"Ug, are you seriously going to watch that again?"
I look over to see Carmen making that face at me again. I wave her off.
"It's a good show."
"You mean the co-star has big enough tits to make it a good show."
I smile but refuse to turn back. Carmen, for all of her good looks, always was jealous of anyone else who used plastic surgery to enhance their looks.
Probably because her first boyfriend made her get a boob job.
Not that I notice. Well, most of the time. I do try to treat Carmen like a human being and not objectify her. Her long, long, long list of ex-boyfriends provided her with too much of that.
Realizing she wasn't going to get a rise out of me, she walks off to her room. I wait until she closes the door before I let out the air in my lungs.
I shake my head. Carmen was wearing the football jersey again. Only the jersey. Letting it loosely hang off her body, one shoulder exposed. Barely covering her upper thighs.
I sigh. That lucky son-of-a-bitch quarterback that she was seeing better appreciate her.
"Then again, she's been home most of the week," I grumble to myself, finding myself flipping away from the show I was watching. Why anyone would keep a blonde twenty-three-year-old woman at home when she looked like that was anyone's guess.
Flipping to a nature show, I relax on the sofa. Staying at home was just another normal night for me.
Not that I wasn't good-looking. Sure, I was two years older than Carmen. But I had played semi-professional basketball. I hit the gym to this day harder than she did. I just wasn't good enough at basketball to go further. And, well, I always liked numbers. Figuring things out. As terrible as it is to say, I prefer the life of an accountant. That's how I ended up in a high-paying job. Which afforded me this penthouse. And Carmen made sure I could save more money away by having her as a roommate.
Well, she was more than that. My younger brother went out with her years ago and we hit it off as friends. Carmen is way more than her busty blonde looks would have you believe. It's just that most men don't want to know her. The fact she collects pretty stones. The fact she is a financial planner that could turn anyone's life around in a few weeks. The fact she has a thing where she has to stand on the left side of an elevator. Those things most men don't care to know about her. They only want to know one thing about her. What she looks like naked.
And, truth to be told, there are lonely nights when I wished I knew her more like they did. I've heard the sex that goes on in their room. I've heard her muffled masturbation between boyfriends.
I shift myself in my seat, noticing the half-erection forming in my shorts. It's been some time since I had any action.
I hear stomping from Carmen's room. Uh-oh.
Sure enough, she stomps out of her room. That jersey hanging off her body doesn't look so sexy anymore. Her posture looks like a wound-up figure, ready to explode in a hail of rubber bands and cheap plastic.
"Don't tell me," I start to say as she puts up a finger to 'shh' me. I smile as she starts digging through the fridge.
I take a few moments to tame my erection so I can be there for her as a friend. I get to my feet and go to the kitchen bar. She turns and slams down a tub of ice cream. She hands me a spoon with a glare on her face. I start to eat, as does she. Only the nature show on the television is talking.
"I think I may be becoming lactose intolerant," I finally say, putting down the spoon. "We've been doing this too much with him lately. Just dump him already."
With her spoon in her mouth, she looks up at me. Anger holding back tears. "Mmah mwah mah mah."
I roll my eyes. "Spoon."
She takes it out. "He says he's busy."
"He's a quarterback for a professional football team. He's always busy. That didn't stop him at first when he was over here trying to put a hole in the wall with the headboard."
She blushes. I feel bad for using that kind of language. I really need to have sex.
"I know he's seeing someone else."
I raise an eyebrow. "How do you know?"
She sighs. "He's been following this barely eighteen-chick on Instagram. Liking all her shit, leaving flirty comments."
"Wow, it's not even like he's trying to hide it," I say in disbelief.
She shakes her head. "Some brain-dead teenager bimbo. That's always what they think I am, and what they want me to be. Then, I start giving financial advice or something, and they drop me."
I reach across and pat her hand. "Hey, looks and brains? You know--"
She rolls her eyes and finishes the sentence I always give her when this happens. "--a proper guy is going to appreciate you for who you are." She looks back at me, and I can see the tears are starting to win. "You keep saying that and it never happens."
I smile. "Carmen, hun, you're only twenty-three."
She scowls. "I feel way older with the relationships I've gone through."
I take another stab at the ice cream. "I...look, I'm not the best person to talk to about this kind of stuff. I haven't had a date in months."
She flashes an evil smile and takes a long lick of ice cream from her spoon. "Oh, I know. I hear the sex toys running in your room."
I narrow my eyes. "Those wands aren't very subtle either, you know. Let alone those awful audio tracks you listen to."
She washes her spoon and gives me just a peek at the bottom half of her ass where the jersey doesn't quite reach. "I told you. Hypnosis relaxes me."
"That's not hypnosis. I've heard some of it."
"It is..." she says, trailing off with a hint of defensiveness in her voice, "It's just more than that, okay?"