Not So Nice Guy
Page 12
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No. I have to employ tact, have to seduce and tempt her organically, like the other day in my kitchen when she was dyeing my hair. I knew there was something there, we were both just too afraid.
“I think I’m going to ask Sam out on a date,” I tell my mom on the phone Wednesday night.
“OH MY GOD.”
She drops her phone in shock and the screen shatters. She can’t call me back. This is why I don’t tell her things.
A few minutes later, I get a call from my dad’s number. Apparently, she stole his phone so we could continue our conversation.
She’s sniffling and when I push the subject, she admits she’s been crying.
“I’m just so happy. You two have been dancing around each other for years and I truly can’t imagine a more perfect woman for you.”
“She hasn’t said yes yet. In fact, I haven’t even asked her.”
“Oh, she will. Believe me, she’s going to say yes, and who knows?! By this time next year, I might have myself a daughter-in-law! AND GRANDBABIES!”
Obviously it was a mistake bringing my mom in on my plan. I usually keep her on a strict need-to-know basis as it makes my life a lot easier. In an attempt to be a better son, I thought I’d tell her about Sam.
The next day, she won’t stop texting me.
DAD: At the Apple store! They’re replacing my screen. This is Mom by the way. Have you asked Sam out yet? Let me know how it goes! *confetti emoji* *heart-eyes emoji* *champagne emoji* *bride emoji* *groom emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
I don’t text her back.
She persists.
DAD: Can you even imagine? I hope the children get her hair!!!
DAD: Mom again. About the hair, your children would look good with your hair too, I would just really love a little girl who looks like Sam.
A few minutes pass.
DAD: Now I feel bad saying that. You’re cute too. Really.
DAD: Son, it’s your father. I need my phone back. Please tell your mom you’ll call her back when you have a minute.
DAD: Also, what the hell are you waiting for?
Not him too. I wonder if I should block them, but they’d probably just get new numbers. I’m tempted to call AT&T and have them cut text messages from my contract. In fact, I would if I wasn’t currently on the phone with Sam.
We’re talking through our curriculum for the sex-ed course tomorrow morning. Most of it’s preplanned for us, but Sam wants to be extra prepared.
“Why don’t you just grab a condom or two from your house for the demonstration?” she asks. “Oh wait, will they still unroll if they’re all expired and dried up? Don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the kids.”
“Hilarious. Make sure to bring your 55-gallon barrel of lube.”
“Ha. Why me—don’t you keep any around?” she asks, truly perplexed.
“I don’t usually need it.”
“Oh because the women who make it to your house are just little gushing Niagara Fallses 24/7?”
“24 is a stretch. I’d say it’s only during the act, so, three, usually four hours.”
She snorts. “Ooookay Casanova, let’s hope you’re keeping these mythical moist maidens properly hydrated. Jesus, I hope you offer them a Gatorade on the way out.”
I lean back on my couch and smile up at the ceiling. Bantering with Sam is my favorite part of the day.
“What else do you think we should bring? Some of your heavy-duty, gas-powered vibrators?”
“To save space, I’ll just bring the small one. I named it Ian—just a coincidence, no relation.”
We’re joking, but the idea of her naming a vibrator after me (even if it’s anatomically incorrect) makes my stomach squeeze.
Usually, I’d back off and steer us back toward friendship territory.
Tonight, I decide to push it. It’s called recognizing an opening when you see it.
“How often do you use him?”
I catch her audible intake of breath.
“Ha ha. Ian, c’mon, we need to focus or we won’t have anything to tell the kids in the morning. So far we’re just going to unroll a condom onto a banana—which, despite how common that seems to be in sex-ed pop culture, I’ve never actually done. What if it breaks? The boys will be turned off of safe sex forever.”
“Just let me handle it.”
“Do you think we should make up a rap or something, just so the lesson is more easily digested?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, deadpan. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’ve already come up with something.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, nothing major.”
Then she immediately breaks it out.
“My name is Sam and I’m here to say,
sex can be fun in a healthy way.
You’ve got your condoms, lube, and some toys,
but just say no to those unprotected boys.”
“That was off the top of your head?”
She doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed when she replies, “I workshopped it during fourth period. Also, let’s just say I didn’t win the sixth-grade talent show for nothing. I went the middle school version of triple platinum.”
“I want that footage.”
“Pfft. You wish. Luckily for me, my dad had the lens cap on the camcorder the whole time.”
