I chuckle in response, and pull gently on her arms, removing her hands from her mouth.
“It’s okay to say that, Ellie. I’m not judging you for it.”
“Did I tell you yet I’m a total lightweight?” she asks me. Her eyes are already getting a bit of a glaze to them, like she’s tipsy after just those first sips, and I realize my initial impression was right. This is new and unusual territory for her. “I should’ve. I’m a total lightweight.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ve got you tonight. And, we’re under pinky promise. Anything you say to me tonight falls under that oath, too.” I nod at her solemnly.
She thinks about it for a second, decides that makes sense, takes another draw from her straw, and I think it must’ve filled her with liquid courage, because she starts rattling off more than I ever hoped to know.
“Like, it was just soboring, you know? He never wanted to have sex, and when we did, it was like once a week, one position, one time, and I hardly ever even came.” She sucks down another big sip, and I try not to let my face give away my surprise, how much I appreciate her opening up to me, all the gaps and holes she’s filling in that Ellie file in my brain for me.
“He didn’t make sure you got off?” I ask her, not because I didn’t hear what she said, but because I can’t fucking wrap my head around not utilizing every possible chance to give this woman what she needs.
What I’dcraveif she were mine.
The taste of her. The feel of her clenching and shaking around me, any part of me. The satisfaction of having made her whimper, moan and eventually scream for me. Wearing her out until she couldn’t take any more pleasure.
Fuck, I need to get my thoughts under control here. I readjust myself in my pants, as discreetly as possible, and focus on how she looks here and now, not in my mind.
She shakes her head so wide, from shoulder to shoulder, straw still in between her teeth, as she sucks down more of the magic talking beverage.
“Nope,” she says, popping thep. I know she’s only had, like, a half of a drink so far, but I wonder if she shouldn’t slow down. It’s acting likeVeritaserum, a near instant effect, and as much as I want all her honesty, I’m worried she’ll freak the fuck out about this if she remembers everything she’s said tomorrow.
I lay a hand on her arm, gently, drawing her attention away from the drink and onto me.
“You’re nice,” she tells me, eyes falling to my hand on her forearm, then back to my face. Fuck, her eyes are getting bleary. “David wasn’t very nice by the end. He was kind, sure. Polite, yes. But I think our relationship was just ahabit. Just something that made life easier to go through. Not something he did because he had some burning need for me.” She giggles. “The only thing his loins burn for, I think, is numbers.” She laughs harder, her forehead pressed to the table. “Calculator brain!” she shrieks, cracking herself up.
I laugh with her—mostly at how adorable she is like this, her words aren’t making that much sense to me right now—and scoot one of the waters in front of her, which she eyes and then takes. Starts slurping that down instead of the other drink. I think it works pretty quickly, that glaze in her eyes softening just a little. Maybe this will be some sort of Goldilocks situation, we’ll get the balance just right here.
She sighs, pushing the water back. “Do you think I’m crazy for breaking up with him?” Her eyes meet mine, a need in them for understanding, reassurance. “Do you think I’m just having a midlife crisis?” Her voice drops. “That’s what he said.” My pulse hammers at my throat, fists clench by my side, but she just keeps going. “Am I crazy for hoping to find someone who loves all of my weirdnesses, and also wants to bone down?” I try not to snort into my own cup of water at her unexpected, unsophisticated terminology and fail, but luckily it doesn’t discourage her from continuing. “Like, I thought guys were supposed to want sex all the time?”
She throws both hands up by her shoulders, not quite a shrug, more of a question to the universe. Ellie keeps rambling, not giving me a chance to answer her, not noticing how much it’s killing me to hear her talk so casually about the sex she wishes she were having. That I wish she were having with me.
“I just want someone who wants me back. Who likes orgasms, and doesn’t look at me weird when I try to give them one.”
I can feel my eyes trying to do things. Bulge, namely. I tell them to chill the fuck out.
Thefuckwas wrong with this guy.
“I just. I don’t think I could say yes to forever with someone when I haven’t even had a vaginal orgasm yet. Maybe I can’t though? Maybe I’ll never have one. Not even if I get that toy Chrissy is always telling me I should get.” She sighs, a huge, sad exhale that makes her shoulders sag. Then she brightens, sitting up again, eyes wide with wonder at some thought I hope she shares. “Maybe they don’t even exist? What if they’re a pyramid scheme, made up by men just looking to get laid.”
“They’re not,” I tell her, conveying my certainty, my own personal experience on the subject through my eyes, my tone, those two words alone.
She sighs again. “Well, then maybe I’m destined for a lifetime of shitty, almost-orgasms. Whether I was with him or not. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem.”
She starts singing that Taylor Swift song under her breath, rocking her head back and forth as she does. Then she takes another big sip of water, a bit sad now. Her head lolls to the side and she looks back at me. “Do you think I can come, Asher? Am I just wishful drinking?” She laughs at the slip-up. “Oh my gosh, I said wishful drinking. Like the Sam Hunt song!” She laughs again.
I take one of her hands in mine, covering her smaller, more delicate one underneath mine on top of the table, until she looks at me. “No, Ellie, I don’t think you’re just wishful thinking. I thinkhewas the problem, not you. And I’m positive you can have good orgasms. You just need the right partner, someone invested in your pleasure. Someone you’re attracted to, who takes the time to find what you like. What gets you there.” Her eyes go all big and round, her mouth forming an O, which is kind of ironic, given the topic at hand. My thumb strokes the back of her hand once, twice, and I pull back, not wanting to push this any further while she’s drunk.
“That’s nice of you,” she says, using her newly freed hand to pat my arm. “You’re so nice.” She pats my arm again. “Oh!” She stops for a second. “Oh, there’s muscle in there.” Her eyes bounce between my biceps she’s clutching and my face, which is lit with amusement. She’s just lit. “You look pretty skinny, but, like, you’ve got some manly muscle in there, huh?”
Her hand keeps squeezing, and an unexpected laugh clears my chest, climbing out of me as I peel her hand off of my arm and put it around that cup of water. If it stays on me, I’ll keep imagining how it will feel all over me. In other places.
Ideas I shouldn’t be having while she’s inebriated, if ever.
Nah, come on now. We both know that I’ve long since given up on keeping my thoughts about her clean, but I can at least be a decent person about them. Not make them any more inappropriate than they already are.
She takes a big sip of water, then looks down at her own body. Pokes her stomach. “I don’t have much muscle,” she tells me, sadly. “I work out every day, but mostly cardio. I cheat.” She whispers those words, like she’s confessing to a sin. “I do the elliptical a lot. Or swim sometimes. I hate working out. But I was born in a generation that idolized toothpick figures, with all this.” Both her hands clutch at her hips, taking big handfuls of all the meat there and she tries to shake it, which doesn’t really work with the way she’s sitting down on the stool.
