What can I say about myself that can’t be immediately known with a passing glance? A lot, actually. But the average girl is not concerned with a personality. She doesn’t want to hear your personal reflections on the subtleties of life and the nature of the universe. This girl though, this girl that I have longed for, desired so deeply for so long, she is not average. Not even close.
My problem? She’s interested in me, but in the wrong way. See, I used to want sex, sex, and more sex, forgoing relationships, staying single to maximize my late-night activities. Yet, no substance can be found in that lifestyle, no lingering satisfaction. It took me a long time to realize that truth. I need emotional fulfillment, real, tangible love, and only this girl stands to provide it. But she is what I used to want; all about the physical, a shallow girl living a shallow life, and even though I hate myself for loving her, I can’t help but continue to do so. Her name is Megan, and this story is about her.
I first saw Megan as she was easing herself out of a pool, and I would not soon forget this graceful creature who smiled as she strode forward, dripping hair wrapped around a delicate shoulder, green eyes staring into mine as we shook hands.
The local pool was part of my summer routine, and I was there with a few friends. I had barely walked out onto the patio, eyes adjusting to a momentary blindness from the blazing sun reflecting off the white concrete, when I heard a squeal of delight and wet arms circling my chest.
It was the younger sister of a girl I knew from school. I’d met her a few years earlier and nothing in my memory said we were the kind of friends who hugged as a greeting. Annoyed, I listened to her mundane chittering about the events of her summer. My friends snorted and walked past; my acquaintance, still at an uncomfortable proximity, remained oblivious. I muttered a bland response when asked about my summer, intent on ending the conversation through awkwardness. I half-listened for another minute, my face showing no hint of my building irritation, as her squawking reached a crescendo. I was watching one of my friends make some very obscene and very conspicuous gestures at two lovely women at the far end of the pool, beckoning me to join him, when I suddenly heard, “Oh, how rude of me! I totally forgot I’m here with my friends!” My eyes focused back on the girl in front of me, and then down the length of her arm towards the point of her index finger: two girls, and a sullen-looking boy, their heads floating above the water just a few feet away.
That was when Megan got out of the water and we first met. Now, I’m not a hopeless romantic. I don’t believe in love at first sight, soul mates, or true love. But for just a moment, I held my breath when I saw Megan. She was a little taller than most girls, her hair was long, stained black from the water (I assumed it would be dark brown when dry), and her skin was lightly tanned, a slight bronze color. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes set a perfect distance apart and rimmed with elegant lashes; I had never met a girl who could be accurately described as possessing utterly captivating beauty. She smiled, white teeth revealed, and I let my eyes flow down her face and take in her body for a brief second before she was suddenly in front of me, her eyes alight as she made it a point to stare me up and down while extending her hand and saying, “Hi. I’m Megan.”
Fast forward. It’s the evening and I’m at Tuesday’s. Not the restaurant, a house. Every Tuesday during the summer my friends would all converge at an empty house to drink and have fun, and drink more. Someone decided the event would be called Tuesday’s, and despite the staggering lack of creativity, the name stuck. Sometimes, Tuesday’s would be packed; other times, it would only be my close friends and I sharing drinks and watching dismally low-quality kung-fu films. That night it was packed nearly to the point of discomfort. I had invited Megan to join me, but not directly. I had to carefully breach the subject of evening plans with Chitterer to avoid any misinterpretation of my intent, deliberate or otherwise.
She took a step forward, placed her hands on her hips, gave me a knowing smile and asked, “Why do you want to know?” Check, I thought. After I casually mentioned I was headed to a party, she squealed for the second time and invited herself and her friends. Checkmate.
No surprise, Chitterer strides in the front door, sullen-looking boy and Megan in tow. Chitterer began an explanation of why the other girl was missing before I turned and gestured towards the kitchen and waiting alcohol, asking her to fix me a drink. She complies with an overly eager nod and disappears into the mass of people, hopefully to get lost along the way back.
