Chapter 9: The one with the Sexting
We sat staring at the front of my duplex for a good minute. Throats were cleared, thumbs were twiddled. Jeff was either attempting to ask me to go steady or he wanted his jacket back. I wasn't giving in to either. We have a complex friendship. We've had the casual sex thing, we've had the monogamous relationship thing. He's made me cry, he's made me wet, and if I've watched a bad ro-com, I have nightmares about getting married to him. What ticked me off the last time with Jeff was when he gave me my first orgasm through intercourse and then screwed Ann Gardner the next day. Not even twelve hours after a toe curling, god-swearing orgasm, he's slipped his ding-dong into another woman. Call me old fashioned, but I'm disillusioned by the amount of casual sex my generation considers normal. I don't slip from one bed to the next. I make only one bed, fluff the pillows, and sleep in it.
I don't have the patience for his wandering dick. I also cannot stand Ann. She worked with me at a part-time job sophomore summer and she's that girl who giggles too loudly at the cute guys' jokes, smirks at your bad hair day, and says 'thanks' with a heaping pile of bullshit attached to it. In the middle of going down on Steven Tucker, she asked him how many calories were in come. We're friends only through facebook.
When I went through my first major tear spilling break-up junior year one of my friends bought me this book called "He's not that interested." I've learned to let go of half-assed relationships and immediately delete numbers when they don't call after two days. I try to delete Jeff, but every time I do, he ends up in between my legs. This would be less difficult if I didn't find him so goddamn sexy. Jeff was made out of the same Midwestern genetic makeup that created men like Brad Pitt and George Clooney. I could see him becoming a silver fox at forty and wearing his high school gym t-shirt to bed every night. Jeff had always been in and out of my life and putting him back on the front burner was a thought that I didn't want to think about. He was fun on occasion, and he could make me laugh about spaghetti and meatballs. When an image of him and Ann going at it doggy style flashed in my frontal lobe, I started reaching for the door handle.
"Wait," Jeff said before I could high tail it out of there. His eyes went dark like he was concentrating, or he was constipated.
"What?"
"Do you work tonight?" Jeff reached up and tucked a loose strand behind my ear like a mother or a concerned lover. Goosebumps followed.
"I-" I got cut off by Mozart. I dug through my deceivingly large purse, pulling out the come stained shirt, a bottle of hair spray, three tubes of various make-up bottles, and receipts to taco bell. By the time my phone was reached, Jeff was humming along with Symphony 40.
It was Nolan.
"When I said tomorrow, what I really meant was tonight. Sorry about the confusion. That sort of thing happens when you pull an all nighter. Are you still available?" he asked. I turned to Jeff who'd taken to dusting off the dashboard with his sleeve.
"Yeah."
"Great, I'm picking you up at seven." I hung up with Nolan and refused to look Jeff in the eye.
"Guess you're busy," he said. There was a slight pang of guilt in my gut that I wanted to smoother with a pillow. What is this? Did I just feel bad about blowing Jeff off? I shrugged and pretended that it was a normal thing to have guys calling me left and right, telling me out on dates, telling me to wear my hair down.
"We could do something before seven," I suggested. The only thought bubbles over my head involved scratching this itch I had on my upper back where the curls of my hair hit. Jeff was thumbing the steering wheel probably thinking about whether he wanted Arby's or Hardy's for lunch.
"I could make you lunch?" I suggested this because my brain temporarily left and forgot that I didn't cook.
Jeff's eyebrows perked up. A home cooked meal is a rare find in college life. I used my oven to store the pots and pans my mom saw fit to purchase me at a garage sale. This isn't 1954, and the only thing I can cook is a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Or I could run over to Taco Bell and get a quesadilla and not have to do dishes. Ramen noodles aside, girls who can make a pan of lasagna to feed six and sizzle the boys at the beach in a string bikini are almost extinct. Thick, meaty and chunky can become more than just the lasagna. I'm a college graduate and Betty Crocker and I have been meaning to get together for some time now. Did Jeff deserve a three way with Betty and me?
"I've got to get some work done on the website."
I wasn't sure if that meant he was a picky eater, or if he just didn't want to spend non-business, non-sexual time with me. After you cook for a guy, you might as well list yourselves as "In a Relationship" with them on Facebook. We said a brief goodbye with an awkward pause where a hug should have been inserted. I thought about kissing him on the cheek but I'm not his grandma and he's made it clear I'm not his girlfriend either.
After he peeled away, I was left alone to my own devises in the living room. It felt empty without sloth Kevin on my couch. I felt empty. Maybe Joe moving in was a good idea. Then I'd permanently have a giant refrigerator snooping leach living with me. Maybe I should just get a dog. Too much responsibility, maybe a hamster.
I'd gotten so caught up in feeling lonely I didn't notice the mysterious packages piled up on the porch addressed to Mistress Kink, the online name Jeff and Kevin had come up with for my secret identity. Brown paper packages tied up with string would be able to pull me out of my slump. After ten minutes of trying to pry them open with my fingernails, I gave in and came back with a kitchen knife.
"Compliments of Naughty Novelties," the typed up note read after scavenging through one million packing peanuts. Hmm. Deeper in the mess lay an assortment of vibrators. My first thought was 'Ooo, free stuff!' My second thought was, 'Damn you Jeff, for giving them my address.' I spread out the following: two silver bullets, a purple, yellow, and fuchsia dildo/vibrator, a perplexing tube of lipstick, oh it's another vibrator, and a palm sized ball with silicone spikes. Oh boy. I don't think my night stand can fit all of this. Perhaps the linen closet?
I got a text from Joe reminding me to clear out the second bedroom. Grrr. I had a hot date in two hours and it would be spent priming and primping, stupid head. Right now, I looked like a packing peanut monster. Green little bits sticking out of my hair, to my jeans, and inside the pockets of Jeff's jacket.
Shower!
