February 16th, my newest Romantic Erotica, Fuck Buddy, releases. Due to the overwhelming requests for as teaser, I have decided to release the first four chapters.
I hope this satisfies everyone for ten days until the release of the book.
Be forewarned. This novel is for open-minded adults. It is not butterflies and rainbow barfing unicorns living on sugar mountain. This is real, this is gritty, and it is raw. The first four chapters are an extremely LIGHT introduction to what this book contains.
You have been warned.
“Since when do you not have yogurt in here?” he asked.
I tossed the empty cottage cheese container into the trash and glanced over my shoulder. Standing barefoot with his head shoved so deep into the refrigerator it was well out of view, Luke looked the way he did on any other day. Dressed in board shorts and an old tee shirt, at first glance he resembled most of the other surfers in southern California. His hair was streaked with natural highlights from exposure to the sun, his skin was deep bronze in color, and he had the muscular structure of an athlete. With his handsome looks and a tasteful sleeve of tattoos down to one wrist, he could have a career as a model if he chose to. Instead, he spent his time surfing and building the occasional custom surfboard for whoever he deemed worthy of his time and effort.
I picked up my cup of coffee and glanced in his direction. “Since you ate the last of it yesterday. I’ll get some more when I go to the store.”
He cleared his throat and pushed the refrigerator door closed. As he turned around, his hair fell into his face. Long and brown with occasional strands of dirty blonde, his hair was one of his many appealing features, but arguably not his most attractive. He brushed it away from his eyes as he walked past me and toward the wire basket of fruit sitting on the kitchen counter.
“I wasn’t here yesterday.” He picked through the little bit of remaining fruit and continued. “And if I would have taken the last one I would have said something.”
I shrugged and tried to remember when he ate the last cup of yogurt. “Those aren’t oranges, they’re Cara Cara’s, the pink ones.”
“Even better,” he responded. “I love these things.”
I grinned and cupped the bowl of cottage cheese in my hands. “Me too.”
“You’re out of oranges, Liv,” he said, tossing his head toward the countertop.
With my mind still slightly foggy from my previous night’s drunken escapade, I stood and stared at him, slightly jealous of his late winter tan. I envied the color of his skin, but realized when we were much younger that there was nothing I could do to ever become as dark as he was. With a mother who was half-Japanese and half-Chilean, and a southern California native for a father, he and his three siblings were adorned with an odd mixture of skin tones and hair colors. One of his sisters had light reddish-brown hair and the other a much lighter dirty-blonde, but both were fair skinned. His younger brother’s hair was brown, and he had a very dark complexion similar to Luke’s.
“See how I did that?” he asked.
“What? Grabbed the oranges?” I responded playfully as I turned toward the living room.
He laughed. “No, told you I was eating the last one. I’m polite like that.”
I cocked my head to the side and watched him pick at the peel of the orange with his thumb as he walked past me and toward the living room.
I followed him, grinning at my memory of the Mission Beach Surf Shop tee shirt he was wearing. Several years prior, we had spent a day at the beach – he surfed and I baked in the sun – and when it was time to go, his shirt was nowhere to be found. The restaurant on the boardwalk wouldn’t let him in without one, so we went to the adjacent surf shop to buy one. Initially we argued about the color of the shirt – he claimed it was a shade of gray, and I swore it was light pink. We both loved how the shirt fit him, so he bought it regardless. The comments that followed further confirmed his colorblindness, but everyone that knew him was fully aware of his deficiency when it came to identifying colors.
“So, how was surfing yesterday?” I asked as I sat down at the end of the couch.
San Diego’s population was 1.5 million, but even as populated as it was, Luke was well-known as a surfer. He was better than almost everyone in southern California, and without a doubt could surf professionally, but he refused to do so. To him, surfing was sacred and would never be turned into a sport or competition. Somewhat of a local celebrity, and the recipient of more offers from women than he could possibly act upon, he chose to be single immediately following the breakup with his one – and only – girlfriend. He was twenty years old at the time.
As much as he was able, Luke lived a life of solitude and kept to himself. I realized his manner of living life prevented him from having a long list of choices, but I often wondered if we weren’t such close friends if he would have chosen to remain single for such an extended period of time. I had been in and out of many relationships, none worth the time I devoted to them, and not a single one producing a fraction of the satisfaction my friendship with Luke did.
Outsiders viewed him as anti-social, withdrawn and unfriendly, but they didn’t know him the way I did. I realized why he was the way he was, and further knew him as being none of those things. Luke was kind, caring, funny, and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to live life in the manner he was comfortable with.
It didn’t matter if a person knew Luke well or simply encountered him, everyone agreed.
Luke was different.
He stopped in front of me and began to peel one of the oranges he was holding while resting the other between his upper arm and chest. He glanced up, met my gaze, and caught me admiring the few day’s growth of beard on his face.
“First things first. The date, let’s hear it,” he said, shifting his gaze down to the orange.
I lowered my eyes to my bowl of cottage cheese. “I like the little beard thing you’ve got going on.”
“I haven’t had time to shave, it’ll be gone tomorrow,” he said flatly. “The date, Liv. Let’s hear it.”
Although I found cottage cheese grotesque to look at or think about, I always enjoyed eating it. I stared blankly into my bowl as I considered how much of the previous night’s events I wished to share with him. The longer I studied the small curds, the less I wanted to eat it, and the more disgusted I became over my failed date. I set the bowl on the table and picked up my cup of coffee as he turned toward the kitchen. In a moment, he returned with both oranges peeled, separating one of them into sections as he glared at me.