There’s a break in conversation and my thoughts tiptoe right back to her vibrator. I want to know if she was telling the truth.
“How long have you had Ian?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call it boredom.”
“If you’re so bored, I have some papers you can grade for me.”
“Okay then, call it curiosity.”
Silence follows. Her footsteps echo through the phone. I wonder if she’s in her room now. A door closes and then she sighs. “A few years.”
“So he’s probably in need of replacing?”
“I don’t use him all that often.”
“Poor little Ian.”
“Don’t you worry about him, he’s doing just fine.”
“What about you? Are you doing just fine?”
“Ian…” she chides.
“Sam…” I taunt.
I swear I hear her open and close a drawer on her bedside table.
I smirk and imagine her slipping out of her pajama shorts and panties.
Now I want to say, Poor little Sam. Using a vibrator in lieu of the real thing? She deserves better.
“Where are you?” I ask.
She sounds nervous when she replies, “In my apartment.”
“Obviously. Where in your apartment?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re on your bed, aren’t you?”
“You know I don’t have any other comfortable seating in this place. When your furniture is all from Craigslist, you end up just lounging a lot.”
“You’re living in delusion, Hot Lips.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She sounds pissed—pissed and turned on.
Sheets rustle on her end of the line.
I want to FaceTime her. In fact, I don’t question the urge. I do it.
“Why are you trying to FaceTime me?!” She sounds extremely distraught.
“Why aren’t you answering?”
“I’m not decent!”
“Just like I thought,” I gloat. “We’re best friends, which I thought meant we don’t hide anything from each other. Answer it.”
“No.”
“Then it’s a pretty easy guess for what you’re doing. Tell Ian hi for me.”
The FaceTime connects immediately and her frazzled appearance hits my phone’s screen. She’s sitting up against her headboard. Her cheeks are pink and her mouth is so soft and feminine I have a sudden overwhelming urge to feel it wrapped around me.
She’s wearing a tight cotton tank top, no bra. She’s holding the phone so I can only see the top half of her: her creamy shoulders and chest. Her nipples are pebbled and I want to take each one into my mouth. I’d be gentle, giving. I’d trace my finger beneath her collarbone and make her blush everywhere. Poor little Sam is right—she’d crumble for me.
“I think I’m going to ask Sam out on a date,” I tell my mom on the phone Wednesday night.
“OH MY GOD.”
She drops her phone in shock and the screen shatters. She can’t call me back. This is why I don’t tell her things.
A few minutes later, I get a call from my dad’s number. Apparently, she stole his phone so we could continue our conversation.
She’s sniffling and when I push the subject, she admits she’s been crying.
“I’m just so happy. You two have been dancing around each other for years and I truly can’t imagine a more perfect woman for you.”
“She hasn’t said yes yet. In fact, I haven’t even asked her.”
“Oh, she will. Believe me, she’s going to say yes, and who knows?! By this time next year, I might have myself a daughter-in-law! AND GRANDBABIES!”
Obviously it was a mistake bringing my mom in on my plan. I usually keep her on a strict need-to-know basis as it makes my life a lot easier. In an attempt to be a better son, I thought I’d tell her about Sam.
The next day, she won’t stop texting me.
DAD: At the Apple store! They’re replacing my screen. This is Mom by the way. Have you asked Sam out yet? Let me know how it goes! *confetti emoji* *heart-eyes emoji* *champagne emoji* *bride emoji* *groom emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
*baby emoji*
I don’t text her back.
She persists.
DAD: Can you even imagine? I hope the children get her hair!!!
DAD: Mom again. About the hair, your children would look good with your hair too, I would just really love a little girl who looks like Sam.
A few minutes pass.
DAD: Now I feel bad saying that. You’re cute too. Really.
DAD: Son, it’s your father. I need my phone back. Please tell your mom you’ll call her back when you have a minute.
DAD: Also, what the hell are you waiting for?
Not him too. I wonder if I should block them, but they’d probably just get new numbers. I’m tempted to call AT&T and have them cut text messages from my contract. In fact, I would if I wasn’t currently on the phone with Sam.
We’re talking through our curriculum for the sex-ed course tomorrow morning. Most of it’s preplanned for us, but Sam wants to be extra prepared.
“Why don’t you just grab a condom or two from your house for the demonstration?” she asks. “Oh wait, will they still unroll if they’re all expired and dried up? Don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the kids.”
