“Jameson, you wanted to prove to me that your not the devil, right? Had some big grandiose plan to convince me that being with you would be better than anything that could possibly be waiting for me at home. We stay on your boat, we hardly ever go anywhere, unless I bitch. We fight. We have sex. So far, I can't see how anything is different from before,” she pointed out.
“You never used to have a problem with the way we were at home,” he countered. She glared.
“It became a big fucking problem right around the time you brought your girlfriend home.”
“Which I have been trying to tell you, I nev-,”
“I don't care. I'm bored, this is all boring. More of the same. You don't wanna answer my question? Fine. Let's go back so we can sit around and do nothing,” Tate challenged him.
“Boring, huh? When has your baseball player ever shown you this good of a time? Does he talk about his mother?” Jameson asked, his tone snide. She cocked up an eyebrow.
“I've already met his mother.”
It wasn't a lie, Nick's mom had come to Boston one time. Tate had bumped into her in the hallway.
Her ploy worked. Jameson stared at her for a second, his lips set in a hard line. She expected him to argue. To tell her to go fuck herself. She didn't necessarily expect him to give right in, she had planned on having to needle him. But then he moved, kicking pieces of machinery out of the way and sitting on the floor of the boat.
“Come here,” he said, reaching a hand out for her. She took it.
He helped her to sit between his knees, then arranged her legs so her feet were on either side of his hips, her knees bent. He rested his hands on her legs, feathering his fingers along the insides of her thighs. Tate wasn't sure what was going on, but she was beginning to feel short of breath. To go from not touching him for so many months, to him touching her whenever he felt like it, took some adjusting. She tried not to drool.
“Your mother,” Tate reminded him.
“Why do you want to know about my mother?” Jameson asked.
“I don't know anything about you. Why not start there,” she answered. He nodded, looking out over the water.
“My father had some passport trouble, while he was traveling. She worked at the embassy in Argentina. That's how they met,” he started.
“Your parents met in Argentina? That's neat,” she said. He glanced at her.
“Yeah, 'neat'. He stayed long enough to get her pregnant. When she realized she was having a child, her family kicked her out,” he explained.
“Your mother was actually from Argentina?” Tate was a little surprised. Jameson smiled at her.
“Soy Argentino, señorita,” he replied. He was part Argentinian. Well. Who knew?
“I had no idea.”
“I look like her.”
“She must have been pretty,” Tate replied, and he laughed at that one.
“She was very pretty. She got ahold of my father, he brought her back to America. They got married. Six months later, I came along. Nine years later, she died from lung cancer,” Jameson encapsulated everything. Tate rolled her eyes.
“Did you not get along with her?” she asked. He looked surprised.
“We got along great. Why would you ask that?” he questioned. She shrugged, leaning against the bench behind her.
“I don't know. Trying to figure out why you like to treat women the way you do,” she responded. Jameson laughed.
“You think I like to treat women like shit because I hated my mother?” he clarified. She shrugged again.
“Maybe.”
“You hate your mother – is that why you want to be treated like shit?” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.
“I ..., no. I don't know,” Tate hadn't really thought about it.
“What's your favorite color?” Jameson suddenly asked. She was caught off guard again.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite color. What is it?”
“I don't know. Black? Gold?” she prattled off. He nodded.
“Why do you like gold?” he pressed.
“Are you okay?”
“Shut up and answer the question. Why do you like the color gold? Specifically. Think about it. Why,” he stressed. She looked at him like he was crazy, but she thought about it.
“Because ..., I like it. When I look at it, it pleases me, aesthetically. I don't know why, but it just does,” Tate explained as best she could. Jameson nodded, digging his fingers into her thighs and dragging his nails up towards her knees.
“When I call you a 'stupid cunt', it pleases me, physically. I don't know why, but it just does,” he copied her answer to make his point. “Why do people always need a reason? I hate my mother, so I treat women like shit? You hate your dad, so you find guys to treat you like shit? No, Tate, I didn't hate my mother. I got along great with her. Loved her very much.
“I'm not acting out my psychological problems in bed. It is possible to like kinky shit just because you like it. If it seems like I treat women like shit, it's because I treat everyone like shit; women, men, orangutans, everyone. I'm not some damaged person, I'm just spoiled. I'm used to getting my own way, and when I don't, I tend to throw a temper tantrum. I have no problem admitting this – I have been getting my way long enough to expect it to just happen, and I have enough money to normally ensure that it does happen. It's as simple as that. So, sorry to disappoint you, I'm just plain old fashioned kinky. I like weird sex, simply because I like how it makes me feel.”
