Page 21 of Not So Goode
Not that it would do me any good, because I had no intention of having any sex anytime soon. I needed to be emotionally distanced from Glen a bit more before I even thought of sex. And, honestly, I couldn’t fathom what it would be like, to want someone else. There’d only been Glen, since I was seventeen. I met him my first day of freshman orientation at Yale, and never even thought about another man. Five years at Yale, two years in Boston. Seven years, I’d given to him.
A lot of sex, but with zero variety.
Given the frequency of our sex, which was, honestly, a lot—two or three times a week, at least—there had been a pathetic number of orgasms for me. I know Lex would call that lame, barely enough to talk about. But to me it had seemed like a lot.
Because…
Well, because it felt like a chore, sometimes.
I didn’t always look forward it. Or, I’d be all excited and horny going into it, but the reality would leave me disappointed. I’d imagine what the sex would be like in my head throughout the day, anticipating being with him, and then when we finally got to it, the reality would be a couple of lazy kisses, his hands groping my tits, a couple quick thrusts and a grunt, and that was it. He’d be asleep, and I’d be like,well hell—what now?
What usually happened was I’d wait until he was snoring, then dig my vibrator out of the old maxi pad box in the back of the cabinet under the sink, sit on the toilet lid, and finish myself off, biting my lip to keep quiet.
That’s just what I knew. That was pretty much my sexual routine.
I couldn’t fathom what else itcouldbe. Certainly not like Lexie’s life. I could never let a stranger kiss me, let alone touch me intimately.
The group of women had said goodbye, hugged us all around, and went their way as we went ours—me lost in my thoughts.
Could it be better? How would I know if I wanted it? I’d never let myself be attracted to anyone else, or think about anyone else. How would I know what I wanted, and how would I know it’d be worth the effort of getting it?
What if mediocre sex was all I’d ever know? What if I only attracted mediocre men? I thought I was pretty enough, with a decent body, and I’d been hit on more than few times by some pretty hot men. But did that equate to being able to find, attract, date, and get into bed with a man capable of more than mediocre, halfhearted sex?
Was there, in fact, a man out there who would want me forme, and not just because I was a fuckable version of his mother?
At that moment, Lexie grabbed my arm, hauled me to a stop, and planted her fingertip on a flyer taped to a crosswalk/stoplight pole. “O-M-G! Charlie! Look!” It was a flyer for a country music festival, going on that same weekend. “Myles North is going to be there!”
Country music was one of the things we bonded over—none of my other sisters liked it, and even Glen had teased me about my predilection for country music. So, this was the perfect opportunity for Lexie and I to have fun together doing something we both loved, and shared.
“That will be fun. Myles North is pretty good.”
She glared at me. “Pretty good? Pretty good? He’s amazing!”
“His body, or his music?”
She grinned. “Both! I can appreciate the man for his sexy blue eyes and that rugged jawline, and that body…mmmm-goddamnthe man is fine. And he can play the guitar like fuckin’ Santana,andhe has a voice I could listen singing me to sleep every single night of my life.”
I laughed. “Wow, you have a major crush on the man, don’t you?”
“I mean, it’s a celebrity crush, but yeah.” She wiggled her eyebrows, shook her hips. “I may or may not have had quite a few sessions with Mr. Pickles, thinking of him.”
I stared at my sister. “Withwhonow?”
“Mr. Pickles. My vibrator.”
“Your vibrator is named Mr. Pickles?”
She cackled. “Yep. He’s long, and thick, and green, and covered in these delicious little bumps. And he looks like a pickle, and one time I was crazy fucking horny and had nothing in the dorm to help out except a jar of pickles and ohmygoddonottry that. So I call him Mr. Pickles.”
I closed my eyes. “There’s so much there Iseriouslydidnotneed to know, Alexandra. And you’re telling me you’ve diddled yourself with Mr. Pickles thinking about Myles North?”
“Thinking about? Try looking at pictures of, and watching videos, and imagining him using those hands that play the guitar dancing all over my pussy, ohhh my. Yes. I have, in fact, diddled myself thinking about Mr. Myles Mackenzie North.”
“You know his middle name?” I asked, half laughing.
“I know his favorite guitar is a fifty-year-old Martin signed by Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, and Willie Nelson, and that Waylon Jennings himself played an entire set with that guitar back in the eighties, when it was Myles’s dad’s, and the guitar is named Betty-Lou, and she lives in a special case. I know his childhood dog was named Rollie, and she was a beagle, and got so fat that they started calling her Roly-Poly.”
I shook my head again. “Wow.”