“You may as well just give up now,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to go on a date with me. It’s just easier if you say yes now.”
“Cocky fucking bastard.”
“Nah, I just see that you want to, but for some reason you’re saying no.”
“Maybe because I don’t want to. You ever think of that?” I was such a liar.
He shrugged. “Maybe. But you do. And you will.” And then, before I could stop him, he pulled me forward into a tight hug, my chin pressed against his shoulder, his lips near my ear. It was so unfair how fucking good he smelled. My stomach flip-flopped a little as he whispered in my ear. “You may as well just say yes. I saved your life, and that means you belong to me now. I’m totally going to Freddie Prinze Junior you so hard later.” Then he let me go and walked toward the door.
“That’s not what that means!” I shouted after him, causing people to stare at me like I was the ridiculous one. “You don’t get to make it sound dirty and hot!”
He didn’t even look back.
Chapter 5
Bicycles Are For Tree-Hugging Hippie Heterosexuals
“YOU said what?” Sandy asked me furiously when I returned from lunch.
Shit. I hadn’t meant to say a damn thing. “I said no.”
He looked at me like I was the stupidest person alive, which, to be fair, I probably was. I’d turned and run out of the restaurant with my tail between my legs, trying to protect my fragile ego.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he hissed at me. He looked absolutely livid.
“If you think he’s so awesome, why don’t you ask him out,” I retorted.
“Because he doesn’t want to make babies with me, you stupid idiot! He asked you out and you said no. I taught you better than that!”
“Go away.”
“Oh, Paul. It probably would have been better for your sake had you not told me that.”
That didn’t sound ominous or anything. “What do you mean?” I asked warily.
Sandy glared at me. “It’s become painfully obvious that you can no longer handle your own affairs. So from this point on, I’m going to do everything for you. You’re going out with Vince.”
“Knock it off.”
“No. You had your chance to do this your way. It’s not working. You’re making things worse. Now I’m taking over.”
“Sandy, I mean it.”
“First order of business: What are you going to wear on your first date?”
“I will punch you in the balls, so help me God—”
“If he’s taking you somewhere nice, then you should wear those gray slacks that make your butt look hot.”
“By hot, you mean fat. Besides, I’m not going—”
“If it’s going to be someplace casual, then you could probably go with jeans and that leather jacket I bought you for Christmas that you never wear.”
“I wore it that one time at that thing we went to! Then someone asked what kind of motorcycle I rode and I told them I didn’t have one, but I’d always wanted a Vespa—”
“And then we’ll obviously need to figure out some kind of first-date etiquette. Do you hug him? Do you give him a rim job? Do you ride him? I don’t want you to be out of your comfort zone. Or seem like a whore.”
“Ride him? Did you smoke meth on your way back from lunch? You are out of your damn mind—”
“We’ll figure it out. Now, do you want me to RSVP with him for you, or are you going to tell him yes?”
“We’re through. I no longer want to be friends with you. My love for you has died like a dusty flower in the desert with no rain. I hate you.”
“I’ll give you until Wednesday.”
“Fuck you.”
“Until five o’clock on Wednesday. If you don’t do it, I’ll give him your phone number and tell him where you live.”
I looked at him, scandalized. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Bitch, please,” he said with a smirk. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Sandy, I’m warning you.”
“Oh, like I’m scared of you.”
“You should be,” I tried to say menacingly.
“That almost worked, but then I remembered how when we were eight, you cried because your mom wouldn’t buy you the My Little Pony that had the little jewel thing on its ass.”
I gasped. “Morning Star? He was so pretty.”
“I can’t believe there are male My Little Ponies. You, my friend, are a homo.”
“Says the drag queen.”
“Wednesday, Paul. Five o’clock.”
“I will fuck you up, Sandy.”
My work phone rang. “This is Paul.” Oh, crap. “Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson.”
Sandy smirked at me.
Balls.
I DECIDED that for the rest of the day, I would ignore Sandy completely and pretend that Vince didn’t exist. So, naturally, they were all I saw.
Word of Vince spread quickly through the small office, with all the little gossip whores whispering back and forth about how hot he was, and that rumor had it he was gay. I wanted to tell them of course he was gay, that no self-respecting man could look like him and not be gay, but that would mean acknowledging his existence, so I kept my mouth shut.
It didn’t help that every time I saw him he was surrounded by adoring fans who seemed to be fawning all over him already. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop myself from scowling as Brittany Ward, the female office slut, kept giggling and pushing her grossly huge breasts against his arm like sexual harassment wasn’t a real problem in the American workplace. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop myself from grinding my teeth when Tad Cook, the male office slut, kept giggling and finding some way to touch Vince on the arms, stroking his biceps. I figured it must come with having your name be something as pretentious as Tad, because, really? Who names their kid Tad?
But as much as I wished the ground would open up and swallow both of them whole into an underground river of lava, what made it worse was the fact that I even cared if the office sluts were trying to mark their territory. I pretended to ignore the grin on Vince’s face. For all I knew, maybe he was bisexual and he’d have both Brittany and Tad at the same time (which did nothing to help my overactive imagination, and I quickly had to curtail those thoughts because even though I hated their stupid faces, the idea was still kind of hot. Except for the part with the vagina).
