Theo
How to be a horny loser in ten easy steps
I don’t know why I didn’t kiss Joey on the lips.
I pussed out.
I’m kicking myself for not having the guts to do it. All my macho self-talk about turning over a new leaf and taking what I wanted like an alpha was all lies and shit I told myself.
And what did it leave me?
With absolutely nothing but a problematic stiffy and trouble sleeping.
After my great and utterly disappointing kiss on her forehead…her forehead, dammit – I faked a headache from too much wine and went to bed, leaving her to watch me go in disbelief. And she isn’t the only one who couldn’t believe I could be such a loser.
There I was enjoying one of the best nights I’ve had in a very long time with a gorgeous, funny and delectable woman, drinking wine and feeling good and I bit the dust.
I choked on my own fears of being a disappointment. My ever-mounting feelings of inadequacy and my Mr. Nice Guy persona returned to the surface with a vengeance.
Goddamn, Alyssa has fucked with my head.
You know where those thoughts left me? I’ll tell you where it left me. It left me sleeping by myself instead of next to a hot, probably close-to-naked woman, in the bedroom next to mine.
And I’m hard as a fucking rock.
I can’t even jerk off because I’m scared she might hear me and will think I’m a fucking pervert.
If only I could turn back the clock two hours and go back to that scene on the balcony. Instead of her forehead, I would have crashed my mouth to hers, tasting the wine flavor that would have lingered on her tongue. I’d bathe in the softness of her lips, nibbling and nipping at her sweet taste. I’d have sucked at her lower lip, mimicking the way I’d fuck her pussy with my mouth.
I certainly wouldn’t have acted like a hesitant teenager, that’s for fucking sure. Now I’m just a horny loser lying alone in his bed contemplating the missed opportunity of learning what she tastes like.
And just like that, my mouth instinctively waters wondering if Joey tastes like wine and berries we had tonight.
My body yearns to feel Joey underneath me, squirming in frenzied pleasure from my touch. I throw back the covers from my sweat-drenched chest, huffing out a disgruntled breath.
I’m hot and horny and still a little drunk and worked up. Why that woman is still single and not snatched up by some guy is beyond me.
We didn’t delve much into our love lives in conversation tonight, but I did mention that Al and I just recently broke up and that’s why I was in need of a place to say. I didn’t expose the whole sordid truth, of course; she doesn’t need to know the beating my self-worth took and what’s happened to my ego since.
It’s deflated and bankrupt. If I don’t get a win in my corner in the near future, I may just jump off this freaking ledge.
Speaking of which, maybe I need to get some fresh air out on the balcony. Although Pat’s apartment has air conditioning, my amped up body is hot and the room is stuffy. Hopefully getting some air will help me regain control of my run-away R-rated thoughts and unexpected feelings toward Joey.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I slip on the pair of kaki’s I discarded on the floor yesterday, and head out into the darkened hallway. It’s relatively quiet, the only sounds coming from the street noises below, the amplified sirens and the constant thrum of Chicago city streets.
I head into the kitchen looking to douse the heat that’s been building inside me with a cool glass of water when a light shining from the balcony catches my eye.
Huh, we must’ve forgotten to turn out the light when we came in for bed earlier. I fill up my glass before padding across the hardwoods, when I notice the slider open just an inch. Now I’m getting a little weirded out, since I know I didn’t forget to lock the door. My heartrate spikes as I stealthily move toward the open door, scanning the vicinity for any sign of an intruder.
It’s then that I see the silhouetted shape of Joey, sitting in the corner of the balcony, knees drawn up to her chin. She’s holding something in her hand and from the looks of it, she’s reading.
My eyes first graze her bare legs. Before she went to bed, I borrowed her one of my t-shirts, which I knew would be oversized and too big for her petite body.
In the position she’s sitting – feet up on her chair, chin to her knees - the shirt bunches up between her stomach and her thighs, and the back of her legs and ass are clearly exposed.
It’s likely that I stare at her in the shadows for a solid ten minutes, my thoughts clearly not in the friend zone with all that luscious, silky skin on display rekindling the fire inside me. I bring the glass to my lips and take a big gulp, swallowing hard to drench the heat.
The sound must be loud because Joey startles, her head jerking toward me, her eyes spinning with alarm and fear.
I wave my hand out in front of me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw the light and open door and didn’t realize you were out here.”
I look at her bewildered gaze and then glance down to what’s in her hands. She’s holding my script.
