Dirty Sex

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Dirty Sex

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By the Author

Sex and Skateboards

Dirty Sex

Dirty Sex

by

Ashley Bartlett

2012

dirty sex

© 2012 By Ashley BArtlett. All rights reserved.

isBN 13: 978-1-60282-818-6

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: dEcEmBEr 2012

This is a Work oF FicTion. namEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s imaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEmBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishmEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, may noT BE rEProducEd in any

Form WiThouT PErmission.

Credits

EdiTor: cindy crEsaP

ProducTion dEsiGn: susan ramundo

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri ([email protected])

Acknowledgments

So many queer novels today speak of youth in terms of trauma.

The trauma of coming out. The trauma of unsupportive families. The

trauma of being alone. I won’t say I haven’t experienced heartbreak, but

I was raised with the luxury of having parents who loved me no matter

what I did or who I was. I never came out to my father; he informed

me I was gay. My mother’s only concern was that she couldn’t hold my

hand and protect me from those who might not accept me. And the blue

hair; she was also concerned about the blue hair.

These books, the Dirties, are cathartic for me. Not to exorcise

familial trauma, but as a response to a world that took a brief look at

me and wrote me off as queer in so many senses of the word. The story

is also a celebration of those who didn’t write me off.

To everyone who ignored my loud façade, thank you. To my

stepmom who made sure I got into Prom in my suit and tie, thank you.

To Mom for buying me the suit and to Dad for teaching me to tie the tie,

thank you. To Mare, Jack, Jessica, Jonalyn, and Jean, who have never

questioned my place in their lives, thank you.

And to all those who made this book so much better than it was.

Metal Dave, your knowledge about guns and drugs makes me question

your morality, but in a good way. Thanks for answering my texts, even

at two in the morning. Bruce, for showing me your insane collection.

And for not making me actually touch any of the guns. My “brothers”

for teaching me slang I didn’t know existed. Your dedication to smoking

weed has clearly paid off.

Everyone at BSB, you guys are all fucking rock stars. Really, all

of you. Rad, for signing my books. My bestie, Carsen, without whom

these novels might still be sitting quietly on my hard drive. Cindy, for

explaining all the stuff I ignored in school. And for making editing

painless.

And to the readers. I can’t quite believe that you exist, but you do.

And that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

All of you, thank you.

For Meg.

If I’m ever an ass like Cooper,

you can totally be a bitch like Reese.

Dirty Sex

Girls. Booze. Girls. Fighting. Girls. In that order. Because

girls are the beginning, middle, and end. They are everything

that is terrible and sexy and perfect with the world, but you still need

the other two. You need the booze to handle the girls and all that

psychological bullshit. You need the fighting ’cause sometimes you

just want to hit someone. I’m not talking martial arts. That shit is cool,

but I never had that dedication. Same with boxing; too many rules. No

matter what, though, you need to have honor, and I thought I had some.

That was why I went to the pub. My almost, but not quite, ’cause

I slept with other girls too many times girlfriend had dumped my ass.

I deserved it. I also deserved a drink, or six. So Ryan dragged me to

Streets of London and lined up shots on the bar. We raced. That was

how we did it. Loser bought. He always lost. I let the warmth wash over

me, through me. My throat, stomach, hands, eyes burned with each

sharp crack of the glasses on the bar. We fell to our pattern of playing

darts until it was dangerous for bystanders, drinking more when we

started to sober up.

When it got late, we stumbled out to the parking lot. We weren’t

driving. That would’ve just been stupid. So we waited for our ride

while staring at the dark buildings across the parking lot and trying to

stay upright. These guys from inside followed us out. All night they’d

stared at us, the type that’s too pathetic to say something when they got

a problem. They looked young, just out of high school, and looking for

a way to prove themselves.

• 13 •

AShley BArtlett

“Dyke,” was the first word they could manage. Ryan and I laughed.

I could take it. People had called me that before, and I wasn’t going to

get all worked up over some kid talking shit.

“Good one,” Ryan managed to giggle. Neither of us was exactly

eloquent when we drank.

“Shut the fuck up, pussy,” the shorter one spat at him. He was kind

of stocky, like a wrestler.

“Yeah, fuckin’ fag,” the taller one contributed. Ryan wasn’t a fag,

though, and he certainly wasn’t a pussy.

