Page 519 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

She grabs his bicep and strokes it.

“Yeah, I totally get that. That’s like… me when I get waxed.”

A half-laugh leaves him, and he leans his shoulder into the brick again to pull out of her grip. “Yeah. That’s where I’m at. I’m skin without nerve.” He lifts a shoulder, lookin’ down the street. “All the worshippin’ is pointless when you can’t feel shit.”

“Dude…” she draws out. “I cried once. During oral. Because it was so bad. I said ‘softer’ and he said ‘what do you mean.’” She leans in, arms up. “‘What do you mean?’ Softer? Like, how do you not get it?”

He eyes Peter, who has his back turned to him, while Andrew’s out here stuck hostin’ Drunk Girl Hour: Oral Edition. ‘Cause that’s all anyone thinks he cares to talk about, right?

“Yeah, well, you say softer, you gotta give ‘im somethin’ to work with. Could be pressure. Could be rhythm. Could be hands if he’s usin’ ‘em. Fingers. The way he’s holdin’ you down. Don’t fuckin’ know,” he mutters, the night closin’ in on him. “Sounds like the guy just wanted to do it right.”

Guy’s not even here and Andrew’s takin’ the hit. Maybe next time, she don’t make him feel small for askin’ how to do it right.

“Most guys? Don’t even like eatin’ pussy,” she keeps goin’. “They pretend. You can tell. They don’t see it as part of the sex. Like what about me? Y’know? Not only do I gotta ask him to eat me out… but I gotta teach him, too? What’s up with that?” Her hands raise at her sides. “Nah, for real. Like, the fuck?”

He raises his hand to shut it down—mouth open, ready to dip⁠—

“Are you Andrew Harding?” Some girl pops up next to him.

He freezes, hand still raised, head turning slow until his gaze slams into a dark blonde, lip injections, and earrings hangin’ so heavy, the holes are painfully stretched. A second girl stands behind her—tiny-ass brunette, hair pulled back high in a ponytail.

He don’t get a word in. Drunk Girl’s already takin’ the mic.

“Yeah, this is Andrew Harding.”

She turns to Andrew, whisperin’ in his ear as if they’re teammates. “Wow. Okay. She’s pretty. That’s fun for you.”

She wiggles her brows and turns back to the girl.

“You lookin’ for oral tonight? ‘Cause, can confirm he’ll respect your boundaries.” Her hand comes up, eyes narrowed. “But first I have to ask, how many drinks have you had, sweetheart?”

“Yo.” He turns fully now, hand droppin’. “The fuck you doin’?”

Caramel-blonde bounces forward on her heels. “Uh—two.”

“Pfft. Then you’re golden,” Drunk Girl says, brushin’ it away with a smile. “That would pass a DWI check in Staten.” She points down the block, other hand landin’ on his arm. Andrew stares at her, deadpan. “Alley’s wide open, sweetheart. I can keep your friend company. Hold your purse if you want. Unless,” her finger bounces between the two girls, “you both lookin’ to come tonight?”

It goes quiet between the three, the bass from the nightclub on the corner vibratin’ under their feet. Andrew’s eyes cut to the caramel blonde, peelin’ the Drunk Girl’s hand off his arm.

“Sorry about her. She’s drunk. I’m not—” Andrew cuts himself off. The real story is he doesn’t give a damn tonight.

This is the whole reason he took the turnpike into the city in the first place, to drown in the reputation he can’t shake anyway. For ten straight years, he’s been feeding girls the exact fantasy they were looking for. Even if he’s totally burnt out on it, this is the busted-ass box he first trapped himself in, then convinced himself was the only one he belonged in. This is what they expect, the only thing he had going for him, and what he’ll always do. Elle reminded him of that.

His eyes drift between the two girls, his throat dry. “I’m two seconds from leavin’, so I’ll ask once. You flirtin’ for the fuck of it?”

The two girls look at each other, then back at Andrew.

Six minutes later, the blonde’s smokin’ a cigarette behind a dumpster, waitin’ while he’s got his mouth on the little brunette, her leg thrown over his shoulder. Her pussy’s what he calls a Mouth Breather—droolin’, makin’ wet noises, lips already layin’ open without havin’ to hold them back.

Mouth Breathers are hungry to do half the work, that’s the beauty of them. They know exactly what they want, and they take it.

With this kind, he’s just gotta keep his mouth open, loose, tongue flat and grindin’ into the way she rocks, lettin’ her ride his face.

She came screamin’ through the first one, so loud he had to stuff her panties in her mouth to shut her up. Now her grip’s locked in his hair, thighs shakin’ like she’s seconds from blackin’ out.

“Mmmgod…” she chokes out. “Fuhh—feels s’fuhh…”

At the mouth of the alley, drunk girls pass by, laughin’, rappin’, the hook to a Salt-N-Pepa song echoing off the brick. The blonde friend standin’ against the opposite wall behind him raps along “…None yo business.”