sleep in our own beds.
Now in the shower, leaning against the granite walls while the steam builds, I grab the base of my dick and try to imagine my perfect woman. Whatwouldit take for me to settle down?
She’d have to be beautiful. I love a woman with big, soulful eyes that make my mouth dry. And she’d have to have great T&A. My bros insist you’re either a tits man, or an ass man, but I’m proof you can be both. My shaft throbs painfully as I think about my perfect woman’s curves, her smooth skin.
She’d be eager to please, dropping down on her knees and unzipping me as soon as I got through the door. I’m a bit of a freak, and I’d need someone who can hang. Her warm mouth would swallow the head of my dick and circle it with her tongue. She’d let me cum in her mouth and then I’d fuck her missionary style in my bed.
People don’t give missionary enough props, I think as I stroke faster, drops of precum immediately washed away by the spray of the shower. It’s got so many variations—traditional, off the side of the bed, with her ankles up by her ears—and it’s the perfect angle to rub on a woman’s clit and make her start speaking in tongues before her pussy tries to choke your dick to death. Sex might not come with flowers, but for my partners, it always comes with an orgasm.
I think about my perfect woman’s round hips and start to tighten my grip, increasing the friction. We’d do doggy next, those full, soft hips the perfect handlebars to get a really deep stroke. I’d make her ass jiggle every time I pushed all the way home.
“Ahh, fuck!” I shout, shooting thick ropes of cum against the shower wall. I lean back against the tiles, a little out of breath. Even just thethoughtof my perfect woman is dangerous. Luckily, keeping it casual nearly eliminates the risk of ever finding her.
I angle the shower head to rinse off the wall and suds up my now empty balls. That should hold me until maybe…tomorrow? I groan to myself, still worked up. Sometimes my high sex drive is a curse. A visit to someone on my roster or maybe a new lady friend might be in order.