I wrapped my hands around the warm porcelain cup and peered toward the bowl of spoiled milk curds. “Cottage cheese is so ugly.”
He slipped a section of fruit into his mouth, and upon swallowing it, cleared his throat as if to demand my attention. “The date.”
I raised the cup to my mouth and tilted my head back slightly as I took a drink. As I met his gaze, he pressed against the orange with both thumbs, pulled another section free, and poked it past his lips with the tip of his finger. As he chewed, he playfully tossed the uneaten orange into the air and caught in the other hand without shifting his eyes away from mine. Everything he did, he did with grace. I sometimes wondered if it was the martial arts his mother made him study when we were kids or if it was the surfing that made his movements so fluid like. Whatever it was, I was grateful for it – watching him do almost anything was pleasurable.
Although I felt I needed to drink the entire cup of coffee, I lowered my cup and smiled. He cocked one eyebrow and pulled another section of orange free.
I sighed heavily as if disgusted to talk about it. To be brutally honest, I was.
“We met at the bar,” I said. “He was married, and I left after maybe twenty minutes.”
He widened his eyes as the corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “That’s it? You texted me a fucking thesis last night and you’ve sworn off Tinder because of that?”
I stared blankly at his bare feet. Even his toes were perfect. I shifted my gaze to my feet. Little sausage-like stubs surrounded the tips of my sandals. I had a reasonable amount of self-esteem, and I was well aware that I was pretty, but there was no doubt my fat little toes would prevent me from joining Luke if he ever chose a career in modeling.
“Well,” I said, shifting my gaze to meet his. “It was just, I don’t know. I think maybe I just reached a point that all the lies and the bullshit was too much. I’m sick of it. You know, every one of them has been a liar.”
He shrugged as he poked the last piece of orange into his mouth.
“What did you really expect? You’re seeing people you don’t even know. Men who can claim to be anyone or anything,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.
He washed his hands and quickly returned, flopping down on the couch beside me. I sat and sipped my coffee, not sure if I even wanted to answer his question. I had tried online dating on and off for the last four years, and in the past year had been on no less than a dozen dates from my Tinder matches alone. From a relationship standpoint my life was an absolute disaster.
He glared at me for a long moment, which was something he often did when he wanted me to continue talking about something I wasn’t necessarily willing to talk about. Eventually he grew tired of waiting and broke the silence. “Really? That’s it? Nothing weird or funny happened?”
I gave my signature response. I shrugged.
“How’d you figure out he was married?” he asked.
I set my cup of coffee down and picked up the bowl. One glance at the cottage cheese and I felt like I was going to barf. The three hours of grieving after my botched date was wreaking havoc on my stomach. The previous night, I had come home after the date angry and disappointed with myself. A bottle of wine and two romantic comedies later and I was ready for bed – and to swear off dating. Lying in bed, half-drunk and angry, I texted Luke a few rambling paragraphs explaining my disappointment with mankind in general.
I extended my arm and offered him the bowl of cottage cheese. “You want this?”
He shook his head lightly and reached for the bowl. “I’ll eat it. But what I want is for you to answer the question. All of a sudden you’re done dating, and all you can say is that he was married. He sure wasn’t the first married guy you met on there.”
“It’s just…I don’t know. He was so perfect. He had a great job, a nice car, seemed to have his shit together, and he was so good looking. Yeah,” I said, recalling how attractive my date was in person. “He was really fucking handsome. I just kept staring at him, thinking it was all too good to be true. I guess in the end, it was.”
He stopped spooning the cottage cheese into his mouth and smirked as he shrugged slightly. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
I pursed my lips and shrugged in return.
“So, how’d you find out he was married?”
I tapped my index finger against the ring finger of my left hand. “His ring finger had an indentation on it from his wedding ring. I noticed it, asked, and he answered truthfully. He said they were arguing. I mean, really. Who doesn’t argue?”
“Everyone argues,” he replied.
I shrugged again.
“Other than being married he sounds perfect,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
Yeah, he was. He reminded me a lot of you.
My incompatibility with others made coexistence almost impossible, however, living a life free of conflict was simple for me. I had one true friend, I rarely offered an opinion to anyone, and I didn’t involve myself in other people’s business. My embrace of technology consisted only of a telephone, and I had no desire to ever watch television or utilize any facet of social media, which allowed me to live without much influence or objection from outsiders. As a result, my thoughts and my life remained private, as they should be.
My entertainment came from watching people, reading, and above all, surfing. For me, surfing was more than a leisure activity or sport; it had become part of who I was. It kept me alive, and allowed me to focus on being instead of doing. It was my belief that my continued existence was reliant upon surfing as much as it was anything else.
No two waves were ever alike, and each day of surfing was an experience different than the last. Although waiting for a wave allowed my mind to wander, often leaving me with thoughts of activities or events well beyond my grasp, paddling for a wave filled me with hope, and finally catching a wave was one thing and one thing only.
Cleansing to my mind, spirit, and soul.
Scrubbing my mind of the lingering sexual desires that seemed to so freely inhabit it was much more than something I hoped for, it was a necessity. Without surfing, I had little doubt I would be able to exist amongst the masses of inhabitants in the state I so proudly called home. Surfing allowed me to live a life between each wave I caught, one with minimal desire to do anything else but catch the next wave.
She pulled her chair away from the table and sat down. “Being single sucks.”
It seemed I ate a Liv’s home more frequently than my own. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably be forced to survive on fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and cottage cheese.
“So how long has it been?” I asked.
