Avoiding Amy Jackson (25 page)

The rage and possessiveness I felt towards seeing slutty Kendall standing at his doorstep weren’t normal feelings to have for a man you deem nothing more than a friend. The way he looked at me when we were dancing in his apartment—that didn’t feel very platonic. That felt intense and passionate and undeniably, overwhelmingly hot. The way he felt tonight at the gym when his chest was pressed into my back—that didn’t feel very friendly. The warmth of his hard, muscular chest. The feel of his skin touching mine. His breath on my ear. His hand gripping my waist. The way he caused shivers to stir up from my toes. This…
This right here
—all of these thoughts that are taking place right now are making me feel slightly panicked.

Okay,
really panicked
.

My snarky subconscious is telling me things I honestly don’t want to admit.

I roughly throw my gym shoes into my duffle bag in irritation. I’m about five seconds away from having a full-on temper tantrum. Why am I so upset? I’m mad at myself, I’m mad at James, and more importantly, I’m mad that I didn’t get to feel his lips on mine when he was looking down at me with a palpable intensity…

What?

I grab my duffle bag and stomp through the locker room, passing Lizzy and Ellen.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Ellen shouts towards me.

“Out! I’ve got some hooking up to catch up on!” I holler back to her and continue out of the gym until I reach my car, where I continuously slam my palms down on my steering wheel until I’m pretty sure I’ve bruised my hands. This entire situation is a mind-fuck, and my only solution is to forgo my original plan to stop having one-night stands and bring my ‘find the biggest cock and obtain the most orgasms’ plan back out of retirement.

Looks like the greedy cunt is back.

Chapter Nineteen

“My vaginal secretions are a great facial toner.” - Amy

“Amy!” Johnny shouts from behind the bar. “Where in the hell have you been, babe?”

I hop onto a barstool and signal for him to get my usual.

He pops the top of the bottle of beer and slides it my way. “Seriously, where have you been these days? I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly and take a swig of brew. Johnny’s right. It’s been months since I’ve stepped foot in Murphy’s Pub, my old stopping ground. I used to frequent this bar nearly every Saturday, and honestly, the last time I was in here had to be over five months ago. The famous night I hooked up with two twenty-somethings in the bathroom.

That sounds really pathetic.

It does. Just thinking about that night makes me cringe, and that really isn’t a normal reaction for me. Over a year ago, I would have been proud of that hook-up, but now, I’m most definitely not. I used to be the girl who didn’t care what people thought and took pride in the fact that I enjoyed to party. But currently, I’m kind of disappointed in myself. I’m nearing thirty and my snarky subconscious is telling me it’s time I grow the fuck up. Hooking up at bars with random guys is something you do in college. This is not something you should be doing when you’re almost thirty years old and most of your friends are either married, pregnant, or both. Things were so much easier when Ellen was single like me. She was my wing-woman. My drinking partner-in-crime. I enjoyed the days when we’d party all weekend.

But do you honestly still want those days?

No. I really don’t think I do.

My favorite wing-woman is now pregnant
and
engaged. Her exciting plans for a Saturday night include watching movies with Trent and maybe a causal dinner out with friends. I used to make fun of people like that, always thinking that they were boring and lame. I am actually finding myself a little jealous of what Ellen has. It would be nice to have a constant man in my life, someone I could come home to. Someone who will always be there for me, no matter what.

James is always there for me.
He seems to be a recurrent thought in my head these days. Thoughts of him are always lurking around in my brain, ready to pounce on me the moment I start reevaluating my life.

Life was much simpler when I wasn’t contemplating wanting more. Contemplating the idea of wanting to find someone to spend the rest of my life. Considering the idea of possibly wanting a family of my own. God, when did I get so philosophical and deep? I wish I could turn off my brain for a few hours and just be the Amy I used to know. That Amy didn’t give a shit about most things. Her top priority always included having a good time, especially if that good time included a hot guy I could take for a ride. The same Amy that was convinced she could never let anyone close to her for fear of hurting them. But I’ve started to let James close to me, and so far, things have been great. He’s great. No,
he’s fucking perfect
. He’s one of my best friends and I’m more than thankful that he’s in my life.