“You guys should try for some originality.” Damn, that was hard

to say when I was plastered. Seriously, though, we were in El Dorado

Hills, a breeding ground for Republicans in California. Ryan and I were

EDH born and raised. We were used to botched gay slurs. He was too

pretty to be a boy, and if you couldn’t tell I was gay by looking at me

then you were blind. EDH wasn’t a fan of pretty boys and handsome

girls. Last time George W. had been in California for a fundraiser, he

did it at our fuckin’ country club. That’s the best way to explain El

Dorado Hills. So dyke or pussy or fag wasn’t going to get our heart

rates going. We’d heard it all before.

“Yeah, originality,” echoed Ryan. “Hey.” He turned to me. “Where

the fuck is Austin?” I’d been the one to call our ride.

“Fuck if I know.” We were dismissing the idiots. If they didn’t

catch on, it was their issue.

Two hands planted on my back and shoved me forward. “You got

a problem, bitch?” It was the wrestler.

I was fine with leaving them to their ignorance, but no one, and I

mean fuckin’ no one, touched me. Slowly, I turned around. Ryan tugged

at my shirt, telling me to leave it alone. Shorty was up in my face,

looking pissy.

“Kiddo, you can walk away. If you don’t, I’m gonna drop you like

a bad habit.” Ryan stopped pulling on my shirt. He knew what followed

that line.

The kid just laughed. So I placed two hands on his chest and

shoved him back a couple steps. When he came at me again, I punched

him in the face. That totally pissed him off. He lunged at me and we

ended up on the asphalt. That’s no good. If someone’s a wrestler, don’t

let him get you on the ground. I was only down for a couple seconds

• 14 •

Dirty Sex

though before I felt hands, four of them, grab and pull me up. The tall

kid was holding his buddy back. I struggled a bit before I realized it

was Austin and Ryan holding me. They didn’t let go when I stopped

resisting. Instead, they dragged me and tossed me in the backseat of

Austin’s car.

“Watch your back, little boy,” I screamed before Austin shut the

door. From the confines of the backseat, I watched Ryan stumble around

the car to climb in the passenger seat. Austin got behind the wheel and

peeled out of the parking lot.

“Honey, I’ve dragged your ass away from more fights than I

can count on two hands,” Austin said in his singsong voice. “And,

sweetness”—he looked at me in the mirror—“one day I won’t be there

to save you.”

“My hero,” I managed as I dragged myself upright and found my

seat belt.

“What did those guys do?” Austin turned to Ryan.

“They deserved it,” Ryan replied. He always sided with me. “One

of them pushed her.”

“Learn to walk away,” Austin said real slowly to me.

“I’ll work on that.”

“Thanks for picking us up, Aus.” Ryan reclined his seat a bit.

“What time is it anyway?”

“Just after one. You’re lucky you’re hot,” Austin told Ryan. “I

don’t leave my warm bed for just anyone.”

“You know it, girl.” Ryan didn’t say girl normally. Just with

Austin. The alcohol might have contributed too.

“So what’s the occasion?” Austin talked a lot. He didn’t like

silences. “Your girlfriend dump you again?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, that was two weeks ago. This time it

was Cooper’s.”

Austin gave me another look in the mirror. “That hot little butch

number? She finally did it?”

“Yeah. Got a hold of my cell phone.”

He grimaced. “Text messages?”

“Yeah. Never let them get the cell phone,” I half told him and half

told myself.

“You could just stop cheating on them,” he offered sagely. Ryan

started laughing.

• 15 •

AShley BArtlett

“I don’t.” They turned in their seats to gawk at me. “They assume

we’re exclusive. None of them ask me.”

“Yeah. They’re the ones with issues,” Austin said.

“Shut up, Aus,” I said like I almost meant it.

A few minutes later, we stopped at the gate of Serrano, the gated

community they both lived in. The security booth was empty, but the

gate recognized Austin’s car and opened automatically. Austin decided

to take it easy on the wide, curving roads, which was nice because I

really didn’t feel like puking.

Ryan clumsily extracted himself from the front seat when

we stopped in front of his house, a beige monument to suburban

monstrosities. He leaned back into the car. “You coming in, Aus?”

“No. I have work in the morning. I’ll see you at Streets though,

right?” Ryan nodded and started weaving toward the front door. I

followed him until we were upstairs where we collapsed on a couch.

“Are we going back to Streets?”