KELLI. One week earlier…

“Boys are stupid, it’s that easy,” I said.

“At first he acted like he wanted to be my boyfriend.” She shook her head. “He was such a douche. I hope I never see him again. What an asshole.”

I waved my arm toward the waiter. “Get drunk. You’ll feel better when you forget about it.”

Heather flipped her hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. “Do you like my hair?”

“Trim?” I asked.

She turned away from me and shook her head. “Yeah, I had that Asian chick at Planet Hair do it.”

“It looks great. Your hair always looks good.” I lied.

Heather’s hair was a disaster. She was naturally brunette and spent way too much time and effort attempting to make it the perfect shade of blonde. Her hair was an extension of her life. Like most girls, when she was unhappy with life, she changed her hair.

And her hair was always changing.

She turned to face me. “I like it. It’s perfect.”

Heather was my best friend, and had been since high school. She was very tall – six foot one – and played volleyball in school. She was attractive, and had huge boobs. She blossomed when we were fourteen, and her tits were a magnet for guys, most of which were assholes. No one ever seemed to want to take the time to get to know her. The few that faked it were generally only interested in seeing her massive tits.

I went away to college and she ended up working as a waitress at Hooter’s. The repeated sexual advances from the patrons caused her to quit, and after a week or so of unemployment, she landed a new job.

At Twin Peaks.

The men who patronized the bar were fractionally better than the men at Hooters, and she was making every effort to enjoy her job.

The waiter stepped beside the table and grinned. “What can I get you girls?”

“Bud Lime.”

“Vodka and water with a splash of cranberry.”

He glared at me and cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“Vodka and water. Add a splash of cranberry juice for color and flavor,” I responded.

He shrugged, then shook his head. “Want to see a menu?”

“No, thank you.”

He glanced at Heather. His eyes fell to her tits.

She grinned.

I cleared my throat.

He shifted his focus to me. I shot him a glare. After another glance at Heather’s tits, he turned away.

A few days prior, Heather met a guy in a bar. Later that night, they had sex, and now he wouldn’t text her back. It was a typical douchebag move from a typical douchebag. Boys in their twenties seemed to be assholes, and all of them were after one thing.

Sex.

There was never any commitment on their part, short of committing to shove their cock inside the first girl that agreed to let them. Men, on the other hand, acted differently.

“What?” she snapped.

“He’s not worth it,” I said. “Just stop thinking about him.”

“That’s fucking hilarious. How many times have you told me that exact same thing?”

She was right, I had given her the same advice each time a guy used her for sex, and it was more times than I could count.

“I don’t know.” I finished what was left of my drink, then shrugged.

“Each time I get drunk and let some guy fuck me, that’s how many. Probably a hundred, huh?”

I coughed out a laugh. The coughing caused a chain of reactions, including the resurfacing of my half-swallowed drink. The vodka came out my nose, and as much as I tried to stop it, it dripped onto my top and pants.

“Shit. Now, look what you did.” I complained. “That burns.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m going to the bathroom, don’t fuck anyone while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try not to,” she said with a laugh.

My trip to the bathroom produced several propositions – in the form of whistling and whispers. Boys, once again acting like boys. Depending on the mood I was in, it could be flattering. Most of the time, however, it was annoying. I differed from most young women in that I was comfortable with who I was, and I knew that I was attractive.

This made random compliments irritating. I wanted someone to notice me, want me, or feel a desire to know me based on who I was inside, and not what I appeared to be on the surface.

As I turned toward the women’s bathroom, a man came out of the men’s bathroom. He was at least six-foot tall, and had an athletic build. His handsome looks and chiseled features commanded my attention.

His right forearm was covered in tattoos down to his wrist. The tattoos – combined with his handsome looks – stopped me in my tracks. Wearing a stark white V-neck tee shirt, jeans, and boots, he looked like trouble.

My kind of trouble.

He seemed preoccupied. With my eyes locked on him, and still attempting to walk toward the bathroom, I ran face-first into the door. The dull thud caused him to look in my direction.

Embarrassed, I pushed the door open and rushed inside.

While I washed the stain from my top, my mind drifted to thoughts of the tattooed stranger. By the time the stain was gone, I was uncomfortably horny in a daydream about the muscular hunk.

Wearing a smile of satisfaction, I walked back to the table, free of my cranberry stain, but filled with desire. I scanned the area for the man from the bathroom, but didn’t see him anywhere. I didn’t see him anywhere. Disappointed, I sat down across from Heather and sighed.

“Ok, so get this. I was going into the bathroom, and this hit guy was walking out of the men’s bathroom. He had short hair, kind of blonde. Well, not really. Maybe it was brown. Brown-ish. Anyway, he was covered in tattoos-all the way to his wrist. He was looking down at his belt when he came out and he didn’t notice me, which was good. I was staring at him, and boom, I ran right into the fucking door.”

“Older guy?” Heather asked.