I turn around from facing the kitchen to get a good look at Megan. She’s wearing heels and a black skirt. Her breasts are fully covered – which desperately etiler escort makes me want to see them – under a stylish, sexy red button-up. There’s a thin, white belt at a slight angle circling her narrow waist. Her hair – dark brown, as I guessed earlier – is partially covering one eye; the rest is drawn back behind her head in an elaborate ponytail. My eyes run down the smooth lines of her legs, and then back up to her face. She doesn’t need to wear makeup, she’s already exquisite.
She is perfection incarnate.
“Megan,” I said with a careful, controlled smile. It’s best to remain cool and aloof. Drives the girls crazy. “Thirsty?”
Megan returns the smile and nods. I tell her that there’s better alcohol in the basement. I say, “It’s for the exclusive use of my friends. And people we, from time to time, share it with.”
Megan looks in Chitterer’s direction, but before she says anything I show my open palm. Megan says nothing, places her hand in mine, and we walk around a few people before heading down the steps into the basement. I turn around for a moment when I hear my name; I see Chitterer holding two shots, standing next to the now hopeful -looking boy, but then I’m walking down stairs and I’m in the basement.
Fast forward. I’ve had a few drinks and so has Megan. We’re talking on a couch, and even though there are a few people around us, they were all quite physically engaged with one another, so we were effectively alone. That was when the trouble began.
We had been talking for maybe two hours, covering topics I was actually interested in, and not only did she have a unique perspective on everything, her opinions were well-formed and solid. She was easily the only girl I’d ever given my sincere attention during a conversation. Beautiful with excellent conversational skills? Come on. This isn’t happening. Personal experience throughout high school and college had taught me that there was a proven inverse ratio between a girl’s looks and her intelligence – if one goes up, the other goes down. What had initially begun as my plan to seduce this Aphrodite of the pool was becoming – to my despair – something less like a plan and a hell of a lot more like textbook infatuation, that killer of one night stands, the destroyer of casual sex.
The rule is that the less interest you show in a girl, the hornier she gets for you. It doesn’t make sense at all, not when considered logically. Since when are girls logical? Basically, you treat her like dirt, like trash, and even though she’ll tell all her friends what a shitty guy you are, even though she’ll complain to every other guy she knows, probably crying while doing so, she will do everything within reason to prove to you that she’s not dirt, that she’s not trash, whether it’s through sex, gifts, well, no, mostly just sex.
That being said, the Cardinal Rule, the Golden Rule, the only rule of the Game, is to never, ever, show interest. Act casual. Detached. Feign everything and feel nothing. If you want to get laid, anyway. So here I am, breaking the one rule that matters. Fuck.
This is bad, I thought. If I’m not careful I’ll wander right into the friend zone… If I haven’t already. But maybe that wasn’t so bad. Megan certainly seemed, well, different. I know, I know, everyone says those words when they’re defending that certain someone. “He’s different,” she says. “She’s different,” he says. “Not like the previous ones,” they say.
I didn’t know alcohol caused your balls to shrivel and your sac to fall off. This is absurd. Am I really having an argument with myself?
Suddenly Megan’s hand is gripping my thigh. I turn to look her. I didn’t realize that she had gotten right next to me. I forgot that when you drink you magically tend to move close to other people, among other things.
She’s looking into my eyes. “Are you alright? You looked troubled for a moment.”
“Sorry, just had a few random thoughts.”
She giggles. “Don’t tell me I’m distracting you.” She hasn’t taken her hand from my leg. Is she closer than she was?
I inhale. Was I holding my breath? Something smells strange. Nothing remotely like alcohol. Smells like… lilac? Her perfume, probably. It’s sweet. Intoxicating. My leg begins to tremble. I think I’m starting to sweat.
Oh my god.
I’m nervous. I am actually nervous. This can’t be happening. I’m suave, I’m smooth. You need a dictionary for words like debonair and amiable and urbane to adequately describe me.
Since when did you become such a bitch? Check your pants, your balls are probably lodged in your shoes.
I know what Megan wants. It’s what she has wanted since she showed up at the party. Probably before then, actually. Maybe right when she got out of the water and first laid eyes on me.
Sex!
“Megan, you are really something special,” I say.
Sex!
