“A hot one,” Sutton admits.
“And his hot dog has probably been licked so many times he’s on the WHO list of dangerous diseases,” I retort.
Charity waves her hands, the multitude of bangles clanging cheerfully against each other. Charity would never be able to sneak up on anyone. She wears too much jewelry. “Who cares? I can’t stop staring at this Matt guy. He’s always wearing short-sleeved shirts, no matter how cold it is outside, and when he takes notes, his biceps muscle flexes. I swear the room gets ten degrees warmer when he walks in. I’d love to give him a little ride.”
“It’d only be for one night,” I caution.
Charity shrugs. “Again, who cares?”
Sutton disagrees. “Here’s my theory. I think guys do one-night stands because their egos can’t take the blows that a more sober second hookup would deliver. They don’t want to hear they are bad in bed, so they do one-time-only events.”
“What’s our excuse for our lack of regular companionship?” I joke.
None of us has had a decent relationship since we came to college. I broke up with my high school boyfriend a month into my freshman year. Sutton has tried to date guys on and off, but when none of those relationships panned out, she’s settled for random hookups with guys like Luke. Charity was madly in love with one of the Western basketball players, but he graduated in December and hasn’t called her since, thus confirming my anti-athlete bias.
“We’re looking for the unicorn,” Charity says. “The guy who’s a good lay and decent out of bed.”
“I had a good lay once,” Sutton informs us. “Two years ago. Spring Break. Greece.” She fires out details like they’re bullets shooting from a gun. “That guy from the Philippines had a tongue like a snake.”
“That’s a terrible visual.” I shudder.
Sutton is undeterred. “It felt amazing. He licked places I didn’t even know had nerve endings.”
“Two years ago was your last good sexual experience?” Charity asks with genuine concern.
Sutton nods. “With a partner. I can get myself off fine, but that’s about two minutes and then what?”
I nod. She speaks the truth. I miss having sex with a guy I have feelings for. I think that’s why my relationships here at Western have failed. I can’t summon up the requisite…passion for any guy. I keep trying. Keith is the fourth guy I’ve tried with, but the sex is so bland I’m better off masturbating. Alone.
Charity shrugs. “I’ve had good sex with partners. You have to be more vocal and take charge though. Most of these guys think just jabbing you is going to get it done. Not to mention the opposite end of the spectrum, where they think they’re awesome and want to show off their amazing moves.”
“No, the worst is whiskey dick where they keep going and going and you’re willing to do anything for them to either come or get the fuck off,” Sutton interjects.
“Jesus, we’re jaded.” Maybe I should start looking at sex like exercise. Lord knows, with the increased stress in my life from mock trial, my glucose levels are going to be completely out of whack. I’m going to need to do something besides eating right to manage my blood sugars. And gobbling a tubful of frozen yogurt isn’t the way to go about it. I get up and shove the nearly empty container back into the freezer.
“It’s all part of growing up. Welcome to adulthood,” Sutton jokes.
Sadly, though, I think she’s not too far off the mark, which is yet another reason why turning down the gorgeous guy at the Brew House was a good idea regardless of how sultry his lips looked forming my name or how his rough hands scraped against my softer, more tender skin. I have a sinking feeling he’s good in bed. He’s got a way with his body—graceful despite the size—that said he was comfortable in his own skin.
“What’re you thinking about now?” Sutton asks.
I give myself a little shake. I really need to stop dwelling on this guy no matter how blue— Oh, god. I turn back to my roommates.
“Some guy hit on me at the Brew House,” I say slowly as the puzzle pieces click together. Blue eyes. Jet black hair. Muscles so nice they’d get a nun excited.
“Jon Cryer or Charlie Sheen?” Sutton is a film major.
I make a face. “How about neither?”
“Okay, pick your own look-a-like actor.”
“How about, instead of an actor, I pick Western State football player. I didn’t recognize him last night without the eye black and helmet. Plus, he was wearing glasses.”
Sutton hoots. “He Clark Kented you!”
Jingle. Jingle. Charity waves her hand at Sutton to get her to stop laughing. “Seriously, Matt Iverson hit on you last night? What’d you say? Are you going out with him?”
Sutton jumps in. “I know exactly what she said. He’s not my type.” She turns to me. “Am I right?”
I shrug. “So I have a type. Sue me. I don’t think liking a certain flavor of unsweetened yogurt is a bad thing.”
“Sure, if you’re eating yogurt,” Charity cries in dismay. “But this is prime, Grade A manflesh.”
“We need to hold an intervention.” Sutton sighs. “What was the excuse you gave?”
I make a face at Sutton who, in turn, sticks out her tongue at me. Fine, I did give him an excuse. “I was working on my mock trial stuff. Plus, he seems like he’d take a lot of effort. Doesn’t matter now. Ace and I have the pact. No football players for me.”