We’d be doing him a favor if we got him to break up with her.
I study the ice in my glass. “Really? You have fun with Bambi?” I squint in his general direction, clearly skeptical. “Do you though? You can still have sex with someone, but does it have to be the same person?” Does it have to be her?
“Uh—yeah. I like having sex with the same person, you asshole. I’d rather not get a sexually transmitted disease by sleeping around.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I think you are.” Blaine’s dark brown eyes get darker the more pissed off he gets. “You sound sexist and like a woman-hater.”
“Me, sexist? I love women!”
“You haven’t loved anyone since Kayla dumped you six months ago. You’re bitter and nasty.”
So what? Am I not entitled to be hurt?
Kayla was my first true love, the first woman I let myself fall in love with, the first woman I’ve felt anything for. I let myself be vulnerable, let myself get lost in her, let myself depend on her for my happiness.
Then she dumped me without warning.
Ghosted me, really. No texts, no voicemails. Blocked me from her pages and from her life, offering me no closure.
It was devastating.
I ignore Blaine completely. He’s unbearably in like, and right this second, I don’t want to hear about it. “Dude, write this down. Rule 1: No member of the society shall date the same person exclusively while an active member of the society.”
“What if we get invited to something, like a holiday work party?”
“That’s fine, as long as you’re not exclusively dating. That’s what exclusive means, dipshit. Rule 2: No seeing the same woman more than three nights a week. Mix it up.”
Blaine nods. I can’t tell if he’s on board just yet or if he’s just being agreeable, but at least he’s entertaining the idea. “Right. Okay.”
“Rule 3,” Phillip adds. “No giving gifts.
“That would be impossible since you have no money.”
He clearly disagrees. “Just so we’re clear, I have some money. I can pay my rent. Shut up.”
Yeah, the rent on his shithole apartment, but who’s judging? We’ve all been there, though I wasn’t as old as he is while I was living in a dump. My first apartment was in an old building and I shared it with two other dudes; we were all in college and scraping by. None of us had jobs, let alone careers.
Benji and Miles were fucking fun roommates. I wonder what they’re up to these days. Should definitely look them up when I get back to the office in the morning…
“Rule 4: No marriage or babies.” Phillip throws this down with a superior tone, crossing his arms and nodding.
Blaine scoffs, sipping his cocktail. “Who the hell is going to have a baby?”
“Uh, I don’t know about you, but my boys are strong swimmers. There’s a chance I’ll get someone knocked up.”
“You better start putting a lid on it then,” Blaine tells Phillip. “No riding it raw.”
Riding it raw. Who are these guys? Jesus.
Certainly no one wants any illegitimate babies running around.
“Rule 5: We don’t speak of the BBS.”
“The what?”
I roll my eyes. “The Bastard Bachelor Society.”
“Oh. Right, I forgot.”
“Rule 6.” Blaine still looks a bit like he’s been whipped, but at least he’s getting into creating the rules, contributing. “Never let a girl wear your BBS smoking jacket—that shit is sacred. Never, not even after sex, and not even if she’s hot as fuck.” He pauses. “Do you think we should have them monogrammed? I have an uncle who knows a guy who owns a place.”
Monogramming the jackets is fucking brilliant. “Hell yeah!”
“Rule 7: These rules are getting borderline ridiculous.” Blaine crosses his arms, still griping like a little bitch.
“Do you want a rad navy velvet smoking jacket or not?” I threaten, because he hasn’t lost his whiney tone since I brought up this idea.
I have a feeling he’s going to be a pain in the ass about dumping his girlfriend, Bambi—though I hate even labeling her his girlfriend. Give me a break, they see each other and fuck—huge difference. I don’t know what he’s so irritated for. She’s entirely replaceable; we just have to prove it to him.
“Yes.” He scowls, lowering his head.
“Then put the kibosh on the pissing and moaning.” I realize I sound like a bully, and I take a deep breath, wishing I had a cigar to puff on. “Rule 7: If you want out of the BBS, it has to go to a vote. Same goes for adding new members.”
Both my friends nod solemnly.
“Bros before hoes.”
Blaine grunts. “Bambi isn’t a ho.” But even he doesn’t sound convinced.
I personally prefer the statement Bambi ain’t no ho, but potato, potahto.
“Sorry, but her name is Bambi. It even sounds promiscuous.”
“Bambi is history,” Phillip declares, chugging down the remainder of his drink, hand already in the air, signaling for another. He sets his glass down on the table with a resounding thud. “In fact, go ahead and text her now. Get it over with. Do it before we call our first official meeting to order.”
“Now?” He visibly gulps.
“No time like the present.”
Wow. Phillip has really taken a shining to this being single bastards concept; he’s being a real douchebag right now. I mean, I agree that Blaine should break up with Bambi, but at least let the guy do it in private. It’s bound to get ugly; she’s kind of a control freak.
The last time he disagreed with her about something, she wouldn’t have sex with him for two whole days! Then another time, she took his dog without telling him and didn’t bring it home until the next afternoon.
“Wait—what happens if we break the rules?”
“Are you already planning to?”
“No.” He doesn’t sound convincing.
“How about this—if you break a rule, you don’t win the wager.”
Why am I using the word wager like it’s 1824? Jesus Christ.
“What are we winning?”
Something that will make it worthwhile to stay single and not stick your wick in the same someone.
“How about my season tickets to the Jags?” The Chicago Jags are a professional baseball team who have won the Series dozens of times over, and my seats are fan-fucking-tastic: second row, between home plate and first base.
They’re worth a fortune, and my friends damn well know it.
I inherited them from my grandfather when he died. Inheriting them is the only way to come by them these days; anyone on the waiting list waits years. Actually, the odds of winning the lottery are better than getting Jags season tickets, and they were the one and only thing of any monetary value I received when he died.
Four eyes damn near pop out of their sockets.
“Are you fucking with us right now?” Blaine can hardly believe his ears and whips out his phone.
I shake my head. “Serious as a heart attack. That’s what I’ll pony up if I lose. What about you?”
“Shit, I don’t have anything nearly as valuable, but…” Phillip sits back in his chair, thinking hard, brows furrowed into a deep V between his eyes. “Fuck. What about my four-wheeler?”