Well, spectacular to me, at least. Fourth story, looking over North Hollywood at night. City lights below and just a hint of stars of above.
Beautiful but empty.
I was missing Lizzy.
Friday and Saturday on the beach had been amazing. Dropping her at her apartment this afternoon, and staying a little while… that was nice.
I value my alone time, but it would’ve been nicer if she was just here, even if she was just doing her own thing. We’d be alone, together. What would that be like?
If I was being honest with myself, I’d admit that Lizzy was insane. The things she’d confided in me… things that I’m embarrassed to say were a turn-on. That saying about “it’s always the quiet ones”? Yeah, that was true as shit.
Lizzy would cheat on me… just like I’d helped her cheat on someone else. I’m not a jealous guy, but I felt a pang of jealousy here. That meant I was getting attached. Was I ready for this?
No. Fuck, no, I was not ready.
Lizzy was a force of nature. A hurricane somehow bottled up and I kept twisting the top, letting some of the fizz off. Every time I did, I saw how close that bottle was to just exploding.
I was going to regret letting myself get involved with her. I was going to regret it a lot. The only thing I’d regret more was not getting involved with her.
#
Protein shake and half hour on the bike. Normally I’d have tunes on, but tonight, the workout was done to the accompaniment of ambient Los Angeles. My own breathing, the hum of the bike… and the thump of different helicopters circling the neighborhood. Blocking out some other shitty memories involving helicopters.
It was enough to get my brain back into real life.
Between the iPad and the session notes, it turned into good planning for my Monday morning clients. I wasn’t one the gym’s regular trainers, I was the rehab specialist.
Most of my clients were getting over some sort of injury. I judged their recovery by actual physical capacity: how many reps and sets could they do, what was their range of motion, all that technical stuff buried in kinesiology metrics.
I had a dozen charts laid out in front of me when suddenly I saw Lizzy’s face.
Fuck.
So much for that focus.
Yeah, chipmunks cheeks; yeah, those lips… but eyes closed. Lips parted. Coming. She was having an orgasm.
I’d never gone out with a girl that came as much as she did.
It was great!
Why was it great? Why did she come that much? Why did it matter?
Shit. Somehow, Lizzie got dragged into my analytical mode.
Like the helicopters above, my brain circled around her. Around her orgasms.
I had to ask her if she was always this orgasmic. Sneak it in. Let the question float, then at some point, sex would come up. With us, it always did. Find the right moment, find the right spin and ask.
I glanced at the charts, then closed my eyes. Kinesiology went a million different directions, and everything — fucking everything — was connected. From my perspective, that included sports psychology and biomechanics. You know what else leaned on those?
Orgasms.
I was thinking back to the shared orgasm in the shower this afternoon. Guys, despite what all your porn may tell you, the throat was not a sex organ. There were no specialized ganglion that connected the throat to physiological pleasure centers. Yet she came.
Then there were all the orgasms at the beach. How about the “dirty talk” orgasm that really got it rolling in the Starbuck’s parking garage? She actually referenced that one. Not just dirty talk, but dirty talk when she was giving head in a public place.
I didn’t have numbers off the top of my head, I guess I could chart it if I trusted memory, but… some substantial part of those were her peaking over something I’d said. This wasn’t friction or penetration, this was imagination.
She was plenty sensual, but if her head was in the game, she was getting off on situation. Or potential scenarios.
I drummed my fingers on the desk.
She was a complex creature. Compassionate, but sexually volatile. Fuck. I was out of my element wading through psychology, but I wanted to understand her.
Honestly, I loved every single thing about her, but I red-flagged a lot of what got her off. Anybody else would call it fantasy, she called it Tuesday… like with her Department Manager. Holy shit! Quid Pro Quo was a teeny-tiny fraction of discrimination cases but it was the high-profile part that everybody talked about. And it was exactly what was happening there.
Except… was there actually a “victim” in this case? My knee-jerk reaction was to say “obviously,” but a defense lawyer would know it was more complicated than that. Did she actually suck at being an accountant? Did it matter? Yeah, kinda.
Now, what was I doing? Right now? This instant?
Trying to understand her? Trying to protect her?
Fuck.
Love?
We’d thrown the word around casually. She “loved” giving head. I “loved” her kinky side.
I closed my eyes.
Could I give up being a bachelor? Yes.
No, I answered that way too quickly.
Could I give up variety?
I could dial it back. If we’re swinging…? Way more than enough.
So, “love.” Yeah.
A four-letter word.
I don’t believe in “unconditional love” — giving or receiving. I’ve seen too many abusive relationships to buy into that fantasy. I wasn’t here to change her, I wanted to accept her for who she was and join in for the ride…
Yet Chipmunk Cheeks was playing with fucking fire. Not even counting me in there, she was literally repeating the same burn-heal-repeat cycle over and over.
I wasn’t going to stop her oral habits, just watching her gave me an adrenaline rush… but I needed to understand it. I needed to be able to guide us a little so we didn’t get burned: her, me, or us together.
#
An hour later and it was all I could do to not shoot a tumbler of tequila.
I needed sleep.
I was leaning toward bed when my phone chimed. It was her. All she sent was little heart emoji. I gave it a minute, trying to think of just the right response, and a million things just weren’t right. Not enough, too much, too this, too that.
Way too much brain power into all this.
I tapped back a heart on her heart and set my phone down.
Something else occurred to me: something else I should do. Something else, for better or worse.
I flipped up my laptop and fired up Facebook. I’m not much for that service, and I was trained against posting when we were operating in the sandbox, but out in the civilian world? If you weren’t on, you didn’t exist. At least not if you needed traffic.
With a couple clicks, I wandered over over to Lizzy’s profile. There she was, in all her… what did she have? Was it glory?
I looked at her with objective eyes. As objective as I could be.
She was pretty. An actual toothy smile. A warm smile. The chipmunk cheeks, obviously. Brown hair, brown eyes. A luscious lower lip that just screamed she sucked cock. Killer-tight athletic bod. Small boobs.
…Maybe a little too small for my tastes, but she loved showing them off. I loved watching her when she did. Until Lizzie, I had no idea I was a “voyeur.”
Looked like I was having an effect on her, too: she’d changed her profile pic to a shot I’d taken of her. Nice. On the beach. Yesterday, maybe?
There was some little demon deep inside that kept chanting “plain.” Plain but pretty. Okay, fine, she didn’t fit the usual mould but could I live with that?
“Yes.”
Her profile pic really caught the “pretty.” The right angle, the dusk-dark blue sky behind. A hint of the dunes. Actually out in the world, doing something that made her smile. Authentic. The camera loved her there. Photographer’s bias.
I clicked “Send Friend Request” before I even knew what my fingers were doing.
A few clicks more and I was in my own profile information. The cursor hovered over “relationship status” for a long while.
“Plain” was looping in my head, but it wasn’t actually true. She was anything but plain. What was she? She was interested in some dick who built his brand on “self-improvement.” Some dick who was afraid to stop because there might be “hotter” just around the corner. One more rep… one more girl.
“I am… an asshole.”
I heard the click.
Didn’t even feel myself do it.
I looked at the status boxes. There it was. According to Facebook, therefore according to the world… I was “In a Relationship.”
I expected some part of me to be sounding the alarm. I figured the same little voice that kept chanting “plain” would take over finger control and click me back to “single.”
Funny, now that I thought about it. I didn’t think “slut” or “cheater.” I thought “plain.”
Have to think some more about that one.
Took one last look at the relationship status and smiled.
I closed the lid on the laptop and walked away.
I’d think about “that one” tomorrow.
#
Sunrise:
Holy fuck, my phone blew up.
Calls, texts, PMs, DMs. Army buddies, college friends, family… holy shit, family.
Was I getting married? How pregnant was she? Oh, yeah: what’s her name? What does she look like? Why haven’t you posted any pictures?
Pictures, I chuckled…
#
It was almost 10am before I had a second to walk away and check Facebook.
She’d accepted my friend request.
Status: she was in a relationship…
Ha. Our three-month timer was on.
#
I snuck away from my client as they caught their breath. Whipped out my phone and typed out a text: “Late ask, but want to meet for lunch?”
Thirty seconds later: “Where/when?”
“Someplace quick. Jamba okay again?”
“Can you do 12:30?”
I usually kept the lunch hour open, but I checked my schedule just to be sure. “See you then.”
#
She flashed that big, toothy smile. Very German, like an Oktoberfest Girl. “So, H–”
I kissed her. Straight off, deep, touch of tongue.
She practically melted.
I paused for just a second and took a deep inhale around her, then finished that kiss.
When we finally came up for air, she giggled a little. “So, got your friend request. It looks like you’re in a relationship! Who’s the lucky girl…?”
“That’s actually why I wanted to meet. My phone has been blowing up.”
“Your latest relationship?” she asked.
“Latest? I never actually change my status. Never. My mom assumed I was going to die a bachelor, so when you popped up…”