So I spent the rest of Monday in alternating states of anger, jealousy, disdain, horniness, and awkwardness, so much so that by the time five o’clock hit, I was ready to spread myself out like a buffet for Vince or murder him and hide his body underneath the floorboards in my house.
It was about that time I realized I might have been obsessing a bit much, and since I didn’t want to end up boiling a rabbit in his house and screaming, “Why won’t you love me?” as my mascara ran down my face, I decided to just push it all away and forget Vince completely.
“Won’t even worry about it,” I told Wheels that night as we sat on the couch watching Man v. Food, trying to make the all-important decision on whether I’d rather do the host Adam Richman, or eat the four-pound bacon cheeseburger he was currently stuffing in his face. I decided I’d do both at the same time and felt better.
Wheels huffed as he raised his eyes to mine, his head never leaving my thigh.
“Don’t give me that look,” I scolded him. Then Adam Richman swallowed a piece of bacon whole, and I finally understood the meaning of food porn. “I don’t need you giving me any crap, either.”
He sighed and growled a little growl at that back of his throat.
“You don’t understand,” I told him, scratching his ear. “What would he even see in a guy like me? I’m not going to be anyone’s project. Even if he’s not Freddie Prinze Junioring me, you know eventually he’s gonna be all like, ‘Hey, let’s go to the gym and work out for six hours and totally get our cardio
on.’”
Wheels barked.
“Right? That’s why it’ll never work out. I don’t want to get my cardio on. I can’t think of anything more awful than that aside from having a vasectomy while awake with no anesthesia. And even if I did want to go out with him—which I don’t—soon, he’d get bored anyway and then we’d argue and break up and be all sad. Then we’d have to see each other every day because we work together, and by that time, he’d probably have Tad spread over his fucking desk making him squeal like a little bitch. God, I hate that fucking name!”
Wheels raised his head and gave a little howl.
“Amen!” I agreed. “Preach it, sister. So, it’s decided, then. It’s easier this way.”
I swore Wheels rolled his eyes then, letting me know nothing is ever that easy, and even if it was, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to settle for easy. That life was too short to settle for easy and that maybe, just maybe, I should step out of my comfort zone for once in my fucking life.
Then I realized that this was my two-legged dog and that he probably didn’t mean a damn thing at all. Either that, or he was psychic and could see that my downfall would occur the very next day and it would involve a pair of bike shorts.
God, I’m such a sucker for bike shorts.
WHEN my alarm went off the next morning, I woke with renewed determination. I let Wheels out, listening to his cart squeak as he went about his business. In the shower, when I wasn’t singing at the top of my lungs, I practiced my speech to both Vince and Sandy, as they were almost the same. I’m very flattered that you want to take me out/help me out. But I’ve decided that I don’t need that right now/don’t want your help. I’m asking that you respect that/fuck off before I cut you. So, while we can be friends, I think we should just keep it at that/never talk about this again, you stupid queen.
The coffee was gurgling as I finished getting dressed, and I let Wheels back in the house. I poured the coffee in my travel mug, grabbed a granola bar (don’t worry, it was one of those ones that are supposed to be healthy, but is really just covered in chocolate), and went out to face the day.
On my way to work, I sang along to Kelly Clarkson’s “Miss Independent,” completely agreeing with the music’s timeless lesson, even if I looked like a raging fruit as I danced in my car. “That’s right!” I shouted at the traffic light, waiting for it to change to green. “I don’t need no fuckin’ man tellin’ me what to do!”
I forgot that my window was down until the woman in the car next to me shouted back, “Me either! Don’t need no fuckin’ man!”
I would have been beyond embarrassed, but I was feeling way too fucking good, so I shared a kindred moment with the woman, both of us grinning at each other like fools. I cranked up the stereo and we sang as loud as we possibly could until we missed that the light had turned green and the guy in the truck behind us began to honk and scream out his window, “Move your gay asses!”
I thought about flipping him off because I was Miss Independent, but then I saw he was in a Ford F350 and I was driving a Prius, and I liked my face shaped the way it was, so I just waved as sarcastically as I could. And if you think one cannot wave sarcastically, then you’d be wrong.
So there I was! Feeling good! Feeling fine! I pulled into work and I was going to make it after all! I’d made it thirty years, and I was gonna make it another thirty years! I parallel parked on the street better than I’d ever done before, and I was gonna fucking rock this motherfucking Tuesday! I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and grinned the biggest fucking grin. “Today is your day,” I told myself. “Make it shine!”
I looked in my side mirror before opening the door and saw a bicyclist approaching, waiting until he passed. I think I told you that I’m an ass man, so seeing a guy in tight biker shorts seemed like another good start to my motherfucking Tuesday. His head was bowed, helmet on, sunglasses on his face, and he went by without looking at me, and I caught a glimpse of a hard-core ass, probably in the top ten I’d ever seen, maybe even top five. I looked back into the rearview mirror and grinned again, rolling my eyes. A boy can dream, right?
But no. Oh no. God wasn’t done fucking with me, no, sir, he wasn’t!