“Hilarious. Make sure to bring your 55-gallon barrel of lube.”
“Ha. Why me—don’t you keep any around?” she asks, truly perplexed.
“I don’t usually need it.”
“Oh because the women who make it to your house are just little gushing Niagara Fallses 24/7?”
“24 is a stretch. I’d say it’s only during the act, so, three, usually four hours.”
She snorts. “Ooookay Casanova, let’s hope you’re keeping these mythical moist maidens properly hydrated. Jesus, I hope you offer them a Gatorade on the way out.”
I lean back on my couch and smile up at the ceiling. Bantering with Sam is my favorite part of the day.
“What else do you think we should bring? Some of your heavy-duty, gas-powered vibrators?”
“To save space, I’ll just bring the small one. I named it Ian—just a coincidence, no relation.”
We’re joking, but the idea of her naming a vibrator after me (even if it’s anatomically incorrect) makes my stomach squeeze.
Usually, I’d back off and steer us back toward friendship territory.
Tonight, I decide to push it. It’s called recognizing an opening when you see it.
“How often do you use him?”
I catch her audible intake of breath.
“Ha ha. Ian, c’mon, we need to focus or we won’t have anything to tell the kids in the morning. So far we’re just going to unroll a condom onto a banana—which, despite how common that seems to be in sex-ed pop culture, I’ve never actually done. What if it breaks? The boys will be turned off of safe sex forever.”
“Just let me handle it.”
“Do you think we should make up a rap or something, just so the lesson is more easily digested?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, deadpan. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’ve already come up with something.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, nothing major.”
Then she immediately breaks it out.
“My name is Sam and I’m here to say,
sex can be fun in a healthy way.
You’ve got your condoms, lube, and some toys,
but just say no to those unprotected boys.”
“That was off the top of your head?”
She doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed when she replies, “I workshopped it during fourth period. Also, let’s just say I didn’t win the sixth-grade talent show for nothing. I went the middle school version of triple platinum.”
“I want that footage.”
“Pfft. You wish. Luckily for me, my dad had the lens cap on the camcorder the whole time.”
There’s a break in conversation and my thoughts tiptoe right back to her vibrator. I want to know if she was telling the truth.
“How long have you had Ian?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call it boredom.”
“If you’re so bored, I have some papers you can grade for me.”
“Okay then, call it curiosity.”
Silence follows. Her footsteps echo through the phone. I wonder if she’s in her room now. A door closes and then she sighs. “A few years.”
“So he’s probably in need of replacing?”
“I don’t use him all that often.”
“Poor little Ian.”
“Don’t you worry about him, he’s doing just fine.”
“What about you? Are you doing just fine?”
“Ian…” she chides.
“Sam…” I taunt.
I swear I hear her open and close a drawer on her bedside table.
I smirk and imagine her slipping out of her pajama shorts and panties.
Now I want to say, Poor little Sam. Using a vibrator in lieu of the real thing? She deserves better.
“Where are you?” I ask.
She sounds nervous when she replies, “In my apartment.”
“Obviously. Where in your apartment?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re on your bed, aren’t you?”
“You know I don’t have any other comfortable seating in this place. When your furniture is all from Craigslist, you end up just lounging a lot.”
“You’re living in delusion, Hot Lips.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She sounds pissed—pissed and turned on.
Sheets rustle on her end of the line.
I want to FaceTime her. In fact, I don’t question the urge. I do it.
“Why are you trying to FaceTime me?!” She sounds extremely distraught.
“Why aren’t you answering?”
“I’m not decent!”
“Just like I thought,” I gloat. “We’re best friends, which I thought meant we don’t hide anything from each other. Answer it.”
“No.”
“Then it’s a pretty easy guess for what you’re doing. Tell Ian hi for me.”
The FaceTime connects immediately and her frazzled appearance hits my phone’s screen. She’s sitting up against her headboard. Her cheeks are pink and her mouth is so soft and feminine I have a sudden overwhelming urge to feel it wrapped around me.
She’s wearing a tight cotton tank top, no bra. She’s holding the phone so I can only see the top half of her: her creamy shoulders and chest. Her nipples are pebbled and I want to take each one into my mouth. I’d be gentle, giving. I’d trace my finger beneath her collarbone and make her blush everywhere. Poor little Sam is right—she’d crumble for me.
