Rhett
“Do you assholes have any fuckin’ clue how many girls have been texting me? I could punch y’all in the nuts.”
“You’re welcome.”
“That wasn’t me thanking you.”
“But you should.” Eric stretches his arm across his body, stretching his shoulder muscles. “Tell us how many chicks are after your tiny cock right now.”
I plop down in a chair, tossing the cell onto the kitchen table. “My phone is blowin’ up. It was funny the first ten times, but now it’s getting old. They’re all the same.”
Eric pulls a sad face. “Poor poor baby, no one feels sorry for you.”
“You wouldn’t believe how perverted girls are. I feel violated in so many ways and need a hot shower.”
Now he groans. “Only you would feel violated by women hitting on you.”
“Hitting on me? They’re propositionin’ me—huge difference. I’ve gotten more offers for blow jobs in the past twenty-four hours than I can count. It’s disturbin’.”
“No, what’s disturbing is the fact that you’re bitching about it. You don’t like blow jobs?”
“That’s not what I fucking meant.”
“Seriously man, how long has it been since your shriveled-up dick has been in someone’s mouth?”
“Screw you, Johnson.”
The truth is, it’s been a few years. The last and only time I got laid was high school: Beth Ripley, a hometown girl who hung out with our crowd and wasn’t picky about who she dated. Admittedly, she was kind of easy. Part of the agriculture club, I remember sneaking off with her during a house party, remember her fondling my dick through my jeans before sticking her hand down my boxers.
Beth was aggressive, producing a condom before I could think twice about having sex with her. Verdict: it wasn’t memorable, but at least we liked each other. I came within minutes, not long after rolling the condom on.
I had a shit-ton of friends back home in Louisiana, male and female, was the two-time state wrestling champion, highly medaled, and All-American.
College is a different story. Girls want to date athletes who are pro-bound, who come with big egos and enthusiastic groupies. The quarterbacks. Team captains. Basketball players with NBA point guard potential. Fraternity guys. Preppy assholes.
Even nerds have better on campus luck than I do.
Adding to it, the guys on this fucking team have been cold-shouldering me, slow to open their tightknit circle. I’m not counting my roommates, who are outcasts themselves. Eric Johnson has the shittiest win record on the team, and Gunderson is proving to be the biggest fuckstick on planet Earth.
Regardless, pretty girls chase after these two. I regard them now from across the table, both moderately good-looking in their own way. Eric has this oddball sense of humor and pervy mannerisms that girls think are funny, and Gunderson is just an idiot.
Girls come back to the house all the damn time.
I don’t get it.
My phone chooses that moment to go off like a bell for a five-alarm fire, and Johnson practically vaults himself over the table, grabbing at my phone, holding it out of my reach.
“I know you’re holding out on us, dude. Let’s see some of these messages.”
It takes him a less than a second to access my texts, his eyes growing wide as his finger moves up and down the screen.
“Holy shit. Gunderson, listen to this one: I’ll blow you if you let me record it.” He looks up from my phone. “Here’s one that just came through—it’s a crotch shot.”
“Yeah, I’ve been getting lots of those.”
His fingers scroll over my screen, eyes wide as saucers. “Dude, fuck yeah you have. Look at this girl’s tits! They’re huge!”
“Are you putting any of those in your spank bank?” Gunderson wants to know. “Please tell me you’re at least yanking it to some of these.”
Not that I’m going to admit it to them, but yeah, I am.
I take my phone back just as it pings again.
And again.
I look down to see a text from the same girl who’s been texting me for hours.
Alex: On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you blush when you get a new message?
Me: 8
Alex: That’s kind of cute.
“Who’s texting you and why the fuck are you smiling like that?” Gunderson interrupts with his loud, irritating voice and nosy questions. “It’s weird.”
Jesus. He’s so fucking annoying.
“None of your business.”
“Is it some girl you’re chatting with? Come on, there has to be at least one.” He’s cackling. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to fuck the butt-hurt out of your system?”
“No.”
No.
Maybe.
My guard is coming down, so I’m not going to stand here and say the idea hasn’t crossed my mind since I started texting Alex. She may have messaged me under false pretenses, but…
I feel like her intentions might be changing the more we message. She texts cute, sounds sassy. Plus, she already knows what I look like and continues to flirt with me.
Bonus.
My phone dings with a new notification and I palm it, walking away from the table, toward my room. I enter and toss myself on the bed, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling.