I get rid of my shirt, exposing my torso. I have a prominent six-pack, cut, golden, and impressive, with that V that makes girls stupid and a trail of light brown hair arrowing from my navel and into my pants. I watch her watch me. I’m so hard my brain can barely function. All my blood is in my dick, and it’s so engorged it might explode if she just looks in its direction.
So this is what it feels like to die of horniness. My obituary is going to be embarrassing if anyone bothers writing it.
“That’s all nice and dandy, but what are your pants still doing on?” She licks her lips, pulling out the rubber band holding her hair in a ponytail and snapping it into the sink. She shakes her head, and her hair gets all puffy and sexy.
I pull my pants and briefs down in one go, then my socks, because very few things are more pathetic than naked men in socks. Then I stand, hard as a fucking stone. Both my cock and my expression.
She stands in front of me and says nothing for a long time. Then she takes a step toward me and lurches forward, almost touching me. My throat bobs with a suppressed groan, thinking she is going to touch me—thinking she might even touch it—but she turns the water on behind me and removes her top. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but I can’t tear my eyes from her pink nipples, flat stomach, and the curve of her hips.
“Let me know what hole I should slide your tip into.” I swallow again. God. She is stripping. For me.
“Don’t think you can afford me, Scully. I don’t accept coins or coupons.”
The tables have turned again, and I want to flip them up and rip the walls down to show her nothing has changed. I still hate her. I still just want to fuck her.
“We’re taking a shower together, silly,” she finally explains, shimmying out of her skirt. Her black cotton panties follow suit. “But you’re not going to touch me. Because guess what? Even though you don’t know how I feel about all my firsts, I do. And you don’t deserve shower sex with me.”
“You’ve never had sex in the shower?” Bullshit with a capital B. This chick has probably seen more cocks than a chicken farmer. Getting naked with me and not letting me touch her is payback. But it’s a price that might cost me my balls.
“I plead the fifth,” she purrs. Goddamn America.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We both get into the shower. I’m aware her family might come home early from dance and work, but I still don’t care. It’s not that I don’t like Mel, Jaime, and Bailey. I’ve just been let down by so many people in my life, so getting attached and giving a shit are not really a top priority to me.
Once inside, I grab the soap bar, lathering my body. She squeezes the hundred and five colorful bottles of whatever bathing oils she is using. I sniffed them all, and I’m not surprised she smells like a cake surrounded by every type of fucking flower known to mankind.
I watch her body moving, bending, straightening, living, and wonder why we’re doing this. Nothing’s gonna come out of it. It’s pure, delicious torture. It makes my muscles and cock ache, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The tormentor tormented by its prey.
“Had a good day at school?” She bats her eyelashes, a sugary-sweet smile gracing her lips. I think back to the conversation I had with Coach this afternoon about Prichard and my football career. Another guy would snitch on Prichard to her and let her deal with the mess. But (A) I don’t take orders, especially from idiots in expensive suits, and (B) on the off-chance this puts her in a vulnerable position, I’m not going to have him press her back against the wall.
“I survived it.” I flex my biceps when I rub soap off my shoulders to see if she’ll check me out, and sure enough, she does. She averts her gaze quickly when I smirk.
“How ’bout you?” I ask.
“It was okay.” She clears her throat.
“Daria”—I snap my fingers twice—“I’m right here. You can talk to my dick, too, but he’s more of an action man.”
“You grew up from that scrawny kid,” she says quietly, turning off the water behind me, and for a moment, our bodies are flush. Her stomach brushes my dick, but neither of us moves. We just stand there, dripping wet, with my dick poking her navel. Close but afar. Nervous, but bold. I’ve never done this before with anyone. Got naked for the sake of being naked. I feel like I should take control of the situation, but then I’ll have to shut her down, and as much as I feel shitty about doing this to Adriana, I can’t not do it, either.
Daria raises herself on her tiptoes and brushes her lips over my ear. I bend down the rest of the way to accommodate whatever it is she wants to tell me.
“Thank you for another first, Scully. I’ve never been naked with a man in a shower.”
Before I know it, she’s wrapped in her pink towel and sauntering out of the bathroom, leaving me in the shower with my hard dick pointing at the tiles.
I relock the door and rub one (fine, two) out before I can get out of there.
1-0 to the home team.
You wear your lies
Like a tie
Too beautiful to remove
Too elegant to resist
Too tight to breathe
Boys are a sore subject for me.
First, let me say that the past few days have been trash, and I’m happy I get to unwind at the end of it. Throughout the entire week, Penn hasn’t been home, both because of his football practices and business he has in San Diego. Maybe he is with his maybe girlfriend. I’d kill to get a straight answer about who and what she is to him, but I’m too proud to ask him, let alone ask around.
When Penn is home, he ignores my existence completely, locks himself in his room, and growls one-word responses when I need something concrete from him. He does seem to toss balls with Dad in the backyard whenever he gets a minute as well as read with Bailey. Melody is trying to spend more time with me. She keeps asking me how school is, and I keep dodging. If she truly cared, she’d check. She hasn’t checked in years.
I feel invisible. I always feel invisible. As though I blend in with the walls, and furniture, and the clear glass bowl on the counter where my parents keep apples shined by our housekeeper. Apples that I keep finding under my bed, in my backpack, in my shoes. Apples that invade my space, my room, my soul.
By the time Friday rolls around, I’m on edge. All Saints has a football game against Westmount, and we win but not by much. Blythe, who is a flyer and needs to be extra focused, is having a meltdown in the locker room but refuses to tell anyone what it’s about. Esme does her makeup in front of the mirror, and mumbles, “Bitch is probably pregnant with that hood rat’s baby.”
I excuse myself and go throw up in one of the toilet stalls.
“Maybe Dar is preggers, too!” Blythe cries from the bathroom stall next to mine. When I walk out, Esme approaches me and cocks her head with a tsk.
“You look seriously bad, sweetie. Maybe you should sit this one out.”
Maybe you should die.
High school is an aquarium full of sharks. People are always broiling with the need to burst free. Only the strong survive.
On Saturday, we decide to crash a music festival in the desert.
I braid my hair and put flowers and golden stars in it, slipping into a pair of teeny-tiny white Daisy Dukes and a white crocheted bikini top. I tie a flannel shirt around my waist and finish the look with cute gray boots.