Chapter 9
“FIRST TIME YOU GOT DRUNK?”
“Thirteen. Just before a school dance. My parents were out of town, and my date, Jennifer Brewster, thought it’d be mature to have a vodka and orange juice. But all I could find was rum. So we had rum and orange juice. We ended up puking our guts out behind the gym. To this day, I can’t smell rum without wanting to hurl. First kiss?”
“Tommy Wilkens. Sixth grade, at the movies. He put his arm around me and stuck his tongue down my throat. I had no idea what was happening.”
We’re playing First and Ten. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this drinking game, I’ll explain. One person asks about a first—your first trip to Disneyland, the first time you got laid, doesn’t matter. And the other person has to tell about that first. If they haven’t done it for the first time yet—or won’t answer—they have to drink their shot. Then they have to tell you something they have done at least ten times. Which one of us suggested this game? I’ve already missed five firsts. I have no clue.
“First time you fell in love?”
Make that six. I pick up my vodka and toss it back.
We’re in a darkened corner of a small local bar named Howie’s. It’s a low-key place, kind of like Cheers. The patrons are laid-back, easygoing. Not the slick, couture-wearing Manhattanites with whom I typically spend my weekend nights. I like it here, though. Except for the karaoke. Whoever invented karaoke is evil. They should be shot between the eyes with a dull bullet.
Kate cocks her head to the side, appraising me. “You’ve never been in love?”
I shake my head. “Love is for suckers, sweetheart.”
She smiles. “Cynical much? So you don’t believe love is real?”
“Didn’t say that. My parents have been happily married for thirty-six years. My sister loves her husband, and he worships her.”
“But you’ve never?”
I shrug, “I just don’t see the point. It’s a whole lot of work and not much payoff. Your odds of making it for even a few years are only fifty-fifty at best. Too complicated for my tastes.”
I prefer simple and straightforward. I work, I f**k, I eat, I sleep, on Sundays I have brunch with my mother and play basketball with the guys. Effortless. Easy.
Kate sits back in her chair. “My mother used to say, ‘If it’s not difficult, it’s not worth it.’ Besides, don’t you get…lonely?”
On cue, a busty shot girl comes to our table and leans over with her hand on my shoulder and her cle**age in my face. “You need anything else, cutie?”
That pretty much answers Kate’s question, huh?
“Sure, honey. Could you bring us another round?”
As the waitress moves away, Kate’s eyes meet mine before rolling to the ceiling. “Anyway. Give me your ten.”
“I’ve had sex with more than ten women in one week.”
Cancun. Spring Break 2004. Mexico is awesome.
“Uck. Is that supposed to impress me?”
I grin proudly. “It impresses most women.” I lean forward and lower my voice as I rub my thumb slowly against hers. “Then again, you’re not most women, are you?”
She licks her lips, her eyes on mine. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Definitely.”
Shot Girl brings our drinks. I crack my knuckles. I’m up. Time to get…intimate.
“First blow job?”
I tried. I held out for as long as I could. I couldn’t resist any longer.
The smile drops from Kate’s face. “You have serious issues. You know that, right?”
Borrowing some peer pressure from The Breakfast Club, I goad, “Come on, Claire—just answer a simple question.”
Kate picks up her drink and knocks it back impressively.
I am both shocked and appalled. “You’ve never given a blow job?”
Please, God, don’t let Kate be one of those women. You know the ones I mean—cold, unadventurous, the ones who just don’t do that. The ones who insist on making love, which means f**king in the missionary position only. They’re the reason men like Elliot Spitzer and Bill Clinton risk the destruction of their political careers, ’cause they’re just that desperate for a happy ending.
She flinches as the vodka burns down her throat. “Billy doesn’t like…oral sex. He doesn’t like to give it, I mean.”
She’s got to be drunk. There’s no way in holy hell that Kate would be telling me this were she not completely and utterly shitfaced. She hides it well, don’t you think? But she still hasn’t answered my question.
As for her fiancé—he’s a pu**y. No pun intended. My mother always told me, “Anyone worth doing, is worth doing well.” Okay, she didn’t actually say those exact words, but you get the picture. If I’m not eager to go down on a chick, then I’m not screwing her. Sorry if that’s crude, but that’s just how it is.
And this is Kate we’re talking about here. I’d eat her for breakfast every day of the week and twice on Sunday. And I can’t think of a single man I know who would disagree with me.
Billy is a total f**king idiot.
“So, since he’s never…you know. He doesn’t think it’s fair that I should do it to him. So, no…I’ve never…”
She can’t even say it. I have to help her out. “Given head? Sucked him off? Been tea-bagged? Blown his balls and his mind?”