“That’s what every eve gelen escort guy tells me,” she says. Megan’s hand feels like it’s higher up my thigh. A lot higher. Looks like she has inched forward; she’s pretty much in my lap. I feel a hand touch my shoulder, and slowly, sensually, she walks her fingers down my chest and past my navel, right to the waist of my shorts.
Sex!
“Kiss me,” says Megan. “Kiss me now.”
Her face is in front of mine, and her arms are draped across my shoulders, one hand running fingers through my hair, another hand caressing my neck. I’m being straddled; her knees are rubbing against both sides of my hips. The heels must be on the floor because I can feel toes individually flexing on my skin.
I feel a wet sensation at the base of my neck. It moves up, and up, and up. She’s kissing my neck while doing serious work with her hands.
“This… This is…” I pause, inhaling deeply. My eyes are closed. “Extraordinary.”
I can remember my dick being this hard only once before, and that was back when I was a kid just hitting puberty and I got a serious eyeful of my best friend’s mom while leaving the shower.
Megan is an artist and she can tell I like her work. There’s a new sensation of pressure on my crotch as she slowly begins to grind on my erection. I look down to see the front of her skirt rolled up against my chest. I wonder if her panties are also black. I start to wonder a lot of things.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” Her voice is husky, a little deeper than before and much quieter. My ear feels like it is being tickled, and then it’s wet. She’s licking my ear. Her breasts are pressing into my chest. I can feel nipples. She’s not wearing a bra. Probably not wearing panties, either.
“Don’t you want me?” The slow maneuvering of her sex against mine is forming all sorts of fantastic ideas in my brain and my eyes can already imagine, no, they’re already seeing what she looks like naked. Her pussy is likely just leaking all against my shorts and I could care less, this feels amazing and I’m still wearing my god damn clothes.
More kisses on both sides of my neck. Kisses on my chin, kisses around my lips, tongue running up and down the lobe of my ear. Fingers running eagerly through my hair, curling it and pulling it and twisting it.
Megan leans back, putting more pressure on my erection, bobbing up and then down ever so slightly. Her hands release my hair and suddenly she’s reaching for her buttons, undoing one, and then another, and then another while continuing to move up and down against my crotch.
Weren’t people down here with us? Actually, I really don’t give a fuck.
She’s reached the buttons that matter, the ones that are concealing her breasts. I’m pretty sure she’s moving in slow motion. That or my brain is suffering from sensory overload.
One button is undone. I close my eyes. Another button is undone. I open them to see the tops of her breasts exposed. Another button. I look at her face. She’s biting her lip. She loves this. More of her breasts are visible. This is it, the final button. It’s undone, and there they are, two tiny, firm nipples centered in the middle of perfect tits. They look just slightly larger than my hands. That makes them tens.
This moment right now, this is the definition of surreal. I am so fucking turned on. Think formula one, hundred million dollar racecar at the starting line, engine screaming as the driver exerts just a little force on the gas, eyes focused on the light, waiting for green to be illuminated, his fingers gripping the wheel so hard they feel like they are about to break.
I’m suspended in this surreal moment and it’s something akin to flight. Being free from all things that drag you down, soaring into the open sky as you please. This is me, a bird, wings open as I fly across the world. I lean forward to kiss Megan, to give her what she wants. To give her what I want.
And just like that, I realize the truth. I really do like her. I really like Megan. It sounds crazy, it is crazy, to be deeply attracted to a girl I barely know after a few hours of conversation and a chance encounter at a swimming pool.
But it’s the truth. It’s real. I know it is. I can’t have sex with her. Not like this. My arms drop to my sides. I lean back against the couch.
Megan stiffens, her arms instinctively moving across her uncovered breasts. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.
Fast forward.
That night in the basement with Megan was more than two years ago. I ended up gently moving her off of me – probably the hardest thing I have ever done, removing a half-naked, gorgeous and horny girl from my person – and heading into the bathroom. I splashed water onto my face, gripped both sides of the sink and stared at myself for a long time.
When I came out, Megan was gone. On the couch where we had sat was fatih escort a torn piece of paper. Fine cursive spelled out a phone number and a simple message: Call me. M.