I watched intently as she silently finished cutting a piece of chicken, picked it up with her fork, and let the utensil dangle loosely from her fingertips as she gazed beyond me for a moment.
She shifted her eyes to meet mine and grinned. “Three months, four days, and roughly twenty hours.”
Liv’s recent anti-dating stage initially left her with a large hole in her schedule. After a few days of sulking, she filled the void by spending all of her free time with me. I found it hard to believe three months had passed, but time often seemed to slip away from me without so much as being noticed.
I chuckled a light laugh. “You sound like a recovering alcoholic, not a single woman.”
She shrugged and bit half of the piece of chicken from the tip of her fork.
I thought of the night I had received the drunken text messages from her, and what had transpired in my life since then. It truly seemed that it had only been a matter of weeks since it happened.
My mind wandered to the meals we had eaten together since her swearing off of internet dating. “Hard to believe it’s been that long. It seems like, I don’t know, maybe a few weeks have passed.”
I attempted to convert the meals we shared into the amount of weeks that had passed and eventually gave up. “You know, I think one of these days I’m going to look up, and poof! Life’s going be over with.”
She wrinkled her nose and stuck her chin out slightly as she stared at me with eyes of disbelief. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t pay much attention to time,” I responded.
“You don’t have to,” she said, waving her hand in my direction as she spoke. “The entire world does, but you don’t. You surf, you sleep, you surf, you sleep. You probably don’t even know what day of the week it is.”
I agreed with her fully. I didn’t know, and not only did I not know, I could have cared less what day of the week it was.
“I’m not interested in having my life or the events in my life dependent on a clock. Go to work at this time, come home at that time, it’s time to eat, it’s time to get up, I have to run to a meeting at 11:45,” I said, shaking my head as I spoke. “I don’t know how people do it.”
Liv had been my best – and only – friend since we were in second grade. According to her, we had been best friends since kindergarten, but I didn’t completely agree. My first few years in school were difficult, and even though it seemed everyone wanted to befriend me, I had very little interest in becoming friends with anyone. By the time I was eight years old, I realized I may not need to be friends with everyone to survive, but I certainly needed someone.
Liv became that someone.
I picked up a slice of avocado only to have it slip from my fingers when it was half-way to my mouth.
“I envy you,” she said.
“Because I don’t wear a watch?” I asked as I watched it fall to the plate.
“No, because you don’t have a schedule,” she said. “And you should use a fork.”
I reached for the salt, sprinkled a little onto the avocado and picked it up. “I couldn’t live like that. And you doing so is by choice, and nothing more.”
“You don’t have to pay rent, and I do. Big difference, Dude.”
I wiped the corner of my mouth and flipped my hair from my eyes. “We’ve been over this, Liv. You could do what you do from home. Independently you could probably make more money, certainly have more freedom, and be happier. It’s your own fault.”
She lowered her fork to her plate and sighed. “I don’t know. I think it’s the risk, it scares me.”
“Don’t complain, then,” I said flatly.
“I can complain if I want.”
I glanced in her direction and widened my eyes. “You shouldn’t. You have the capacity to change it, and you choose not to take the risk. Complaining only brings disappointment into your life. Why be disappointed if you don’t have to be?”
“You make me mad,” she said.
I shrugged and reached for my fork. “Okay, be mad. Mad, and reliant upon others to sustain life. Oh, and single by choice.”
“That’s another thing,” she said.
She placed her fork to the side and reached for her glass of wine.
“The single thing. I hate it. It’s driving me insane, but I deleted all the apps off my phone and I swore I wouldn’t do it anymore. I mean, it really sucks. I swear, I have no idea how you do it,” she said over the top of her glass.
As she took a drink of wine, I finished chewing my chicken and considered my response. My being single was no doubt a choice, but it was also something I viewed as a necessity. I fully realized a long-tern relationship with anyone would be an impossibility, and therefore chose to live a life of solitude.
“I guess it depends on exactly what it is you’re after,” I said. “You’re not going to find the man you’ll marry on Tinder, okcupid, or e-fucking-harmony, so why waste your time? Or their time for that matter?”
She took another drink of wine and shook her head. “You aren’t listening, I said I didn’t know how you do it. How you can be single and happy for like ever. I’m going insane, and it’s only been three months. And, it really doesn’t matter if it’s my future husband or just some dude to bone, both are human contact and sexual interaction.”
I coughed out a laugh and almost choked on my chicken. After taking a drink, I leaned forward, rested my forearms against the table, and gazed at her. Liv was beyond what anyone could describe as beautiful, and in all honesty she could have her pick of the entire single population of the city if someone took the time to get to know her. Her problem, at least in my opinion, was that she didn’t perceive herself as valuable.
To be willing to sexually give herself to a man she really didn’t know – under the feeble impression she did know him because she read whatever he chose to include in his online profile – spoke volumes of her emotional evaluation of herself. In summary, she was far too willing to attach herself to almost anyone who would pay her a moment’s notice.
“And, that is exactly what the men on those websites want. Sexual interaction. Nothing more, and there’s no way they’ll settle for anything less,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes and stared. “How can you say that?”
I leaned forward a little further and widened my eyes. “Seriously?”
I glared at her for a moment, pushed myself away from the table, and leaned against the back of my chair. To think she believed the men on the online dating sites were after anything other than sex was laughable. I realized I should address the topic cautiously, but also felt a need to make sure she understood my true thoughts.
