Sex Says Page 13
“I’m not. I’m trying to get away from you,” she protested, skating six inches away and releasing my arm all at once. “In fact, what are you even doing here? Are you fucking stalking me? Because that’s creepy on a whole new level.”
I moved her easily with a hand at the small of her back, the skates aiding my quest, and pushed her until she could see out the glass windows at the front of the store.
“See that?” I pointed to the building across the street. “That’s the office for the Journal. You know, where I work?”
I noticed she was silent then.
“But it’s interesting that you would accuse me of stalking you.”
“Why?” she asked warily.
“Because the easiest deflections come from a place of truth within yourself.”
“Are you saying I’m stalking you?” she scoffed as I grabbed a couple of packs of cookies and threw them in the basket.
“If it quacks like a duck,” I confirmed.
“As if!”
“Well, that sure looks like my office across the street. What’s a man supposed to think? That you just like this grocery store?” I pursed my lips and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“I do like this store! They stock my favorite coffee creamer.”
I nodded as though considering it and steered her in the direction of the refrigerator section.
“Okay. Wow. I guess you’re right. A situation actually can look like one thing and be another. Kind of like how a guy could not call and the reason could be something other than him just not seeing how awesome his date was the whole time?”
“Oh, you are an asshole.”
“Thank you. That’s pretty much the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.” And quite frankly, that was true. Rhonda’s dislike for me made Lola’s fake hate look amateurish.
“Are you always this—”
“Likeable? Yes.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say, and you know it.”
I pulled open the refrigerator and asked, “What kind of coffee creamer did you say was your favorite?”
“The Willow Hill Mocha…”
Finally, she started paying attention to more than the way I made her heart beat faster.
What? It doesn’t hurt to hope.
“What are you doing? Are you buying my creamer?” she questioned, rapid fire. “Are you trying to be like me? Jesus, next thing you’ll be cross-dressing.”
“Only on the weekends,” I muttered and she froze.
“What?”
I raised my eyebrow.
“God, you are such a liar.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It was to me. And no, I’m not buying your creamer. This basket is yours.”
“What?” she asked as I handed it off, and she took a minute to look through it. “What the…tampons? Jesus. I actually love these cookies. And this toothpaste is my brand. How the hell did you do this?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” And that was the truth. That toothpaste was my brand. I’d gone ahead and tossed it in for later—when I convinced her we were friends and we had sleepovers—you know, the good kind.
With one last look and an innocent kiss to her cheek, I turned and made my way out of the store while she stood and looked after me.
“Reed!”
One last wave.
“Bye, Lola.”
I’ll be seeing you soon.
Studies Show that Smoreos Are More Addictive Than Drugs
My eyes paused on the screen. Wait…What? I loved Smoreos, especially Double-Stuffed Smoreos. No way in hell this is true. I clicked open the article immediately and started reading.
After a two-year-long study, the neuroscience department found that Smoreos triggered significantly more neurons in rats’ brains than cocaine did. This aided them in coming to their final result that the high-fat, high-sugar cookie could, in fact, be more addictive than cocaine.
Jesus. My favorite cookie is as addictive as cocaine?
What kind of sick world do I live in?
I groaned out loud, and a lady wearing a navy blue blazer sitting at the table across from mine glanced in my direction. Whoops. She wasn’t happy in the slightest, merely two seconds away from going librarian and shushing my ass. As I closed out the “Smoreos are the devil” article, I made a mental note to keep my audible groans to a minimum. I didn’t want to get the boot from one of my favorite coffeehouses in San Francisco.
Four Barrels had an eclectic, hipster vibe, and even though the animal heads hanging proudly on the walls came across as a tad sinister, I enjoyed coming here from time to time for their milk shakes. Sounded crazy, but they had amazing milk shakes, and their bakery selection would sway even the healthiest eaters to binge on sugar.
But I had to be in a certain mood, one that could ignore the display of death. I usually just told myself the lifeless boar staring down at me from his mahogany wood perch was actually enjoying the fact that I was relishing a sweet treat. Not the easiest accomplishment, but like I said, milk shakes and baked goods.
Plus, I was currently out of commission to skate…or bike…thanks to one embarrassing moment and a shooting pain right through the asshole. So I had to choose a coffeehouse within a reasonable walking distance. Four Barrels was only a few blocks from my place.
My roller skating melee outside of Gus’s had banged me up, and I was about ninety-nine percent certain it’d done it to the tune of a refractured tailbone. Nope, as much as I hated to admit it, this wasn’t my first go-round with a fractured ass thanks to an argument with a set of stairs a few years back.
Jesus, I mused. I think I might have a predisposition for injury.
