I was only kidding about taking that bartender home. Well, if I hadn’t been there with Natalie, I probably would have done it, but for some reason it felt wrong to go back in the bar where I’d just been sitting with her and try to pick up another woman. Anyway, I didn’t want to be with another woman tonight—I wanted to be with her. Not necessarily in a sexy way; I just wanted to hang out. I’d almost forgotten how fun she was.
Actually, that’s a lie. I wanted sexy too.
Fuck, why did she still have to be with that shithead Dan? I bet he was still cheating on her. Guys like that who fool around and lie about it don’t change. That’s not to say I’m an angel or anything, but I don’t lie to women, unless it’s a white lie to boost her ego like fuck yeah, you’re the best ever, don’t stop when my dick is in her mouth, or to spare her feelings, like of course those pants still fit you when she’s trying to wear her 8th grade jeans. I always make sure, when it comes to sex, that it’s perfectly understood I like to have a good time and hope they do too. If a woman is seeking commitment, I make it clear I am not the Friday night fuck she’s looking for, and she should mosey on down to the other end of the bar. Lucky for me, though, there are always plenty of hot girls who just want to have fun.
And it’s not because I’m super ripped (I’m not) or have a twelve inch penis (alas) or make a million dollars a year (not even close). It’s because I’m good to them. I treat the women I’m with like goddesses. I make sure they have at least one orgasm, I always give a warning during a blowjob, I never complain about wearing a condom, and I encourage them to tell me exactly what they want in bed. Then I do it.
Also, my face. I’m kind of adorable.
But you don’t need an adorable face to make a girl scream your name. Guys are always writing me asking how to make a woman come, and every time, I say it boils down to this: Slow down. Pay attention. Give a fuck. And even though I’ve told them all my best clit-sucking, finger-fucking, and pelvic-grinding techniques (NO JACKHAMMERING), I also tell them you have to ask her what she likes, and you have to listen both to what she says, and what she doesn’t say. Because even if she’s too shy to tell you with words, a woman will let you know with her body what she wants.
As I walked back to the bar, I wondered what Natalie would be like in bed. The thought was enough to make me stumble a little on the sidewalk. I’d thought about it a thousand times before, maybe even closer to a million, but I was usually alone in the shower with my dick in my hand. Every now and then I fantasized a woman I was fucking was Natalie, which is kind of shitty, I guess, but it doesn’t hurt the woman any, and for all I know she’s imagining it’s Ryan Gosling banging her. Doesn’t bother me.
Back at the bar, I finished my beer and flirted half-heartedly with Jamie a little more, but turned down her offer to meet up later. I just wasn’t feeling it. When I got home, I sat out on the front porch with a glass of scotch, thinking about the last time I’d been out here late at night.
Did Natalie really not remember what I’d said to her before I left for school? I guess it was possible, although sort of depressing. I’d never said words like that to any woman since. Was that why I couldn’t stop thinking about her? Was I subconsciously worried that I’d never meet anyone who measured up?
Not that I’d tried. I’d had a few extended fuck flings in my life, but nothing I’d call a Relationship. I had a lot of girl friends, Natalie being the oldest and most important to me, but I’d never had a serious girlfriend. Did I want one now? Was I lonely or something?
Frowning, I took stock of myself and decided not. I wasn’t the lonely type, not really. Sometimes around the holidays I got a weird hankering to snuggle with someone in a completely nonsexual way, and this felt kind of like that, but it was only June. Cuddle weather was at least four months away.
Leaning back in the rocker, I brought the glass to my lips and stared across the orchard in the direction of the Nixon place. I remembered much preferring their busy, cluttered farm house with its comfy couches to my parents’ drafty old Victorian with its formal furniture and silent rooms. And the Nixon house always smelled delicious because Mrs. Nixon usually had cherry pies in the oven to sell at their farm stand. Natalie’s new house will probably smell good all the time too. And she’ll marry Dan, and fill the house with kids, and it will be just as hectic and noisy and fun as her own house was growing up. Perfect for her.
But what about me? Did I want that? Letting the scotch roll over my tongue, I wondered if some part of me was tired of the parade of girls in and out of my bed and ready for something more. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? What twenty-seven-year-old guy would give up the freedom and fun I had just to settle down and be an adult? I mean, technically I was an adult, but I wasn’t a very adulty adult. I wouldn’t call myself serious or mature. Responsible? Usually. Good with a deadline. Hard working. But I liked sleeping in. Not wearing pants. Eating cereal for dinner. I made stupid dirty jokes, I used plastic forks and paper plates at home to avoid having to do dishes, and I’d been living in my apartment for two years already and I still had no curtains on the windows, no pictures on the walls, and no plants. Was that pathetic? Was I supposed to stop playing at being a grown up and start living like one? Commit to silverware? A woman? A rubber tree plant?
I thought about my buddies with curtains and girlfriends, and the one with a wife. Were they happier than me? I didn’t think so. Maybe the married guy, but they were still newlyweds. That glow wouldn’t last. It certainly hadn’t for my parents. Sure, maybe wedded bliss made for some cozy Sunday mornings in bed, but were the Saturday nights still as hot?
And maybe feeling that someone would love you unconditionally for the rest of your life would be nice, but wasn’t that a lot of responsibility? You had to make the same promise, right? How would you know if you could love someone forever? Did I even have it in me to love someone that deeply? She’d probably want me to do things like wear pants every day and have brunch with her Republican parents and answer my phone. I just didn’t see that happening. Frowning, I took another swallow.
One person. Forever.
Fuck that.
But what if that person was Natalie? said a voice in my head. You think you couldn’t love her like that?
“Well, it’s not her,” I muttered, tipping back the last of my scotch. “It can’t be her. So fuck it.”