“FIRST TIME YOU GOT DRUNK?”
“Thirteen. Just before a school dance. My parents were out of town, and my date, Jennifer Brewster, thought it’d be mature to have a vodka and orange juice. But all I could find was rum. So we had rum and orange juice. We ended up puking our guts out behind the gym. To this day, I can’t smell rum without wanting to hurl. First kiss?”
“Tommy Wilkens. Sixth grade, at the movies. He put his arm around me and stuck his tongue down my throat. I had no idea what was happening.”
We’re playing First and Ten. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this drinking game, I’ll explain. One person asks about a first—your first trip to Disneyland, the first time you got laid, doesn’t matter. And the other person has to tell about that first. If they haven’t done it for the first time yet—or won’t answer—they have to drink their shot. Then they have to tell you something they have done at least ten times. Which one of us suggested this game? I’ve already missed five firsts. I have no clue.
“First time you fell in love?”
Make that six. I pick up my vodka and toss it back.
We’re in a darkened corner of a small local bar named Howie’s. It’s a low-key place, kind of like Cheers. The patrons are laid-back, easygoing. Not the slick, couture-wearing Manhattanites with whom I typically spend my weekend nights. I like it here, though. Except for the karaoke. Whoever invented karaoke is evil. They should be shot between the eyes with a dull bullet.
Kate cocks her head to the side, appraising me. “You’ve never been in love?”
I shake my head. “Love is for suckers, sweetheart.”
She smiles. “Cynical much? So you don’t believe love is real?”
“Didn’t say that. My parents have been happily married for thirty-six years. My sister loves her husband, and he worships her.”
“But you’ve never?”
I shrug, “I just don’t see the point. It’s a whole lot of work and not much payoff. Your odds of making it for even a few years are only fifty-fifty at best. Too complicated for my tastes.”
I prefer simple and straightforward. I work, I f**k, I eat, I sleep, on Sundays I have brunch with my mother and play basketball with the guys. Effortless. Easy.
Kate sits back in her chair. “My mother used to say, ‘If it’s not difficult, it’s not worth it.’ Besides, don’t you get…lonely?”
On cue, a busty shot girl comes to our table and leans over with her hand on my shoulder and her cle**age in my face. “You need anything else, cutie?”
That pretty much answers Kate’s question, huh?
“Sure, honey. Could you bring us another round?”
As the waitress moves away, Kate’s eyes meet mine before rolling to the ceiling. “Anyway. Give me your ten.”
“I’ve had sex with more than ten women in one week.”
Cancun. Spring Break 2004. Mexico is awesome.
“Uck. Is that supposed to impress me?”
I grin proudly. “It impresses most women.” I lean forward and lower my voice as I rub my thumb slowly against hers. “Then again, you’re not most women, are you?”
She licks her lips, her eyes on mine. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Definitely.”
Shot Girl brings our drinks. I crack my knuckles. I’m up. Time to get…intimate.
“First blow job?”
I tried. I held out for as long as I could. I couldn’t resist any longer.
The smile drops from Kate’s face. “You have serious issues. You know that, right?”
Borrowing some peer pressure from The Breakfast Club, I goad, “Come on, Claire—just answer a simple question.”
Kate picks up her drink and knocks it back impressively.
I am both shocked and appalled. “You’ve never given a blow job?”
Please, God, don’t let Kate be one of those women. You know the ones I mean—cold, unadventurous, the ones who just don’t do that. The ones who insist on making love, which means f**king in the missionary position only. They’re the reason men like Elliot Spitzer and Bill Clinton risk the destruction of their political careers, ’cause they’re just that desperate for a happy ending.
She flinches as the vodka burns down her throat. “Billy doesn’t like…oral sex. He doesn’t like to give it, I mean.”
She’s got to be drunk. There’s no way in holy hell that Kate would be telling me this were she not completely and utterly shitfaced. She hides it well, don’t you think? But she still hasn’t answered my question.
As for her fiancé—he’s a pu**y. No pun intended. My mother always told me, “Anyone worth doing, is worth doing well.” Okay, she didn’t actually say those exact words, but you get the picture. If I’m not eager to go down on a chick, then I’m not screwing her. Sorry if that’s crude, but that’s just how it is.
And this is Kate we’re talking about here. I’d eat her for breakfast every day of the week and twice on Sunday. And I can’t think of a single man I know who would disagree with me.
Billy is a total f**king idiot.
“So, since he’s never…you know. He doesn’t think it’s fair that I should do it to him. So, no…I’ve never…”
She can’t even say it. I have to help her out. “Given head? Sucked him off? Been tea-bagged? Blown his balls and his mind?”