“You know, when you started doing that a few years ago, I gave you my opinion, and it sure hasn’t changed since. Most of the guys lurk on those sites are looking for someone to fuck, and then they go home to their girlfriend or wife. After a few weeks or a month, they make an excuse to break up, and then move on to another. They’re a bunch of narcissists feeding their self-esteem by their own personal count of women they bag,” I said.
She gave me a pffft, and reached for her wine. “You don’t know that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Answer me this, how many dates have you gone on since you started?”
She swallowed her wine, cast her eyes toward the kitchen cabinets, and stared blankly for a while.
“Like, since the beginning?”
“Yes, Liv, the beginning.”
She shifted her eyes down to the table and shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe fifty.”
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table as I nodded in agreement. “Fifty. I’d say that’s pretty accurate. Probably one a month give or take, for four years.”
She shifted her eyes to meet mine, took another sip of wine, and wagged her eyebrows playfully.
“Now, how many twenty-five-year-old women do you think have been on fifty dates in four years?” I asked flatly.
She lowered her eyes to her plate and stared. My guess was that she was going through her short list of girlfriends, and was truly trying to count the dates she knew they had been on in the amount of time we had been out of school. After a long silent pause, she glanced up.
I nodded. “I’ll agree. None. I’d say most of them, if they’re single, have been on two or possibly three a year.”
“You always do this,” she snapped as she leaned away from the table.
I chuckled. “What?”
“Change the subject,” she said. “I asked you about you, and you turned it into me. I asked how you stay single, and you didn’t answer. You never answer. You just say you’re satisfied or whatever. Why don’t you answer me?”
She reached for her wine, finished what was in the glass, and stood from her seat. In a half-drunken stumbling maneuver, she stepped to the counter, grabbed the bottle of wine, and pulled the cork.
She held the bottle at arm’s length. “More?”
I chuckled to myself about her drunken behavior. She didn’t get drink often, but when she did, she was generally pretty cute.
I raised my hand and shook my head. “I’m good.”
She poured her glass as full as she was able and sat down. “So, you’re single and I’m single. You tell me I’m pretty all the time, and I believe you. I tell you you’re handsome, and you believe me. I think you could have any girl you wanted, and you tell me I could have any guy I wanted. This is ridiculous.”
I shrugged and glanced down at my plate. I was no longer interested in eating, but felt a need to since she had taken the time to prepare it. As I considered taking another bite of chicken, she cleared her throat loudly.
I glanced in her direction.
She tossed her head back, flipped her hair over her shoulders, and pressed her biceps into the sides of her breasts. “I swear, we should just date each other,” she said with a laugh.
I pried my eyes from her bulging breasts, dropped my gaze to my plate, and cut a slice off the end of the chicken breast. Although throughout the course of our entire friendship we had never discussed it, I couldn’t say the thought of fucking Liv hadn’t crossed my mind. In fact, I had spent some time while waiting on a wave doing just that – thinking of fucking her. Dating her, however, was out of the question. I had no desire to be in a relationship with her and chance losing my only friend when the relationship went to hell, and there was no doubt in my mind that it would go straight to hell at some point.
I poked the tines of the fork into the piece of chicken and hesitated for a few seconds, hoping she didn’t continue. My efforts to act as if I heard nothing, however, didn’t last long enough for me to raise the fork to my mouth.
She cleared her throat again. “So, are you going to just keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” I asked without making eye contact.
“Acting like you didn’t hear me.”
I released my fork and peered across the table. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
She wagged her index finger in the air between us. “One glass or three glasses, we’d be having the same conversation, Luke. I’m twenty-five, and I’m sick of being alone.”
I did my best to act preoccupied with the chicken. It seemed to do nothing short of urge her to press even further. As I reached for my fork, she continued.
She lifted her glass of wine. “No matter how you want to look at it, this is the first time in four years that I’ve been single.”
I chewed the piece of cold meat and poked at the remaining chicken breast with the tip of the fork. She was right, but I really didn’t want to think about it. I wanted her to change the subject. Knowing her as well as I did, however, I realized she probably had no intention of doing so. There would never be a woman on earth with the natural ability to please me more than Liv, but finding a woman – any woman – to be able to fulfill my sexual desires would be close to impossible.
“Well, you know, not actively looking for someone to date,” she said. “And, the more I think about it, it’s the only time you’ve been single that I wasn’t dating. So what do you think about that?”
I glanced up, peered over the table, and tried to purse my lips. Instead, my mouth twisted into a smirk as I spoke. “About what?”
“I swear. You’re Mister evasive,” she said. “I know after Valerie you said you were done, but there’s no way you’re done. Like done. I’m thinking we should…I don’t know…maybe try and…”
I widened my eyes. “Try and what, Liv?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking. I mean, we’re best friends and we never argue about anything. And, well…I mean…”
I shifted my eyes to my plate. I had spent all of my days since my one and only relationship ended trying to rid my mind of thoughts of sex, and of women for that matter. As attracted as I was to Liv, dating her was out of the question.
The thought of having sex with her, however, was something I struggled with as I waited for each and every wave.
But I wasn’t satisfied with simple sex.
There was something wrong with me. Terribly wrong. Attempting to fulfill my sexual desires ended my first relationship, and I was quite certain it would end any relationship I had in the future. If Liv really wanted to date, she would have an expectation of sex. If we took our relationship along that path, it would inevitably end and end quickly.
I had no interest in losing my only friend.
I stared down at my plate, wondering if she was simply speaking out of sexual frustration, and had no intention of acting upon her statement, or if she was half-drunk, and being somewhat truthful. It was also quite possible she was suggesting we attempt nothing more than to be more active friends, and begin going out on dates, but as friends.