“I don’t know, not older. Maybe thirty-something.”

“Yeah, Kelli. Older. Not twenty-one.”

“Yeah, he was older than us, why?” I snapped back. “Did you see him?”

“Yeah, I saw him.” She motioned toward the door. “He went outside. I heard a motorcycle start, so I’m guessing he left.”

I fought to hide my excitement. “Do you know him?”

“No. I don’t know him. I know of him. My dad knows him. He used to go to my uncle’s shop to have his motorcycle worked on. He’s some weird doctor. He went to college, medical school, graduated, and then his mom died. He bought a shitty motorcycle and travels around the country on it in the summer. He lives in a shitty house over by Bel Aire. I heard them talking about him just the other day.”

I grinned. “A motorcycle-riding tattooed doctor? Yeah, I’m interested.”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you. You just need to get a boyfriend. This jumping from guy to guy has got to stop. And he’s old. That’s gross.”

“If you fucked older guys, you’d understand. Boys will always treat you like shit. Men treat you the way they’re going to treat you, but you almost always know what’s going to happen. They don’t make up ridiculous lies just to get in your pants. They tell you from the beginning what they want. And you get to choose if it’s what you want or not.” I motioned toward the door. “Me? I want that guy.”

She laughed. “If your dad knew you were wanting to fuck that guy, he’d be so pissed off.”

When I was a year old, my mother left. My father never remarried. He did have female friends and went on occasional dates, but he never allowed another woman to move into the house. Growing up, I hoped that one day he would find someone that I could call mother. As I got older, I appreciated the fact that he never did.

My father was attractive, wealthy, and owned the local BMW dealership. His lack of interest in having a relationship left me wondering if he still loved my mother after all those years. It was something he never spoke of, so I never brought it up.

“My dad doesn’t need to know,” I said. “But I like older men.”

Heather shook her head. “Fucking old men is gross.”

“Fucking men makes me have multiple orgasms. Fucking boys makes me angry,” I said. “Boys always end up doing everything that they say they won’t ever do. They make promises just to get in your pants. I’ve got to go back to college, so I want sex, not bullshit promises.”

“You’ve always said that you wanted someone to appreciate you for who you are, not what you look like. What about that?” Heather asked dryly.

“I want a man to appreciate me, then fuck me. You know, fuck me because they appreciate me. Not appreciate me because they fucked me. If a man appreciates me for who I am, and then fucks me, he’s going to fuck me like he appreciates me. Get a boy to do that,” I said.

Heather raised her glass. “I just want someone to love me.”

“Oh. My. God,” I said. “Seriously? Love? Love was created by the Hallmark card company to sell shit on Valentine’s Day. Love isn’t real. Love is what people say to you so they can keep fucking you. To keep your interest. I don’t want lies; I want my ass slapped and my hair pulled.”

My desire to have sex was as insatiable as it could be. Generally speaking, if I was awake, I was thinking about sex.

“So. Tattoo guy. Where does he live?”

“Bel Aire. His mom died, and he lives in her house. I think she died the year you left for college. He’s just some biker. He drives a nice car, though. One of your dad’s. My dad said that he filed a lawsuit against the insurance company or something, I don’t know.”

I raised my index finger and grinned. “Well, I’ve always said, if I want something bad enough, I can make it happen. I’m going to find him. I am going to find him, and I am going to have a summer of insane sex with him. And then, I am going to go to grad school.”

“Are you still serious about that? Running your dad’s dealership? That’s retarded.”

“Well, I was accepted at Columbia, and I’m scheduled to go in September,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before they get busy.”

The waiter quickly brought the tab. I reached into my purse and got my credit card from my wallet. As I was handing him my card, Heather spoke.

“You don’t have to do that, Kelli, let me pay for mine. You never let me pay,” she said.

I grinned. “I know I don’t have to, but I can, and I will. So, get over it, bitch.”

She stood. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

As we walked outside, I could hear the music playing. The guy had an amazing voice. He was doing a Sublime cover.

Heather pointed to the singer. “Now that’s an older dude I would fuck.”

As we started to walk toward the platform, he looked up. He was wearing a ball cap and had it pulled tight down over his eyes. Average height, and somewhat stocky, he was extremely attractive. A very manly presence, but he was kind of cute at the same time. He played the guitar as he sang, and he sang from his soul.

I chuckled. “Oh, I’d fuck that guy until he begged me to stop.” I laughed. “And, I’d make that blonde chick watch.”

As we passed the stage to go to the parking lot, a gorgeous petite blonde who was standing beside the stage gave me the stink eye. I suspected she was either some groupie or the singer’s girlfriend.

As we exited the fenced portion of the patio, they finished the song. “Ladies and gentlemen, Timmy Jonas and the Whiskey Militia. Timmy Jonas…”

Timmy Jonas. I decided I would look him up on Facebook in my car before I left the parking lot.

Right after I masturbated.