I don’t . . .
I can’t . . .
Why?
Why do these thoughts cross his mind? And why does he voice them in such an oddly charming way that I’m laughing but also funnily appalled at the same time?
Instead of defending the obvious and getting into an absurd debate that will only result in him going on a playful tirade of nursing his unborn children, I give him a simple answer.
“The sacrifices men make. Unbelievable. You should have your dicks sucked every night for your heroism.”
“I could not agree more,” he says, chest puffed, as if he won.
“Then again, sticking your dick into a woman’s mouth is like shoving your children into the belly of the beast. Letting your unborn kin be swallowed whole while you welcome the all-consuming pleasure from it. Maybe you’re not as heroic as you think you are.”
There. Take that, Jason.
I smile coyly to myself.
“God created blow jobs for one reason: so men can dispense of the moronic sperm.”
Did not hear that coming . . .
“Okay, so if that’s your theory, how do you explain the people on this earth who stick their heads in microwaves and think it’s funny?”
“Easy. Their dads didn’t do a good enough job seeking out blow jobs. I’m not saying we’re all perfect, but I’m sure as hell saying I am. Which by the way”—he stops and lifts my chin but doesn’t kiss me—“thanks for swallowing my idiots yesterday. You did the world a service.”
I’m starting to think Jason’s dad didn’t get enough blow jobs in his younger years . . .
“You’re totally crushing on me, aren’t you?” Jason asks from the driver’s side of his car. After we played quite a few carnival games, where Jason showed off his talents and earned a giant, stuffed Tweety Bird, we found a grateful little girl to take it off our hands.
There are a few things I need to make known.
I’ve never seen anything sexier than when Jason flipped his baseball hat backward, cocked his arm back, and demolished every throwing game available. His arm rippled, his shirt clung to every muscle in his back, and he wore a smile the entire time, genuinely having a grand time. He helped me win a few games, but all in all, I stood there and watched in awe the pure strength power through his body as he tackled every carnival game.
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much as I have today. We didn’t talk about anything too serious, just had a good time bantering back and forth. Most of the time, it was him going off on some weird tangent I had a hard time following, but the passion in his completely ridiculous tangents had me buckling over and sprouting giggles everywhere we went.
And finally, I don’t think I’ve ever swooned as hard as I did when Jason found a little girl to give the giant Tweety Bird to. He carried it around under his arm, scanning the amusement park until he found a little girl with the cutest pigtails bouncing up and down out of pure joy that he was approaching with the stuffed animal. But that wasn’t all he looked for. She had Down syndrome, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smile on her face. The total and unfiltered delight. And her parents? They were so grateful, but when they realized who was giving their sweet daughter the stuffed toy, they freaked out. Jason took his time talking to the dad about the upcoming season. He signed a napkin, and then took a few pictures. My favorite was the one of him holding the girl in one arm and in the other was Tweety. Adorable. The parents already tagged him, and Jason—because he’s the greatest guy I know—is trending in Chicago from the kind gesture.
To say my ovaries ache is an understatement.
And to answer his question, am I “totally crushing” on him?
Yes, in fact I am.
I’m crushing really hard.
“Come on.” He rattles my hand. “You can admit it. I can see it in your eyes, so even if you try to deny the crushing, I know it’s there. I know it’s how you’re feeling. Might be nice to hear it from your beautiful lips.”
“You want me to sit here and pump your ego?”
“Yes, that would be amazing. Thanks.”
I shake my head in laughter and let out a long sigh. I lull my head to the side and say, “Yes, I’m crushing on you. Are you happy?”
“Very. Now, tell me in detail what exactly you’re crushing on. Don’t leave one stone unturned.”
“Be happy I confessed to crushing on you.”
“I’m always happy, but I want to feel giddy.” He squeezes my hand. “Won’t you make that happen for me? Make me feel a special tingle deep in my soul?”
“Why do I even choose to hang out with you?” I ask, chuckling. I can feel a deep tingle, but it’s not in my soul, that’s for damn sure.
“That’s what I want to know. Let me hear it. Three things, and then I’ll say three things about you.”
He turns right after stopping at a traffic light and heads toward my apartment.
“You go first,” I say, feeling almost shy.
“That’s fair. Three things I like about you? How could I possibly narrow it down to just three? There are just so many things—”
“Okay, just get on with it.”
“Bossy, I like that you’re bossy. I really like it when you’re trying to get your way with me and I don’t follow your orders. The look of displeasure that crosses your face. God, so fucking cute.”
No one has ever liked me for being bossy . . . ever. Jason really is in his own world, maybe universe.
“I think your intelligence and drive is really fucking sexy. It doesn’t hurt that you look like a queen in a power suit.”
“A queen, huh?”
“Total dynasty.” He winks. “And the third thing I like about you is this. You might put up this tough front, a total boss bitch, but deep down, you’re a softy just like me.”
“Hmm, I don’t know about that.”
“Please. I saw the way you looked at that little girl today. You lit up when she started jumping up and down in excitement. And you comforted me while I was having a special moment with the trash can earlier. If you didn’t have a kind heart, you would have gone off on more rides. There are other examples, but my point is, you’re a softy, but you just don’t show it off as much as I do.”
I stare out the window, watching the familiar buildings pass by. “I wasn’t always jaded, you know. There was a time where I was more easygoing, not so stiff all the time. But a few rough relationships will change your perspective.”
“That’s why you need to be in the right relationship.”
“And let me guess, the right one is with you?” I chuckle, but he answers with a serious tone.
“You tell me.”
“I think it is,” I say, taking a second to observe his hard, carved jaw, and the smallest of dimples etched in the corners of his cheeks. You wouldn’t see it head-on, but from this angle, I can faintly make it out. This man should have been made with permanent dimples, but then I guess that would be too easy. You have to be close to him to appreciate the simplicity but sexiness of his dimples, and that’s one thing I really like about him. Everyone might get his entertaining personality, but not everyone gets to see this side of him, the way I get to see him. Even Emory and Lindsay probably have no idea just how incredible he is. They called him a good guy, but he’s so much more. Genuine, thoughtful, self-absorbed in a selfless way, even though that sounds like an oxymoron. He’s let me into his private sanctum, and I feel . . . honored. Weird, but true.