I felt as if the temperature in the kitchen had increased thirty degrees. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand, glanced up, and studied her.
She sat in her chair with the stem of the wine glass dangling between her thumb and middle finger. With her long brown hair pulled up into a bun and her eyes clearly indicating the effects of the three glasses of wine, she looked remarkable.
She always looked remarkable.
“We can’t date, Liv. It’s out of the question,” I said flatly.
She attempted to raise her glass and sloshed a portion of the wine onto the table in front of her. After her eyes fell to the spill, she raised them to meet mine and grinned. “Because?”
“Because I can’t risk losing you.”
“Is that the only reason?”
It wasn’t, but for the sake of the conversation we were having, I didn’t need to expand my response to include my sexual deviance.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Fine,” she said, placing her glass of wine to the side.
She rested her elbows on the edge of the table and leaned forward. As she fixed her hypnotic green eyes on mine, she continued. “Forget dating. Forget a relationship. Let’s remain friends. I agree, losing you is something I can’t chance. But, I’m fucking dying, Luke.”
I swallowed heavily and widened my eyes slightly. “How so?”
“I need sex. I really do. It makes me feel wanted. I think we should be friends and fuck. You know, fuck buddies. What do you think about that? Fuck buddies?”
I sat and stared with my mouth agape, mentally prepared to provide her with the long list of reasons we couldn’t be friends and have sex with each other.
Instead, I gawked at her as if she had just found a way to cure cancer.
She leaned away from the table and picked up her glass of wine. Her eyes widened as she raised it to her mouth. “Well, at least you’re thinking about it.”
She was right.
I was thinking about it.
And, although I knew it probably should have, it didn’t sound like a bad idea.
Not bad at all.
After being friends for two-and-a-half decades and not discussing it, I found it hard to believe we had reached a point where we were not only talking about it, but seriously considering becoming sexually active with each other.
“Sex is sex. I mean, really. Nothing against you, but I don’t see how it’s going to be much different,” I said.
He gazed down at the floor for a moment and appeared to be in deep thought. I mentally stood firm in my opinion that his warnings of my inability to accept his sexual offerings were unwarranted.
“So, I guess surfing is surfing,” he said as he turned to face me. “You’ve seen me surf, right?”
I nodded. Quickly I realized the point I felt he was going to attempt to make. To see Luke surf was much different than watching anyone else attempt to do so. Typically, lines of surfers would wait for the waves, paddling to catch each and every one. Most failed completely at catching anything. Luke, on the other hand, waited for the perfect wave, and appeared to always catch it right before it broke, riding it in a manner that made it seem like he was personally taming it from a thirty-foot tall treacherous beast to the flattened white foam that softly washed to the shore.
He cocked one eyebrow. “Can you compare my surfing to all surfing?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
He glanced at the floor, held his gaze for a few seconds, and quickly shifted his eyes to meet mine. “Remember when we were in high school, and you came to see me compete for my black belt?”
“How many matches did you watch before it was my turn?”
I shrugged and tried to remember the competition. “I don’t know, like, maybe, eight or ten.”
“Did any of them seem as talented as me?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t say I agreed with his theory that I would recede into a ball of emotion and sit in the corner babbling, but he was making some very valid points at the difference in his abilities as compared to everyone else’s.
“You made your point. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be an emotional wreck over this. You said you weren’t abusive, and that you weren’t into that sado-whatever-shit, so I think I’m good to go,” I said.
He brushed his hair from his face and laughed. “Good to go, huh?”
His mouth twisted into a slight smirk. His eyes fell to my waist and slowly rose the length of my torso, stopping as they met mine. “And, to clarify, I said I wasn’t into violence and that I didn’t have sadistic tendencies. But, I’ve taken a long look at myself, and I am a sadomasochist, by definition. I obtain satisfaction from not only being in charge, but from watching my partner suffer mentally.”
He stared at me without an ounce of emotion.
“Mental sexual suffering? Yeah, I think I’ll be fine,” I said.
As he shifted his eyes to the floor and shook his head, I began to tingle. I found the thought of it all very interesting, but beyond that, I was becoming aroused thinking of just what mental suffering would or even could come with sex. My mind eventually drifted to thoughts of Luke fucking me into a babbling pile of naked flesh, and it was there that I stayed until he snapped his fingers and brought me out of my sexual slumber.
“Where the hell did you go?” he asked.
I blinked my eyes and stared. “Huh?”
“You faded away or something. I was talking, and you were just sitting there slobbering,” he said with a laugh.
I wiped the sides of my mouth with the back of my hand and gazed down at what appeared to be very dry skin.
“I wasn’t slobbering,” I said as I glanced up.
“Well, you were pretty close.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
He waved his hand in my direction. “Forget it.”
“No, don’t start that shit. What?” I snapped back.
“Everyone’s a gangster until someone pulls a gun,” he said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means when shit gets real I guess you’ll find out if you’re good to go.”
I sat at one end of the couch and he at the far other. I peered toward him as he babbled his rhetoric, trying to assure myself if we took this step that I would be just fine. It was just sex, at least that’s what I kept telling myself. I was convinced some women had sex for the sole purpose of satisfying their partner, and to keep the relationship from falling apart. Others, and probably a rather small portion of the general population, truly enjoyed it. I was one of the rare few that loved sex and everything about it.
The thought of dying often seemed to consume me, and I sat for long periods of time wondering when and how I might meet my maker. I had always hoped whatever brought me to my demise would be something painless and quick. As I sat and admired him with what seemed to be a different set of eyes than I had ever viewed him through, I decided not only was I good to go as far as sex went, but that I was ready.