I got out of the car and walked across the street, looking up just in time to see the bicyclist pull up to the bike rack next to the building. And then everything went in slow motion.
Okay, so you remember the TV show Baywatch? How everything the beautiful people did on that show always seemed to be in slow motion, be it running down the beach or taking a shower like it was some soft-core pay-cable program? I would always watch it because of the abundance of man flesh, though I don’t know if my twelve-year-old self completely understood that fact. I think, though, that I was very well in tune with the fact that I was far more interested in the slow-motion pecs versus the slow-motion tits. I wasn’t a stupid boy by any stretch of the imagination. “Are you sure you should be watching this?” my mother had asked one time, frowning as Mitch climbed out of the pool, the fur on his chest dripping with water. “I like it for the stories,” I replied, slightly slack-jawed.
So it was kind of like that. My very own soft-core pay-per-view show. The bicyclist stepped off his bike in super slow motion, and I could feel my heart thudding against my chest, the blooding roaring in my ears. The long slow flex of his thighs in those bike shorts made my mouth go dry instantly. The hard curve of his ass pulled against the black spandex and all I wanted to do was fall to my knees and bow in exaltation. I would worship that ass.
And then, in even slower motion (it was like time was running backward), he lifted the helmet up and off, shaking his head back and forth, brown hair cascading like he was in some kind of fucking pornographic shampoo commercial. I wanted to rub my hands through the hair and scream out, “Yes, yes, yes!” like they used to do in those Herbal Essences ads that they discontinued because no one actually had an orgasm using the shampoo. This thought distracted me, just for a moment, wondering if the real reason those people always shouted in the commercials was because someone was actual going down on them and you just couldn’t see it. Then I realized that all those commercials involved women and that would mean someone was munching carpet while the other was washing her hair, and I got kind of grossed out because vaginas have more folds than a pile of laundry.
Blargh.
“Paul?” the bicyclist called out, pulling me out of my Herbal Essences, vagina-induced reverie.
I focused again on that ass. “Hello,” I mumbled, unsure about how the man I’d dubbed Favorite Ass Ever knew my name.
“Wow, is this all it took?” He chuckled. “My eyes are up here, sailor.”
Okay, that totally ruined the moment, but it made me well aware that I was eye-raping him, which was then made all the more worse when I realized the bicyclist was Vince. I blushed furiously and tried to walk away, but it was like one of my feet was glued to the ground, because I could take one step, but I couldn’t move any further. I was looking everywhere but at him, trying to focus on things like the big tree in the courtyard and the blue sky above and that cloud that looked like a penis going into a butt….
“Oh God,” I moaned. “Not a sex cloud! Why would you do that to me!”
Vince got a funny look on his face as he looked up into the sky, taking off his sunglasses. “What’s a sex cloud?”
“A product of high winds, humidity, and atmospheric conditions,” I muttered. “Why are you riding your bike? Don’t you have a car?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I like riding my bike. It helps with the ozone… and stuff.”
“You’re trying to avoid leaving a carbon footprint? And here I thought bicycles were just for tree-hugging hippie heterosexuals.”
He eyed me seriously. “We all have to do our part to help avoid nocturnal emissions. The planet needs us.”
I stared at him. “The planet needs us to avoid nocturnal emissions?”
He nodded. “Nocturnal emissions are the number one cause for the hole
in the ozone.”
“You’re… you….” I sputtered. “You can’t… adorable fucking… it’s cheating, is what it is… bastard… ass… so much ass….”
He grinned and pressed a foot up near the seat of his bike, stretching out his leg so it was horizontal and then doing an obscene stretch that outlined his crotch so perfectly I wanted to run away screaming with my arms waving over my head.
“Work,” I said weakly.
“Work?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he pressed down on his thigh. His mad-crazy, hot thigh.
“I have to work.” Well, I had to work on breathing, because he switched to bring up his other leg, doing another stretch, bending down until his stomach was flat against his thigh, like he was folded in half.
“I’m pretty bendy,” he said casually, his gaze never leaving mine, and what was I supposed to do with that?
I tried to remember the pep talk I’d given myself the night before. I tried to remember being Miss Independent while driving into work, sharing that moment of camaraderie with the woman in the car next to me because we didn’t need no fuckin’ man. But that seemed like a lifetime ago, because I was pretty sure I was getting an erection while standing outside my work, watching a man who was turning me inside out doing the most erotic version of Pilates I had ever seen (and that’s saying a lot, because I once saw a porno disguised as a nude Pilates video. I tried to follow along on my own floor, but it’s hard to do when you’ve got a boner).
“Bendy, huh?” I mumbled. “That’s… swell.”
“I like this office,” he said, putting his foot back down on the ground before bringing one arm across his chest and grabbing his shoulder with his other hand, continuing to stretch. “You want to know why I like this office?”
“So… sweaty,” I breathed, watching a little trail of sweat roll down his cheek.
“I like it,” he said, switching to stretch his other shoulder, “because they’ve got a small gym here, downstairs. Didn’t have one of those at the office in Phoenix. Do you know what’s in the gym, Paul?”