“You never used to have a problem with the way we were at home,” he countered. She glared.
“It became a big fucking problem right around the time you brought your girlfriend home.”
“Which I have been trying to tell you, I nev-,”
“I don't care. I'm bored, this is all boring. More of the same. You don't wanna answer my question? Fine. Let's go back so we can sit around and do nothing,” Tate challenged him.
“Boring, huh? When has your baseball player ever shown you this good of a time? Does he talk about his mother?” Jameson asked, his tone snide. She cocked up an eyebrow.
“I've already met his mother.”
It wasn't a lie, Nick's mom had come to Boston one time. Tate had bumped into her in the hallway.
Her ploy worked. Jameson stared at her for a second, his lips set in a hard line. She expected him to argue. To tell her to go fuck herself. She didn't necessarily expect him to give right in, she had planned on having to needle him. But then he moved, kicking pieces of machinery out of the way and sitting on the floor of the boat.
“Come here,” he said, reaching a hand out for her. She took it.
He helped her to sit between his knees, then arranged her legs so her feet were on either side of his hips, her knees bent. He rested his hands on her legs, feathering his fingers along the insides of her thighs. Tate wasn't sure what was going on, but she was beginning to feel short of breath. To go from not touching him for so many months, to him touching her whenever he felt like it, took some adjusting. She tried not to drool.
“Your mother,” Tate reminded him.
“Why do you want to know about my mother?” Jameson asked.
“I don't know anything about you. Why not start there,” she answered. He nodded, looking out over the water.
“My father had some passport trouble, while he was traveling. She worked at the embassy in Argentina. That's how they met,” he started.
“Your parents met in Argentina? That's neat,” she said. He glanced at her.
“Yeah, 'neat'. He stayed long enough to get her pregnant. When she realized she was having a child, her family kicked her out,” he explained.
“Your mother was actually from Argentina?” Tate was a little surprised. Jameson smiled at her.
“Soy Argentino, señorita,” he replied. He was part Argentinian. Well. Who knew?
“I had no idea.”
“I look like her.”
“She must have been pretty,” Tate replied, and he laughed at that one.
“She was very pretty. She got ahold of my father, he brought her back to America. They got married. Six months later, I came along. Nine years later, she died from lung cancer,” Jameson encapsulated everything. Tate rolled her eyes.
“Did you not get along with her?” she asked. He looked surprised.
“We got along great. Why would you ask that?” he questioned. She shrugged, leaning against the bench behind her.
“I don't know. Trying to figure out why you like to treat women the way you do,” she responded. Jameson laughed.
“You think I like to treat women like shit because I hated my mother?” he clarified. She shrugged again.
“Maybe.”
“You hate your mother – is that why you want to be treated like shit?” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.
“I ..., no. I don't know,” Tate hadn't really thought about it.
“What's your favorite color?” Jameson suddenly asked. She was caught off guard again.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite color. What is it?”
“I don't know. Black? Gold?” she prattled off. He nodded.
“Why do you like gold?” he pressed.
“Are you okay?”
“Shut up and answer the question. Why do you like the color gold? Specifically. Think about it. Why,” he stressed. She looked at him like he was crazy, but she thought about it.
“Because ..., I like it. When I look at it, it pleases me, aesthetically. I don't know why, but it just does,” Tate explained as best she could. Jameson nodded, digging his fingers into her thighs and dragging his nails up towards her knees.
“When I call you a 'stupid cunt', it pleases me, physically. I don't know why, but it just does,” he copied her answer to make his point. “Why do people always need a reason? I hate my mother, so I treat women like shit? You hate your dad, so you find guys to treat you like shit? No, Tate, I didn't hate my mother. I got along great with her. Loved her very much.
“I'm not acting out my psychological problems in bed. It is possible to like kinky shit just because you like it. If it seems like I treat women like shit, it's because I treat everyone like shit; women, men, orangutans, everyone. I'm not some damaged person, I'm just spoiled. I'm used to getting my own way, and when I don't, I tend to throw a temper tantrum. I have no problem admitting this – I have been getting my way long enough to expect it to just happen, and I have enough money to normally ensure that it does happen. It's as simple as that. So, sorry to disappoint you, I'm just plain old fashioned kinky. I like weird sex, simply because I like how it makes me feel.”
