Reed Luca—the fucker—had officially gotten inside of my head.
He’d mindfucked me, and it wasn’t good ole missionary. This was dirty, ass play, doggy-style kind of mindfucking.
I had a column—that I hadn’t even started—to finish in the next twenty-four hours, and my brain seemed to be spending most of its power on flipping off that bastard whose name I’d rather not speak, much less think.
But my column was first priority—my only priority—and that was exactly what I was going to do.
I wasn’t going to think about…him. Not his column, or his trashy, instigator-style emails, or the way his hair laid so easily back from his face.
Nope. Nuh-uh. Screw that guy, and his little dog too.
The midafternoon sun filtered through the sheer, white curtains of the large loft windows in my apartment, highlighting the golden hue of Louie’s little fins, and I instantly softened slightly.
Shit. I hope he doesn’t really have a dog.
I rested my elbows on the counter and stared through the glass of Louie’s aquarium.
With my head in my hands, I sighed, and his eyes met mine, seemingly understanding that I needed to vent. “I need to focus, Louie. I need to focus on dating…and relationships…and basically, anything and everything related to vaginas and penises in a state of cohabitation,” I told him.
He swished his tail around a few times and proceeded to give me his typical yet outwardly sarcastic fish bubble response, Blup. Blup. Blup.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, besides one particular penis and the owner of said penis. I’m not going to think about him. No fucking way. That dude and his package are getting pushed far, far away, preferably to a place that is very similar to the fiery pits of hell.”
Blup. Blup, Louie retorted and then swam away to his favorite neon castle.
In fish speak, he had basically just said, Yeah, right.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “I know you don’t think I’ll be able to forget about…him…but I’m going to. I’ll prove your little fishy doubts wrong, dude.”
Louie gave no response, already done with the conversation.
“I knew I should’ve adopted a cat,” I mumbled and turned away from his fish house.
A cat would be an even bigger asshole, Reed’s unwelcome voice taunted in my head.
Go away! I shouted back telepathically.
God, if anyone knew how often I had conversations with my fish—if Reed knew—I’d never hear the end of it. They’d probably wrap me up in a straitjacket.
But I couldn’t help it. It was so much of a compulsion, a calling, if you will, I was convinced I’d probably become the fish version of the cat lady if I never found that perfect person to fill the void.
Logistically, I’d need a bigger aquarium; that was a certainty. And, the rest of my fish wouldn’t be sarcastic little bastards, either.
Okay, I just need to clear my head and get my writing mojo moving and shaking.
All I needed was the perfect playlist. The right topic. And a mind devoid of a certain prick of a vlogger turned columnist who seemed to think he knew everything.
Easy, right?
Once the addictive beat of The Kooks singing about a “Bad Habit” filled my otherwise quiet apartment, I made the short trip across the fluffy beige carpet of my living room, grabbed my laptop, and posted up on the sofa.
Five minutes later, any figment of concentration I’d been able to build was shot to hell by my sister. Like a demon, she started sending me text messages about her three lovable yet batshit crazy kids rapid fire. I mean, I loved my nieces and nephew, but the Reynolds’ kids were a serious little gang of insanity.
Annie: Help. Me. Is it legal to drop your kids off at Goodwill? Seriously? Do they accept children as donations?
On the surface, her text might’ve seemed like bad mommy material, but Emma, Lucy, and Henry—all adorable, blond-haired beauties under the age of eight—were loud, boisterous, and if unleashed without parental supervision, could destroy a house in three minutes flat.
Her frustrations were most likely warranted.
Me: Well… I don’t know their policy, but I think they frown upon donations that fall under the living, breathing human category.
Annie: Hey, didn’t you say you wanted to have kids?
Annie: You know what? Don’t answer that. Since you’re my baby sister and I love you so much, I’m willing to give up two of my children to you. I’ll even let you choose.
Me: HA! Yeah, right. You wouldn’t let me choose. I know which two you’d try to pawn off on me. And I never said I wanted kids. I said I didn’t know if I wanted kids, but I was open to kids. And that was like three Christmases ago.
The truth was, I didn’t really want kids. Hell, I didn’t even want marriage. Conventionality, in general, would probably never be a staple in my love life.
My outlook on relationships had morphed into something less traditional over the years, thanks to all that time spent watching with jaded eyes. Marriage wasn’t the key to happiness, like so many women prophesied. Commitment, compromise, and true cohabitation were.
I pictured my future plenty, but it wasn’t laid out like ducks in a row: engagement, marriage, kids, etc. It was with someone with whom I wanted to spend my life, who wanted to spend their life with me, and completely unfocused on the details. I didn’t need a five-year, ten-year, eighteen-year plan—I needed a partner who didn’t need one either.
Annie: Are you saying I play favorites with my kids?
Me: Yep. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Annie: I can’t help it if Lucy is my favorite right now. The girl has a knack for keeping her room clean, and she’s so damn organized. Honestly, I’m a little concerned she might be a bit OCD, but I refuse to question it at this point in time because it’s one less room for me to clean.
Me: That’s real nice, Annie. Your child might be suffering a mental condition that causes her daily anxiety, but you’re ignoring it because she keeps shit clean. Oh, and, by the way, will you send her over to clean my room?