I did call Megan, but not for a while. We ended up becoming friends, forever stuck in a phase of extreme sexual tension and frustration. I could always tell Megan wanted more from me; her subtle hints and innuendos whenever we talked, her slight exaggerations of movement – a touch when it wasn’t needed, a brush of skin on skin, sometimes she would press against my back and I could feel her breasts, feel her breathing — whenever we were together. But I wanted more from Megan, and I knew that in her heart she knew it too.
We were alone quite often. The opportunities to take advantage of Megan’s explicit offers were endless. Yes, I could have just ripped off her clothes and howled, screamed and screamed as I released all of my pent-up fury, let all of my anger at my situation out in the form of vicious thrusts. I could have penetrated her until I passed out, I could have lived forever in those few short moments of ecstasy.
But then would come that awkward time when I’d wake up after sex and look at her and look at myself and hate what I had done. Have you ever had a one night stand? That moment in the morning when one or both of you wakes up, that moment can stretch on for infinity, both of you staring off into a random corner of the room, words not coming out because honestly there is nothing to say that wasn’t already bellowed into the night in the form of primal grunts and moans.
I didn’t want to have that moment with Megan. I wanted more of Megan than just her body. I wanted her heart. I wanted her heart to belong to me and only me, and no one else. She was smart, she was clever, she was beautiful. She had to be mine.
Every time she told me about the fun she’d had at a bar or a club or a movie or a date, I knew she was trying to make me imagine myself being there with her instead of the random guy who really had been. Yea, I’d imagine that. Then I imagined her getting naked with that random guy, her form in the dark, sliding up and down on this guy I’d never meet, this guy I already hated. Fuck him.
I knew Megan wanted me. Everyone did. My friends told me I was stupid, I was gay, I clearly had no dick. “Just fuck her,” they said. Her friends said that all she ever talked about was me. That she had pictures of me everywhere and that she hid them whenever I went to her house. That her diary was covered with pages and pages over her name and mine surrounded with hearts.
It made no sense to me. If Megan liked me, if she really wanted to be serious with me, why did she live this shallow life? She could be very graphic when it came to describing things we could do together, things we could share together. Yet she couldn’t be just as explicit about her real, her true feelings?
Understand that I was no mute. I told her exactly how I felt. Quite a few times, actually. That I couldn’t sleep with her unless it meant something. And when she heard those words, Megan would just sigh and look away. She’d stare off into space and remain silent until I’d finally speak up and the conversation would go elsewhere, away from these painful topics of the heart.
It was a god damn circle. An endless, repeating cycle. A system of rules, a game we played. I hated it. I hated it so fucking much. All Megan had to do was commit to me. Commit, commit, commit.
There we were. At my apartment, on my couch, watching a movie. Megan was close to me, but she was always close to me, her head nuzzled against my shoulder. She starts to tap on my leg with her fingers, getting bolder as time wears on, letting her fingers drum up and down my leg, always getting closer to my crotch. She’d get right up to the top of my inner thigh, head still against my shoulder, her breathing a little faster – probably because she got aroused from teasing me – as she did a little dance with her fingertips against my jeans.
I could feel it, an erection starting to build. Of course, Megan can feel it too. This is the part where she gets excited and goes from being bold to being a fucking daredevil. I feel an open palm slide down the front of my jeans and I’m over the edge. I hate her for playing this game, for doing this to me when she knows exactly how it will end.
“Megan,” I say.
Megan says nothing.
“Stop. I can’t do this.”
Megan whispers into my ear. “Just this once? Please? For me. Do it for me,” says her seductive voice, the voice she uses when she wants something.
“I don’t want it to be this once. That’s all it will be, just a one-time thing.”
I turn to look her in the eyes. “It’s not what I want.”
Her open hand closes around my erection. “That’s not what your body is telling me,” she says.
I hate her.
So I get mad, I yell without raising my voice. I lay down the law. But she’s a criminal, the worst kind. It will days, if even that, before she breaks the law and we have another fight.
She sighs, like she always does, and looks away, staring at nothing while contemplating whatever she contemplates when these moments between us occur.
And there I am, my cock stiffer than steel, frustration ever-growing and my heart ever upset.