Page 13 of West Bound

That was it. He didn’t address my inquiry into his marital or dating status–not that it was necessary to the interview. But I didn’t miss the way his eyes wandered over to where CeCe stood more than once.

When he thought I wasn’t watching, simply gathering my notes, I witnessed him trail his eyes from the tips of her toes, lazily dragging up her long, toned legs, and admiring her jaw dropping beautiful face. I could tell when he was affected by her laugh or smile because his nostrils would flare and he’d clench his fists.

I didn’t see a wedding ring nor evidence of one by way of tan lines, so I assumed he was as free as a bird. And he was definitely looking to perch himself on my dear bestie.

I already know how she felt about him, so it’s only a matter of time before she too joins the “I’m getting that good D” alongside Cami.

Not that I’m complaining, all that much. I get some satisfactory D on the regular. None of it includes a side of real intimacy, but it keeps me from drying up. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m looking for more than a bang your brains out type of relationship.

I’ve got my career that I’m hyper-focused on and my amazing friends to keep me laughing, so I really don’t have time to nurse a relationship with some dude who wants to make me his “girl” with hopes of moving me to suburbia one day and planting an ankle biter or two in my uterus. I’ll leave the baby making to Cami who I just know is going to be popping out a few little McCallan babies once Vaughan finally gets her to say yes to marrying him. Which I know he will because that’s been his whole plan from the time he was fifteen.

It’s his whole life's purpose, to be honest.

But back to the situation at hand.

Phoenix fucking West.

I file in amongst the rest of the press–station and independent reporters–and sink down into my seat. The room is a buzz with curiosity and speculation as to why the conference has been called.

“Hey Viv,” Jonathan, a reporter for the Houston sports magazine, says as I sit down. “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

I wince and pray he doesn’t notice it.

“Hi Jonathan. I’m great. Just been real busy.” I push my hair out of my face and hope that the movement is enough to distract him from the look of regret I’m currently wearing.

A few months ago, on a very drunk and desperate night, I gave in to the many advances of Jonathan when I saw him at an industry party. He’d been asking me out for what felt like years, and I always politely turned him down. Always having an excuse as to why the timing was just off.

Truth was, I’d heard rumors about him. Seems he’d made the rounds with reporters, writers, photographers…basically any female within the reporting/television/radio business that he could convince to sleep with him. But that wasn’t the reason why I’d pushed him off time and time again.

No, that reason lay solely on the fact that Tanisha, a friend and news anchor, informed me that Mr. Jonathan fucked like a construction worker pouding a jackhammer into concrete while hopped up on Red Bull. Fast. Hard. Destructively.

And until that night, I truly thought it was a silly rumor.

So, finding myself without a hook-up companion for over three weeks–I know. I was dying–I decided it would be okay to give his disco stick a twirl.

Shoulda listened to Tanisha and the other fifty women who blasted a warning to the female population in Houston.

The minute the words “sure, why not” were out of my mouth, Jonathan was dragging me by my freshly manicured hand down a hallway and into a dark closet. Before I could ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, he slammed the door behind us and suctioned his mouth to mine.

The guy kissed like a damn guppy. Too much wet, sucking like I was giving him life, with a rhythmless cadence. It took a minute for me to figure out how the hell to respond to such a juvenile kiss. And when I did, he changed it up on me and started licking me. Not like, warm tongue trailing down your neck and flicking your taut nipple licking. It was like a cow tonguing a salt lick.

I was just about to call the whole damn thing off when I felt his very large bulge pushing up against my lower belly. Eh, I thought, figuring that I would tolerate his kissing–if you could even call it that–in order to take a ride on his huge cock.

My dress was bunched up around my waist in no time and he was pushing my panties to the side when I stopped him and pointed to my handbag that had been forgotten on the floor for a condom. He obliged, begrudgingly, and wrapped that third arm up.

The next moment I was being impaled by a damn steel rod, making my eyes roll back. Lord he was big. I swear that if he had pushed any harder, I would’ve been choking on the fucking thing.

He began to move and that is where the pleasure stopped.

How the hell do you own a horse schlong like his and not know how to use it? He was pumping short, staccato thrusts like, stab stab stab. My back was banging against the door with every pump of his hips but not in that way that has you moaning because it hurts so good. I just knew when we were finished that I’d have a contact burn all along my spine. My neck began to hurt from the shaking and I wondered if anyone I knew had a brace that I could borrow after this.

“I’m close, baby. You are too?” I was like WTF, when he grunted that in my ear.

I was nowhere near being done. Despite him jabbing at my uterus, the guy had completely missed my g-spot by a mile. How, I kept wondering. Before I could answer, his body grew stiff and his stabbing at my vagina slowed. He let out a low growl then moaned, “oh yeah, baby girl.”

Huh? That was it?

He pulled out of me, which was like yanking a wooden post out of dried up dirt. He plopped out of me, still with an impressive length, and pulled off the full condom. Tying it up, he searched for a trashcan and when he didn’t find one, he shrugged and stuck it in a mop bucket on the floor.

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