Ready for him to try and fuck me to death.
Or at least into a pile of babbling flesh.
“Yeah. I’m good to go,” I said as I stood up.
His eyes followed me as I stood and his face quickly washed with confusion. I turned to face him, placed my hands on my hips, and forced a sigh. “I mean we’re both adults. We’ve been friends for as long as we can remember. I cherish you, Luke. I’m not going to let anything get between us. If we’re just going to remain friends and bring sex into the friendship, it’s not that big of a deal. If having sex with you turns me into a wreck, or I can’t handle it, we’ll stop. But, let me just warn you of something before we go any further.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
I cocked my hip to the side and did my best to undress him with my eyes. “I just might fuck you into a pile of babbling flesh. That’s what you said, right? Babbling flesh? I was going to be sitting in the corner babbling to myself, that’s what you said. Well, get ready to babble, Mister.”
He pressed his hands into the cushion of the couch and straightened his posture. Slowly, and without speaking, he stood and turned to face me. He brushed his hair from his face, gazed at me with his thin brown eyes, and moved toward me with an air of confidence.
I stood, frozen in place.
He leaned into me, brushing his cheek along mine lightly until his mouth was against my left ear. My shoulders instinctively raised. Goosebumps formed along my arms. With his warm breath in my ear, I stood there attempting to act unaffected by his approach. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I wanted him to show me just what it was that would wad me into a ball of blubbering flesh, but part of me was afraid.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
A chill ran along my spine. I swallowed heavily, knowing a response was impossible.
He pulled away from me and gazed into my eyes. His lips parted slightly. I desperately wanted him to kiss me. Halfway between being scared to death and too damned excited to move, I stood and watched his each and every movement as if there was nothing I could do to either join him or prevent him from proceeding. It was something I had spent many drunken evenings thinking about and hoping for, but had always dismissed as nothing more than just that.
I watched as his mouth moved closer. I waited. I wondered. But more than anything, I wanted. I had very little doubt whatever Luke offered me would be enjoyable, sufficient, and memorable from a sexual standpoint, but I had my doubts that I was truly prepared. If his ability to fuck me was equal to his ability to surf or fight, I was going to be in trouble. As his chest pressed lightly against mine I closed my eyes and hoped my shaking legs would hold me up.
I could feel his sweet breath against my mouth. Eager, I opened my eyes. He leaned his head to the side at the last moment, brushing his lips lightly past mine. He pressed his mouth against my right ear and exhaled lightly.
“Take off your shorts, Liv,” he breathed into my ear.
An ever so slight tingling in my pussy assured me it was alright to proceed. My hands fell to the waist of my shorts and I fumbled to unfasten the button. A simple task that I did no less than half a dozen times a day all of a sudden became impossible. After finally unbuttoning the shorts, I forced my thumbs underneath my panties and began to press them down my legs.
He didn’t tell me to take off my panties.
It must be some BDSM test.
I released my panties and pushed my shorts down along my thighs until they fell to the floor. With my underwear now riding low on my hips, I stood up and kicked my shorts to the side.
Gracefully, he knelt in front of me. I bit into my bottom lip and watched as he traced his fingers along the top edge of my panties, softly pressing them against my skin from the center of my stomach toward each hip. My eyes fell closed as I felt his fingers slide underneath the bottom lace and follow the fabric until the tips of his fingers rested against the sides of my pussy. As he carefully caressed the skin on the inside of my upper thighs with his thumbs, I released my lip and drew in a sharp unexpected breath.
I was absolutely soaked.
He pulled my panties to the side and I felt his warm breath against my wetness. My eyes shot open and I gasped as his mouth pressed against my swollen mound. With precision, he flicked his tongue against my clit ever so gently. As I embraced the feeling of his tongue teasing me ever so gently, he pulled his mouth away and gazed into my eyes.
I stood there, trembling, incapable of much more than returning his gaze. My lips parted slightly in anticipation as he reached for the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head. As many times as I had seen Luke shirtless at the beach, nothing could have prepared me to see him half-naked and on his knees with his mouth hovering in front of my wanting pussy.
I gazed down at him filled with wonder. Why, I thought, had we taken so long to decide to give this a try? He reached around me, dug his fingertips into the cheeks of my ass, and pulled me into his face. Again, his mouth encompassed me fully, and his tongue began to circle my swollen clit.
Rhythmically, I bucked my hips against his face, fucking his mouth as he carefully circled and flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue.
Quickly, I felt myself begin to peak and closed my eyes. As my moaning rang out into the room, a deep groan escaped his lips and transferred into my wet flesh in mild vibrations. His lips and tongue continued to nibble and work my nub until a tingling filled me and I bellowed out into the room.
The intensity of the orgasm was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I pulled my hips away from his face and peered down at him, only to see him gaze up and into my eyes, his face covered with my wetness.
Slowly, he stood.
Our lips met. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to become lost in the moment. His tongue danced with mine magically, and along with it came the taste of my orgasm. As we kissed he reached around me and pulled me firmly against him. With my head spinning and my mind trying to make sense of the situation I had so quickly agreed to become a part of, I kissed him eagerly in return, savoring each and every movement of his lips and tongue. He dragged his nails along my back as he pressed his palms deep against my muscles, his hands coming to a stop at my waist. As I ground my hips against his, I felt his rigid shaft against my leg.
I pulled my lips from his and slowly shifted my eyes from his broad chest along his chiseled abdomen and eventually to his waist.
