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August

B ang!

The door to my shared dorm room slams closed. Frustration overwhelms me, and the lack of release means the door suffers for it.

Darby Matthews, my roommate, pops her head up in alarm from where she’s seated on her bed, books scattered over the surface. Her gaze roams over my disheveled frame as she blows her pink-tinted bangs out of her eyes, this week’s color.

“Your date went well?” she questions, laughter in her tone.

Tossing my purse onto my bed, I strip out of my denim miniskirt and lacy top to put on a short set to sleep in.

“Is there something wrong with me?” I ask sincerely, pausing mid-wardrobe change.

Darby laughs out right at my questions, holding her middle from the effort.

“Oh, you’re serious?” she says, clearing her throat as her laughter trails off. “Can you be more specific?” Darby points to my half of the room.

My eyes ping-pong between the two halves of our room. Darby’s side is a spectacular mess. Clothes, books, and food containers of all types are strewn everywhere.

The other side—my half—is tidy. Everything is sorted. My books are neatly arranged on the desk, and everything is in its proper place.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Darby states flatly, interrupting my perusal. Pushing her books aside and rising to her feet, she tosses clothes out of the way in search of…something.

Shaking my head at her antics, I return to my task of changing clothes.

“Ah ha!” Darby exclaims, obviously finding whatever she was looking for.

When I turn around, I do a double-take. Sitting in the middle of her bed, Darby holds a bottle of tequila. Patting the space next to her, she encourages me to sit next to her.

“Tell me what happened,” she orders, taking a swig from the bottle.

Reluctantly, I sit next to her and gulp down several mouthfuls of the foul liquor when she offers me the bottle.

Leaning back against the wall, I let my head fall backwards.

“Men suck,” I blurt after a moment of silence.

“Well, yeah,” Darby agrees sarcastically.

The tequila passes back and forth between us as I contemplate how much to say. As the alcohol flows through my system, long-repressed memories push to the forefront.

Dylan, my high school sweetheart and the one I thought was my forever, broke my heart right before graduation.

Deciding to surprise him one evening, I showed up at his house unannounced.

Roaming his parents’ small farm in search of him, I discovered his betrayal.

Stepping into the barn, I found him balls deep into my best friend, Sally Jo.

Sally Jo and I had been best friends since we met in grade school.

Upon returning home that night, I made a snap decision. Instead of attending Penn State with Dylan and Sally Jo, I immediately applied to Stanford in California. The thought of running into them on campus was too much to contemplate.

Going to school on the opposite side of the country has its drawbacks, but relocating from Pennsylvania was necessary.

Snapping fingers in front of my face brings me back to the present.

“Helllooo,” Darby slurs.

Ripping the bottle out of Darby’s hand, I gulp down more of the swill. Beer is my preferred beverage, but this will do in a pinch.

“What hap-happened?” Darby asks, hiccupping in the middle of her question.

“We got dinner at The Melt, which was fine,” I say, taking another drink and watching Darby nod in agreement from the corner of my eye. She’s barely coherent, and I hardly have a buzz—it’s disappointing.

“After that, we went back to Joey’s room.”

Joey is a resident advisor, so he gets a room to himself.

“We started making out, and the clothes started coming off,” I add.

“Okay, so far I don’t see the issue. Joey is a fine piece of man-meat,” Darby comments.

“Yeah, well, looks are about all he has going for him. His foreplay skills suck and the guy’s a two-pump chump,” I snark, downing more tequila in hopes of forgetting this night ever happened.

Darby doesn’t react for the longest time. Casting a glance her way, I see her in stunned silence, her eyes blinking owlishly.

“To add insult to injury,” I add. “As soon as he got his, he threw me out of his room.”

At this point, Darby loses her composure. In her inebriated state, she falls sideways onto the bed, laughing. Using quick reflexes, I grab the bottle from her just as she rolls off the side, still laughing.

Unable to help myself, I join Darby, laughing at the absurd situation. When she calms down enough to speak, I’m surprised to agree, although I don’t voice it out loud.

“You need a good dicking! A man who knows what the fuck he is doing,” she declares.

Yes, I do.

Now I just need to find a guy who can do it. The thought seems daunting, to say the least. There has to be at least one man who knows what they are doing between the sheets.

Right?