If I wanted to keep on skating, I needed to find some padding for my ass. I had “butt padding” all typed into the search engine, but before I could push the “I’m feeling lucky” button, a new email notification flashed across my screen. Unable to deny my curiosity, I checked my inbox.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Roller Skates,
How are you feeling today?
I read your column.
Your perspective on the best oral sex techniques was…interesting.
Sincerely,
Reed
Jesus. I’d come to Four Barrels in hopes that I could find some peace and quiet where no one could bother me, and yet the one person who bothered me the most still found a way to squash those hopes.
I groaned again, and the chick in the blazer flashed a glare in my direction. I offered an apologetic smile while mentally thinking, Put some fucking earbuds in if you don’t want to hear any noise around you. You’re in a public place with people, lady. Noise is going to occur.
I winced as I adjusted in my seat in preparation to fire back a response.
Seriously, never fracture your tailbone.
It hurts like a motherfucker.
I had to keep this email short and sweet…well, short and sour. I was not going to be pulled into his mousetrap of crazy conversation. Because, that was the thing about crazy, it came in the form of a circle without any fucking exits.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
I’m fine.
Stop calling me Roller Skates.
Perfect. I hit send and leaned back in my seat with a proud smile. But that smile only lasted for a few minutes.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Just fine? I have a feeling you’re probably in rough shape after that fall. I hope you managed to see a doctor and get checked out.
Oh, and the nickname isn’t going anywhere, Roller Skates. I like it too much to stop using it.
P.S. If you’re really opposed, I could shorten it to Skeets. The double ee is the sound you made when you were wiping out.
God, he was infuriating.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Like I said before, I’M FINE.<
br />
The nickname is ridiculous and offensive, and the substitution is even worse—which only proves that you are, in fact, an asshole.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Putting the word “fine” in shouty capitals is a bit ironic, don’t you think?
Just tell me you’re not badly injured. You might think I’m an asshole, but I do actually want to know that you’re okay.
And offensive? Please enlighten me on how the nickname Roller Skates is offensive. I am extremely curious to hear your thoughts on this.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
In the spirit of being nice, I actually am fine. Just a little banged up, but thanks for asking.
And Roller Skates is offensive because you are cruelly reminding me of my little public display of clumsy.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
That’s not why I chose the nickname. I only mentioned the substitution because you so vehemently opposed this one.
Goddammit. He did that on purpose. He wanted me to ask him why he chose the nickname. That’s why he said that. It’s baiting material.
Just don’t respond.
Don’t. Respond.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Why’d you choose it?
I was pathetic.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Because I like your roller skates. You’re fucking adorable in them.
How in the hell was I supposed to respond to that?
And, why did I like those last five words so much?
I really was pathetic.
But my response didn’t matter, because a minute later, he sent another email.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Before I write my column for the week, would you like to hear my thoughts on yours?
Oh, yeah, sure thing, buddy. That sounds absolutely lovely.
Like I wanted to hear his ridiculous point of view on why my column this week pissed him off and all of the reasons why he completely disagreed with it. It sounded about as enticing as a reenactment of my crash and burn outside the grocery store with him and Simone as witnesses.
Did he think I was some sort of masochist?
Thanks, but no thanks.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
As amazing as that sounds, I’m going to have to pass. I have plans for the evening and need to start getting ready.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Big date? More research for your column with unsuspecting men?
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
More like dinner, drinks, and dancing with a few girlfriends.
Not that it’s any of your business.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Well, have fun, Roller Skates.
Try to stay on your feet.
Ugh. Roller Skates. He didn’t give up. I hated how much I admired his persistence.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Thanks. I hope you have a wonderful (read as horrible) night.
:)
Four hours later, I had successfully made some notes for next week’s column, taken a shower—which, when your life revolves around writing from home, is a big deal—and fixed my hair and makeup. I had forgone my normal uniform of tanks and jean shorts and settled for something a little more appropriate for a night on the town.
Mostly, I had on my favorite pair of sparkly Louboutins, which meant that the rest of my outfit didn’t fucking matter because yeah, Louboutins.
I only had one pair, and even though I had maxed out a credit card to purchase them, when I looked down at these pretty babies on my feet, I couldn’t have cared less about finances and credit scores. They were sparkly and shiny and worth the financial burden.
“I fucking love those shoes, Lola,” Abby called over the club music, staring down at my feet. “Seriously, how much did you pay for those?”
“Too much,” I responded and took a sip from my glass of wine.
Abby grinned.
“Let’s take a shot and then head up to the third floor and dance our asses off,” Jen exclaimed, and before I could offer a rebuttal to that plan, she was headed in the direction of the bar.