I don’t even why I’m here tonight.

Yes, you do.

Okay, I do know why I’m here. I came here because I thought I’d bring the old Amy out of retirement. I’d spend a few hours dancing with a random stranger and possibly bring him back to my place to spend a few more hours rolling around in my sheets.

I watch Johnny serve a few beers to three guys at the end of the bar. They’re good-looking, probably close to my age. They’re dressed in suits and chatting about the baseball game that’s on TV. One of the guys glances in my direction and grins slightly. He appraises me with interested eyes and seems to like what he sees.

I used to get a thrill out of this.

What girl doesn’t like when a guy checks her out and appreciates what he sees?

I used to love the chase. Finding my conquest for the night and using my best assets to own their asses. Yeah, that was always the best part. I feel like I don’t even know myself anymore. Who in the hell am I? Why do I find myself wanting and thinking and feeling things I’ve never allowed myself to even consider? What’s caused this life reevaluation and examination of all of the things I’m feeling like I want, like I need?

Oh my god! It’s like I have Dr. Phil or Oprah in my head. Or some weird hybrid combination of the two of them.
Dr. Phil-prah.
I have Dr. Phil-prah in my head and the she-man won’t leave me the fuck alone!

Sweet Jesus, I need more alcohol.

“Johnny!” I yell down to him. “I need some tequila shooters ASAP!”

“Oh I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He grabs the bottle of Patron and pours the delicious liquid in shot glasses. He slides three my way and I down each one in record time. I decide that I’ll just drown out Dr. Phil-prah by filling my body with copious amounts of alcohol.

Hey, I never said my coping mechanism were healthy.

****

Six shots of tequila and several dances with random strangers later, I find myself back in my apartment with the suit guy’s face between my legs. His name is Moby.

Wait, that’s not right.

Maybe, it’s Coby? Cody?
Ah, fuck it.
Does it really matter at this point?

I can at least remember that he’s an investment broker and thirty-fourteen years old.

Thirty-fourteen?
I think that’s a number.

You know what’s a weird word?
Number
. Do you ever think about a word so much that it doesn’t even seem like a real word anymore?

How do you spell number?
N-U-M-B-E-R.

I think I’m giving myself a field sobriety test while Moby is going down on me.

By the way, Moby is eating my pussy like he’s in a watermelon-eating contest. This is the messiest, sloppiest oral sex I’ve ever received and I think my snatch has lost all feeling.

Can your vagina go numb?

What if my vagina has fallen asleep? Think about when your foot loses all sensation after sitting on it weird for a prolonged amount of time. You know that feeling you get when all the blood rushes back? That extreme tingly sensation that makes you feel like crawling out of your own skin because it’s too intense… I bet that’d be the best orgasm
ever
.

Note to self: After Moby finishes eating your pussy, try to make your vagina fall asleep.

Moby gazes up at me; my arousal is all over his face.

Jesus, does he have my juices on his forehead, too?

He’s diving into my snatch like a deep-sea diver looking for buried treasure. The man needs goggles. I feel like screaming, “Someone get this man some goggles! He’s got an oyster to find!”

Moby looks up at me again; his face glistens and instantly reminds me of Edward the sparkly vampire from Twilight. “Did you just scream oyster?” he asks, incredulous.

“
Uh
…yes! Keep going! Eat my little oyster. Find my pearl.”

Did I just say find my pearl?
Eh, I’m too drunk to care at this point.

“Mmmmm your little oyster tastes so good,” he moans against my snatch.

God, why did I have to say oyster?

Now, he’s calling my pussy a little oyster and it’s honestly only making me hungry for clam chowder. I continue to watch Moby deep-sea dive into my vagina. He keeps rubbing his nose against my clit like a weirdo. Who taught this guy how to eat pussy? This is the worst oral sex I’ve ever experienced in my life, and if I weren’t so drunk, I’d probably be really pissed.