When she realizes that I’ve noticed what she’s holding, she tosses it down on the small patio table as if it’s on fire and burned her hands.
“I, uh…” she stammers, looking guilty over having read my unedited first draft that I’ve just finished writing.
Tilting my head, I take a few steps toward her, picking up the manuscript she last touched.
“Were you reading this out here in the dark?”
The balcony light outside is really just there for ambience and decoration, not at all good for eyesight. It’s barely enough to illuminate the sight of her ducking her chin in what appears to be guilty embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to read your work without your permission. I just couldn’t sleep and saw it lying there on the coffee table and I picked it up. I was curious.”
Taking the seat next to her – the one she vacated earlier tonight – I flip through the pages I have dogeared for corrections and edits. I’ve been working on this play for the last three months in hopes of submitting it to the theater workshop for this summer’s showcase.
Last year I was a judge and decided this year was the year I’d submit my work. I have no real hope of winning, but it gave me something to pour my heart and soul into after my breakup.
No one else has read any part of this play yet. I’m not sure if I should be upset by the fact that Joey read it without permission or be interested in hearing her critique.
I decide to go with curious. “Well?”
My palms get a little damp at the prospect of her vocalizing her editorial review. While she’s not in the biz and may not know the inside out of the craft, she’s still a potential audience member. And her opinion is valued. In fact, I’m at the edge of my seat wanting to know what she thinks.
“That’s a deep subject.”
I cock my head with confusion. My play isn’t deep, at all. As a matter of fact, it’s supposed to be light-hearted and comedic. If she thinks it’s heavy, then I haven’t done it justice.
I bow my head in despair.
When she laughs and my head pops up to see her grinning.
“Well…as in, a deep well. Get it?”
I laugh at her attempt at humor.
“Har-dee-har-har. Aren’t you just the funny one.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a pretty funny girl sometimes.”
Joey holds her hand out in silent request for the script. I give it back to her as our fingers briefly touch. She has short cropped nails and the idea that she’d dig them into my ass as I fucked her sends a sharp call to my dick. Which, less face it, was already on high alert from earlier.
Clearing my impure thoughts, I casually take her in as she flips through a few pages. Her strawberry curls have been pulled up into a messy bun, her face make-up free and the smell of apricot lingers around her. My fingers itch to run wild in her hair, tugging it a little while I capture her mouth with mine.
She taps one of those fingers on the page, drawing my attention back to the play.
“This scene,” she comments, verifying the location for me with a point of her finger. “Act One scene three. This is pure gold. Where Silvia dumps the ice bucket over Chester’s head after he ran over her tomatoes with his wheel barrow? So funny. I’d love to see this happen in live action.”
I snort at the recollection of the scene. My play is set in a fictitious small-town in Illinois with vague similarities to my actual hometown. It’s two neighbors who don’t get along in a rom-com ala When Harry Met Sally, but then wind up falling for each other.
“Yeah, I do enjoy these characters. They are pretty funny,” I nod in agreement. “I just don’t know if this will work on stage or not. There’s a lot of nuances to the script that may only work on paper. I guess it’s yet to be seen. And maybe it won’t ever be seen, who knows.”
Joey slaps the bound manuscript on the table and stands abruptly, hands on her hips in indignation.
“Are you kidding me? You’re writing is amazing. You’re funny and witty, and the dialogue is fantastic. And the chemistry between the male and female lead characters…well, it’s surprising you can write it so well.”
I’m thrown off balance by her backhanded compliment. What does she mean by that? Why wouldn’t I be able to write the romance very well?
I’m just about to ask her to explain her comment when she slides by me and heads to the door, stopping just at the threshold to look back at me. I’m sure I look like an idiot with my jaw hanging open, a confused expression painted across my face.
“I’ve got to pee and then I’m heading back to bed. But seriously, from what I read tonight, this play could be so great. You need to have a little faith in yourself.”
And with that, she disappears inside and I’m left reeling from her comments. It’s always weird to hear critique about your work. When I was in college, many of my friends would cope with drugs and alcohol, the pressure eating at their self-esteem. There’s a thick outer shell a playwright must develop to remain true to their work and their craft.
Thinking over Joey’s feedback though feels like the most flattering thing I’ve heard in a very long time and a great boost for my ego.
I smile to myself as I shut off the light and lock the sliding door. Her compliments are something good I’ll take with me to bed, along with the image of her shapely legs underneath that borrowed t-shirt. I got a good look when she stood and walked past me.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I might be going to bed, but there’s little sleep in the forecast for me now.