Abby cheered her approval, and I bit back my groan. I wasn’t opposed to dancing, but tonight, my ass was real fucking against it. That was the thing about injuring your tailbone, it took a good week before things like dancing and running and sitting felt normal again.
Five minutes later, Jen slid a shot in front of me and held hers up in the air. “What are we cheers-ing to tonight?”
“What about that guy Lola hates?” Abby tossed out with a smirk.
My eyes narrowed in her direction. “Why in the hell would we cheers to him?”
Abby just shrugged in response.
“How about…to us?” Jen asked and I nodded.
“That’s a better plan.”
“Okay…cheers to us…” Jen started, holding up her shot glass. “Two strong, independent women, and…eccentric Lola who never seems to stop surprising us.”
My shot glass paused on the way to my mouth. “Wait…what?”
“Cheers!”
Jen and Abby downed their shots, and I just sat there holding mine in my hand.
“Eccentric Lola who never seems to stop surprising us?”
Jen’s face turned sour for a brief moment, and then she finally responded once the shot’s aftertaste had left her mouth. “It was a compliment.”
I pointed my shot glass toward her. “It didn’t sound like a compliment. You called you and Abby strong, independent women. I’m strong. I’m independent.”
“No offense, sweetie, but you’re basically a teenager inside a beautiful grown woman’s body,” Jen explained, and I didn’t quite like that explanation. “You’re quirky. And peculiar. And those aren’t bad things. Those are good things. You never fucking take life for granted. You live in the moment, and I admire that about you.”
“I do, too,” Abby chimed in. “And…you give some kick-ass dating and relationship advice. Seriously, I want to be you when I grow up.”
“Well, according to Jen, you don’t even have to grow up to achieve that. I’m still an adolescent,” I muttered petulantly.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
I flipped her off.
Jen laughed. “Ah, don’t be mad, Lola.”
“I am mad. You called me a teenager.”
“Last week, I saw you riding around on roller skates, sweetie. I mean…”
She had a point.
“Okay, so maybe I’m a little bit quirky.”
“And eccentric,” Jen added with a knowing smirk and I glared. “But you’re also really fucking fun, and you’re my favorite friend.”
“Hey, now!” Abby exclaimed.
“What?” Jen shrugged and took a sip from her wine. “She’s way more fun than you.”
Abby just laughed. “Yeah…I’m not even going to try to disagree with that.”
Jen took out a tube of lipstick from her purse and applied a fresh coat. “Okay, now that the love fest is over, let’s head upstairs and shake our asses.”
“You guys go ahead. I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. I’ll meet you up there in a few,” I lied. I didn’t want to be the Debbie Downer of the night. And even though my injured ass could’ve probably handled a few go-rounds on the dance floor, I just wasn’t feeling it.
Luckily, Abby and Jen didn’t think twice about my excuse and headed toward the stairs to get their groove on—and most likely get felt up a few times. Vertigo Lounge had a reputation for being a modern-day version of Dirty Dancing. Well, without the watermelons—and the whole “nobody puts Baby in the corner.”
Although, I wouldn’t have put that clichéd line past some of the guys plotting their ne
xt pickup lines behind their bottles of five-dollar beer. The art of conversation in the dating world was a handful of awful opening lines away from dying.
Hmmm… Now, that’s a good topic for a column, I thought to myself and pulled my phone out of my purse to make a few notes.
Sex Says: Leave the pickup lines at home, guys. If your first question revolves around your pants or seeing yourself in her pants, just stop. Go home. Try it again tomorrow. After you’ve, like, napped, rehydrated, had a banana.
Once I saved enough words to provide the right amount of inspiration tomorrow morning when I settled into a writing session, I took a sip from my glass of wine and stretched my legs out, resting my feet on the wooden bar underneath the table. My tailbone appreciated the relaxed position.
Obviously, I had zero plans to meet my friends upstairs.
My butt would stay planted to this barstool for the rest of the night.
The reasons I’d agreed to a girls’ night at Vertigo Lounge had absolutely nothing to do with dancing or drinks and had everything to do with people watching—there was always a lot of grinding and interesting dance moves—and the hot dog cart strategically placed outside the club.
Frank’s Weiner Cart was a goddamn beacon of goodness, and he only served his wieners on Friday and Saturday nights. As I stared into my wine and ran my index finger along the rim of the glass, I let my stomach lead my thoughts.
Mmmmm… I will definitely get the Chicago dog tonight… Wait… Maybe I should get the New York dog…
Unfortunately, I didn’t even get a chance to decide tonight’s winning wiener because the very worst kind stepped right into my line of sight.
“Fancy seeing you here.”