Annie: Of course I will. I want to make sure she’ll see her brother and sister often since they’re going to be living with you.
Me: God, you’re hilarious.
Annie: I know, right? :)
Annie: Here’s a question for the queen of relationship advice. Is it okay to just want to fuck your husband? Like, not make love, but just good old-fashioned fucking.
Good old-fashioned fucking? Now, that was a thought.
Even in a marriage, sex could just be about sex. It didn’t always have to revolve around intimate moments and sharing your soul with someone else.
Thanks to my sister, the wheels in my mind turned until they rolled straight into the Aha! moment of inspiration.
Me: Yes. Humans need just sex sometimes. And thank you.
Annie: Thank you?
Me: You just gave me an idea for my column.
Annie: What???? Please, tell me you’re not going to talk about me and Brian fucking in your column.
Me: First of all, you know me better than that. Secondly, are you still giving Brian blow jobs every day?
My sister wasn’t a prude. She had no issues talking about sex. But she had some big no-no topics regarding the subject, and blow jobs, well, it was one of those do-not-go danger zones for her.
I, being the wonderful sister I was, used it against her as often as I could.
Annie: I swear to God, I will strangle you the next time you ask me about that.
Me: Because you love giving head so much?
Annie: LOLA.
Me: I can’t believe how much you love sucking Brian off. I just never really expected that from you.
Annie: Seriously. I don’t love doing that.
Me: *singing to the tune of Crowd Pleaser* My big sister is a real cock pleaser… (I’m so proud of you, btw)
Annie: Oh. My. God. Sometimes I really think I might hate you.
Me: I love you, too. And I know how much you want to keep talking about blowing penises since it’s your favorite thing in the whole world, but I gotta go. <3
Annie: Ugh. Love you too, ya weirdo. (AND I DON’T LOVE DOING THAT)
I smiled at her last text before closing out of my messages and locking the screen of my phone. Blow jobs aside, my mind had been cleared. I adjusted my laptop on top of my stretched-out thighs and wiggled my fingers as I got ready to write.
Fifty Fantastic Reasons to Just Do It
Can sex just be about sex sometimes?
Humans need sex. They want sex. They desire sex.
Humans also need orgasms. And those orgasms don’t always need to have the l-o-v-e word attached to them. Think masturbation and good old-fashioned…ahem…yeah, that.
Even when we’re in love with our significant other, sometimes, we don’t want to make love to them. Sometimes, we just want to have sex. We just want to get off. We want to experience that raw and greedy act on its own without sharing intimacy and eye contact and deep, sensual kisses and meaningful embraces.
So, in the spirit of just doing the damn thing, here, my beautiful and intelligent readers, are fifty reasons to just have sex:
1. Your Mr. Coffee maker is being a little slow, and your fresh pot of brew isn’t ready.
2. You just got off your period.
3. You’re hungry, but you’re on a diet, and you need something to replace your carb cravings.
4. The meat loaf in the Crock-Pot still has another hour to cook.
5. You just leveled up on Pokémon Go.
6. The power went out.
7. Morning wood.
8. Your condoms are about to expire.
9. You remembered to take your birth control pill.
10. Netflix isn’t working.
11. You just shaved your legs.
12. You haven’t shaved your legs in two weeks and could care less about shaving your legs.
13. A boner.
14. Clean sheets.
15. You need to wash the sheets.
16. You just drank a bottle of wine.
17. You ran out of wine.
18. You successfully saved money on your car insurance.
19. You can’t sleep.
20. You’re sleepy, but you need to wake up.
21. You’re stressed out about the house being a mess.
22. You just cleaned the house.
23. You had the best workout.
24. You didn’t work out.
25. You don’t feel like getting dressed and need a good reason to stay naked.
26. You’re horny.
27. You just read some political article and it pissed you off.
28. You got yo hair did, girl.
29. You haven’t brushed your hair in three days.
30. You just took a shower.
31. You haven’t showered in three days.
32. You’re on vacation.
33. You’re pissed off because everyone else but you is on vacation.
34. You just lost five pounds.
35. You just gained five pounds.
36. It’s too cold to go outside.
37. It’s too hot to go outside.
38. It’s raining outside.
39. Your weekly yoga class inspired a new position.
40. You just read this advice column that told you to have more sex, so you’re going to follow it and have more sex.
50. Okay, yeah, this list skips 41-49, but that’s because there is ALWAYS a good reason to just have sex with your significant other. Sex is healthy. Sex is normal. Sex is fun.
Sex Says: Never feel shame for wanting to have sex just for the act itself. Sex is natural. Sex is good. Sex is sex… And seriously, who doesn’t like sex?
I saved the Word doc to my computer and leaned back against the pillows of my sofa as I started to scan my words for grammatical errors or mistakes. By the time I reached the end, I realized it was missing something.
Something important.
Something that would add that special little spark.
Underneath my advice, I added one perfect tidbit of information.
Also, two possible (but probably really good) reasons not to just have sex:
1. The guy’s first name is Reed, and his last name is Luca.
2. The guy’s last name is Luca, and his first name is Reed.
How ’bout them apples, Reed? I smiled to myself.
Still want to be friends now?