Without speaking, he reached down, untied his shorts, and pushed them to the floor.
A pronounced “V” shape in his lower stomach muscles commanded my eyes to fall further, following the “V” to the area it so clearly pointed to. I stared, all but paralyzed by the sight of what was the most beautiful cock I had ever seen. As my mind drifted to thoughts of being filled with something so perfectly shaped, I couldn’t help but wonder if the girth of his third leg would tear me apart.
An unwanted sigh escaped my lungs. With my focus fixed on his thickness, I reached for the bottom of my shirt. I pulled it over my head and reached behind my back. As I awkwardly fumbled with the clasp of my bra, he began to slowly stroke his shaft with his right hand.
With my eyes glued to his insanely large and ever so stiff dick, I dropped my bra to the floor. His hand continued to slowly work its way up and down the shaft, all but commanding me to remain focused on the dick I had spent so many years fantasizing about.
His free hand gripping my neck not only startled me, but caused me to shift my eyes to his face. With narrow eyes, he returned my gaze, pressed his bare chest to mine, and rubbed the tip of his swollen cock against my dripping wet pussy lips.
He continued to rub the head of his dick along the lips of my pussy, pressing it against my clit with each stroke. My eyes widened as he tightened his grip on my neck slightly. He studied my eyes through thinning slits, his mouth twisting into a slight smirk with each stroke of his swollen but smooth flesh against my wetness.
He released my neck.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I pursed my lips, swallowed heavily, and nodded.
He cocked his head to the side slightly and widened his eyes just a little. “I asked you a question, Liv. I expect an answer. Are you ready?”
Without much thought, I reached for my neck and rubbed the skin where his hand had been. Electric shocks tingled deep within my pussy. He stood before me, rippled with muscles and stroking his cock as he waited for an answer. Luke. My best friend with added benefits. What the fuck did I get myself into?
I wasn’t ready.
I released my neck, lowered my hand, and nodded. “Yes.”
“Close your eyes.”
As much as I didn’t want to, I closed my eyes. The room fell dark. I stood in the silence filled with wonder, excited, and aroused more than I had ever been in my life.
I felt his arm around my thighs. His other arm pressed against my upper back. His warm breath against my ear.
“I’m going to pick you up,” he whispered into my ear.
I nodded as I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and attempted to swallow. “Okay,” escaped my dry lips as a shaky insincere response.
In an instant, I was upside down, dangling over the floor head-first. His hands gripped my waist firmly and lifted me into a position where my legs dangled over his shoulders and my bare torso was against his. I pressed my hands into his thighs and opened my eyes. His stiff cock twitched in front of my face.
As he buried his tongue deep into my pussy, I arched my back and let out a moan of pleasure. Within a few seconds, I had his stiff cock in my mouth. A short moment later, and another intense orgasm shook my body to the core. For once in his life, Luke was wrong. I was ready.
A pile of babbling flesh.
I think not.
My former girlfriend and I began a relationship at a young age, and it was then that I determined something was wrong with me, sexually speaking, that is. As much as my mind enjoyed the thought of sex, and as pleasing as the mental visions of sex were to me, the act of sex had to either include sadomasochist thoughts, or acts. If for some reason it didn’t, I wasn’t able to perform.
I had my own theories on why I was the way I was, but I wasn’t willing to discuss them with others or attempt to pry deeper into my inner psyche in an effort to resolve issues imbedded within my being during my childhood.
Embracing who I was and what I enjoyed was much easier, and allowed a no excuses approach to life. I had my reservations, however, on whether or not Liv could live with my desires once they exposed themselves fully. Our first sexual encounter was driven by nothing more than my mind wandering to thoughts of other things.
Five years. It had been five years since I had sex. Liv had no real idea what she was in for, and as much as I loved her as a friend, I had to convince myself with each passing minute to take matters slow and easy.
Slow and easy wasn’t my strength, unless it was during one of my midnight strolls down along the beach. Sex was something I truly enjoyed, but I only seemed to enjoy it if I was wreaking havoc on my sexual partner.
It seemed surreal to be having sex with Liv. For a lifetime I had placed her in a protective bubble, and as much as I shared with her, I didn’t share everything. My sexual desires and opinions regarding their origin were things I had always kept to myself. As time passed there was no doubt Liv would be made aware of what my sexual desires truly were, and I held onto the hope that she could either accept them or we could agree our decision to include sex in our friendship was a poor one.
Either way I would be satisfied, my preference leaning slightly toward maintaining the friendship already in place and somehow adding sex to it without sacrificing anything else. Succeeding at it would be difficult, but I was driven by a challenge.
“Because they’re fucking ugly, that’s why,” I said.
She lifted her foot and gazed down at the sandal. “I think they’re cute.”
“You think they’re cute because they’re on sale. How many pairs of sandals do you have in your closet that you’ve never worn?” I asked, glancing one more time toward the hideous shoe.
“They’re only thirty bucks. Marked down from a hundred,” she said.
“They’re stupid. They’ve got beads all over the straps, and they’re all rectangular and square, and they’ve got sharp edges. They’ll cut your feet to shreds, and they look like shit. They’re marked down because no one wanted them. If something has a yellow ‘sale’ tag on it, you’ll buy it. You can’t help it. Your closet is full of unworn shit. I swear. Go ahead, buy ‘em. I bet you never wear those ugly fuckers once,” I said, waving my hand toward the open box.