I’ve got Edward from Twilight’s glistening face between my legs.

I never knew my vaginal secretions were so shiny!

Did Edward go down on Bella when she was still human? That seems like a dangerous game. What if he tried to earn his red wings?
Eek!
Vampires earning red wings… Now that’s a scary thought. Speaking of vampires…

“Do you like that, Amy? Tell me you like my tongue on your little oyster,” Moby lifts his face and whispers in my direction.

“Uh huh… Keep going. Right there,” I encourage as I push his head back down.

What was I just thinking about?

Oh yeah, vampires! What is with all of the paranormal erotica these days? I just can’t get into that stuff. Vampires and witches and warlocks and werewolves having sex. It’s kind of weird and creepy. How about tiny dildo-peddling elves with raging boners? Or fairies with proclivities for Ben Wa balls. Now, that’s some paranormal erotica I could possibly get into! I should write a Christmas book about elves with raging, mega-huge boners who have gangbangs in Santa’s toy shop. I start to giggle at the thought of Mrs. Claus getting banged from behind by Thrusty the tiny elf with the twelve-inch penis.

Moby stops his sloppy movements and peers up at me. “Everything okay up there?”

Is everything okay up here?

Not really. I’ve got Moby the investment broker going down on me like a blind man looking for a braille guide to my clit and I’m making up paranormal erotica stories about tiny elves with raging hard-ons thrusting into Santa’s wife. I grab a handful of Moby’s hair and yank his head away from my numb vagina. “You know what, Moby? Everything is not okay. I forgot I have to go feed my cat.”

His mouth drops open. “You forgot to feed your cat? We’re at your apartment… I haven’t even seen a cat.”

“See, that’s the thing, Moby. My cat lives in her own apartment. I forgot to stop by and feed her and well, she’ll be pissed at me if I don’t stop by tonight.”

“My name is Cody.” Moby’s face is nearly expressionless as I crawl off my bed and start putting my pants back on.

Holy saliva!

This guy might as well have dumped a gallon of spit between my legs. I’m going to need a shower before I can even think about putting pants back on.

“Well, Moby. I’m going to hop in the shower, before I head to my cat’s apartment.” I throw a towel towards him and he catches it automatically. “You’ve got a little something.” I point to his forehead and then to his cheeks and then… “Actually you’ve kind of got a lot of something…
everywhere.
” I wave my hand in the general direction of his wet, glistening face.

His jaw nearly drops to the floor as I turn around and head for my bathroom.

Poor Moby.

I wonder if vaginal fluids are a good moisturizer for your skin.. I think his complexion, which is now shining like the sun, actually looks better now after he went deep-sea-muff-diving. What if my special sauce is like the next Botox? Everyone would want a piece of me! I could be famous! Maybelline would be begging me to squirt my juices into their cosmetics. My pink taco would have her own makeup line and facial cleansing products. I might need to look into getting a patent…

Although my night did not go exactly as planned, at least I managed to get a few good laughs at poor Moby’s expense. I would contemplate using my shower time as masturbation time, considering that he didn’t exactly get me off, but my poor girl is still numb. I’m not sure if it’s from all of the tequila or the terrifying oral skills. If I decide to have any more one-night stands, I think I need to have men fill out some sort of questionnaire that highlights their sexual experience.

Amy’s Sexual Experience Questionnaire

1.
     
Have you ever had a woman stop you in the middle of oral sex because she said she needed to feed her cat who lives in another apartment?

2.
     
How big is your cock? Please give exact measurements.

3.
     
Would you be willing to dress up like an elf?

Chapter Twenty

“Everyone has a moment where they nearly

shit their pants at least once in their life.” - Amy

I think I’m finally over my PTSD from the terrible oral sex experience that was Moby and his shimmering face. Yes, PTSD.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
. I still can’t fathom how he succeeded in getting my juices on his forehead. Although, his complexion did look better after he’d basically given himself a facial between my legs.