Over the years, Liv and I shopped together quite often. I rarely bought anything, only because I needed very little. My wardrobe consisted of a few pairs of jeans, several pullovers, board shorts, shorts, tee shirts, and a handful of shoes – all of which were worn regularly. Liv, on the other hand, purchased whatever was on sale, regardless of her actual need, and the items piled up in her closet like waste at a landfill. No matter what it was, if it had a ‘SALE’ sticker on it, she had to stop and look at it. Convincing her she didn’t need it was difficult, especially if she saw it as a bargain.
Personally, I believed she shopped the way she did to feel better about herself. Her lack of a male companion in her life caused her to feel inadequate and unattractive. In the past, I let her shop without much opposition from me. For some reason, on this particular day, I felt the need to convince her otherwise.
“What’s ugly about them?” she asked.
“Everything,” I said as I reached for the shoe still sitting in the box.
I held the sandal in my hand and pointed to the sole. What appeared to be a piece of wood was sandwiched between two thin pieces of leather. “Look. The sole is made from a piece of wood and two pieces of leather. It’s not even flexible.”
She shrugged. “So.”
“If this was a sole for a pair of heels, fine. But for a pair of sandals? You want sandals to be flexible. If they’re not, this strap will tear your toes up.”
“And these beads?” I said as I drug my finger along the beads that covered the toe strap. “They’ll make sure your toes are torn up.”
“They’re only thirty bucks, and they’re cute,” she said.
“Give your thirty bucks to that guy on the corner with the harmonica.”
The sales clerk walked past, and as she did, she turned toward us and grinned. I raised my hand in the air to get her attention. “Ma’am, we have some questions.”
“Luke, don’t,” Liv warned.
She stepped to my side, glanced at Liv and shifted her eyes to me. “How can I help you?”
I held the shoe in front of me and smiled. “Why are these shoes on sale?”
“These shoes. Why are they on sale? The season isn’t over, so why are they on sale? Is there something wrong with them?”
“Oh, no. We’re overstocked,” she said with a smile and a nod.
“See?” Liv said mockingly.
I shifted my eyes around the store. No less than two hundred different pairs of shoes were displayed. I glanced at the sale rack behind Liv. Eight pairs of shoes were on sale.
I met her gaze. “Overstocked?”
She nodded and grinned. “Yes.”
“So, when you get shoes in, new shoes, do you receive random shipments? Like a hundred pairs of this kind, and fifteen pairs of another? Or do you get roughly the same quantity of each pair?”
She narrowed her eyes and scrunched her nose. “What do you mean?”
“Simple question. When you receive shoes, do you get the same number of pairs of each shoe, roughly?”
She tilted her head to the side and stared as if I was asking trade secrets of the industry.
“I suppose so,” she said.
I shifted my eyes toward Liv and tossed the sandal into the box. As I turned toward the sales clerk, I continued. “So if you’re overstocked, it can only be because no one bought this shoe. The shoes that sell well aren’t here on the sale rack, right?”
“We typically sell out pretty quickly of the good shoes,” she said.
I glanced at Liv and grinned. “The good ones?”
“I meant the good selling ones,” she said. “Any other questions?”
“Average women’s shoe size?” I asked.
She smiled. “Eight is the new seven. Size eight.”
I shook my head. “No, I think that’s it.”
She turned and walked away. I gazed blankly out the storefront windows toward the Sephora across the street. I didn’t need to ask Liv what size shoe she wore, I had bought her enough shoes for Christmas and birthdays that I knew, but I turned to her and asked anyway.
“What size is your foot, Liv?”
“You know it’s an eight,” she said as she tossed the sandal in the box.
“Well, if they’re not even sold out of the most common size, that can only mean one thing, no one is buying them.”
“Well, crap,” she said as she glanced toward the sale rack. “I don’t like any of the others.”
“Do you need a pair of sandals?” I asked.
“If they’re 75% off? Yeah.”
I shook my head. She had no less than thirty pairs of shoes in her closet that were still in boxes, and had yet to be worn. Loose in her closet and scattered about her home she had to have another one hundred pair if she had one. She needed another pair of shoes like I needed another fucking surfboard.
I turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go across the street.”
“What’s across the street?”
“Sephora,” I said. “Let’s go spend that thirty bucks on makeup.”
“Are you saying I need new makeup? Do I look bad?” she asked as she fumbled to put her shoe on.
She shifted her eyes to the floor.
“No, you look fabulous.”
Liv was many things. She was funny, caring, kind, giving, trustworthy, responsible, and passionate about what she believed in. But, above all, Liv was beautiful. Her beauty was so deeply engrained that it was easily overlooked by passersby, but not by me. Most people didn’t realize just how beautiful she was until they took time to try and find a fault in her appearance. By the time they found nothing, they realized she was a remarkably attractive woman.
Her level of humility allowed her to be so without effort or even the knowledge her beauty existed.
Still standing there with her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her, she seemed sad. I lifted her chin with my index finger until her gaze met mine. “You always look fabulous. You’re beautiful, Liv. I was thinking maybe one of the artists could show you something they have to help accentuate your beauty. It’ll be fun.”
Her eyes filled with pride and her mouth curled into a smile. “That might be fun.”
“I tell you what,” I said. “We go over there and you buy some new makeup, and when we get back to your place, I’ll make you sit in the corner and babble to yourself. How’s that?”
“Sounds like we’re going to Sephora,” she responded with a smile.
The makeup would make her feel better about herself. Making her a babbling mess would satisfy me greatly, and hopefully the satisfaction would last for some time.
In my mind the trade was a win-win.
Time, however, would tell if she agreed.