Tracey
The first time I saw the Wizard of Oz when I was around five, I gasped in shock when Dorothy went over the rainbow and everything turned to Technicolor when she stepped outside her house. The plastic flowers looked so beautiful. Although, at the time I wasn’t aware of the polyethylene toxicity of said beauty. Anyway, it’s the same distorted impression a person gets when walking in my house. Sort of beautiful, but in this case, too much of a beautiful thing can be mentally toxic. It’s the reason why unpacking all day has me exhausted, more perceptually than physically.
My mom supplied me with a house full of Mackenzie-Childs furniture. When the delivery truck showed up at my door last week I held my breath because I knew it was going to be insane. I was right.
Mom called me five minutes after the truck pulled away all excited asking me what I thought about the “extraordinary” new furniture she got for my new house. It’s extraordinary all right. With all the black and white checks, stripes, velvet, and bright colored flowers, I couldn’t tell her it looks like Alice came back through the looking glass and threw up all over the place.
“Don’t you just adore the Rosie Sweet poster bed?” she squealed in my ear.
“Um, yeah. It’s very…umm…pink and white striped.” I tried to think of something positive to say to sound grateful. The only thing I could come up with was, No guy would ever want to fuck me in the pink bed because they’d think I was twelve years old. Which, in my case, is fine since there’s no possibility of any fucking going on in the Rosie bed or anywhere else.
Of course, I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to ruin her excitement over the outrageous stuff, which I know cost thousands of dollars. I can live with it for a couple of years, then I’ll donate it to Sloane and her new NYC apartment. She’s ooed and ahhed over the contents of the company’s catalogue a hundred times.
Since the furniture placement is more than taken care of, I focus on putting clothes away, hanging posters, placing my books in order of subject on the built-in bookshelves, anything to keep my attention off of the groups of gorgeous women leaving the house next door.
They either had another party on Saturday, or they stayed in bed from Friday night into Sunday morning. Damn. Hockey players have serious stamina. My attention strays out the kitchen window facing the hotties’ house. I notice none of the ladies are showing any indications of a walk of shame. In fact, I’d say those girls appear to be proud as hell. I guess it’s some of the ‘perks’ Dak was referring to. Apparently it’s some kind of honor to sleep with hockey players. I get they're hot, but they’re just jocks. Besides, these guys define the word player. I can’t help notice there are far more women leaving than there are men living in the house. Sheesh. These guys really are sex gods.
The fact I spent the night cuddling with my vibrator while unwanted visions of the jackass danced through my head doesn’t help suppress the steamy sensations I’m feeling at the moment as I glance out the window and see one of Dak’s roommates. He’s shirtless, barefoot, and in low hanging sweatpants, sucking face with the same brunette who rubbed up against Dak on the porch Friday night.
The boy is ripped. He has muscles in places I didn’t even know there were muscles. The tats running down the length of his arm and across his chest only accentuate his massive muscles. A big sigh escapes my lips.
Oh man. It’s definitely been too long. Not that I haven’t tried since the infamous night. Can’t do it, though. Can’t let anyone get too close. Lost in my daydream, I absently stare out the window. I become aware of my creepy voyeurism at the same time the guy looks over and catches me drooling at him and his ‘girlfriend’—I use the term loosely. Her back is to me, giving me a clear view as he runs his hands down to her ass and squeezes, and then winks at me over her shoulder.
I could duck and pretend he didn’t see me, but I know he did. Anyway, why should I be the one feeling uncomfortable? He’s the one feeling a girl up on public display.
“Nice,” I mouth to him, shake my head, and get back to unpacking. One thing about athletes, you can count on them to only be in it for the meaningless fuck.
Found that out the hard way, and I’m not talking about a hot, fun, hard way. I’m talking about the painful, demoralizing way I found out about Sean. Although, after him and all his lies and false promises, a meaningless fuck with a man-whore athlete who I’m not in love with might be nice.
Yet even if I could let someone get close again, I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl. I like the emotions, the closeness of being in a relationship, the stupid warm fuzzy feelings.
My thoughts are a tangled mess of “I want it, but I can’t do it; stay away from it, run for your life.” I want to hold my fingers up in a cross pattern and point them at the house next door to ward off the demon sex-gods. I can’t wait for classes to start tomorrow. Then there won’t be time to think about mind blowing, heart pounding, in fact all kinds of pounding—sex.
***
After making a quick veggie stir-fry for dinner, I hit the books to do more research for my thesis on ocean acidification and its effects on marine life. Living alone is great for allowing lots of quiet time to study. Since there are no distractions in the house, there’s no need to stay locked in my bedroom to study.
Unfortunately, the luxury of studying wherever I want in the house will be changing soon, because I’m going to need to find a housemate. Even though they can more than afford it and wouldn’t mind paying for everything to help me out, I don’t want to depend on my parents for rent money. They helped me out more than enough during my undergraduate studies. And I’m trying to overcome all the shit that went down in Delaware and be an independent, strong adult. I can’t keep relying on them every time there’s a bump in my road. It’s time to put on my big girl panties and figure out how to make things work on my own.
Problem is, the rent on this house is draining my bank account of the money I saved giving kayak tours in Delaware last summer. If I’m going to make my funds last, it’s time to find someone to share the rent. I’m also going into Bar Harbor sometime this week to see if I can get a part-time job with one of the kayaking tour companies. The touring season is almost over for the winter, but if the weather holds up there will be another month of tours.
The companies I worked for in the past were always impressed by my knowledge of the ocean and marine life. They encouraged me to add some information about the changing oceans, not only to make the tour more interesting, but also to help make the tourists more aware of the environmental perils the ocean is facing if we don’t do something.
Since my family has always lived on the coast—Long Island in the winter, Newport in the summer—the ocean is a big part of my life. Marine life has been my passion ever since I was old enough to understand the significance of the ocean. I hate what’s happening to the oceans on our planet and I intend on making a difference with my Marine Ecology degree.
I was doing a lot of research on the coastal wetlands and ecosystems in Delaware, but since my move to Mt. Desert Island, my focus has shifted to the outlying islands off the coast here. The move has made for a lot more work, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no way I could stay at UDel. Which brings me right back to the reason why it’s important to stay focused on my research, keep my nose in the books and my mind on the environment, not on the manscape of Dak Andersen.
The physical fatigue from unpacking finally seeps into every one of my muscle cells. After finishing up my stir-fry, I decide to continue studying sprawled out on my bed. The necessary books are spread around me for reference. My laptop’s also next to me in case I find a significant reference for my thesis, The Implication of Climate Change and Acidification on Coastal Ecosystems, and need to make a note.
I study for a while until my reading is interrupted. Muscled arms are reaching out, the hands are tearing off my clothes, and I don’t even mind the fingers touching me. My own hands move in a frenzy to unzip his jeans to free his pulsing cock. His mouth is all over my breasts, sucking and licking, while I keep stroking the massive, thick length I unleashed. I moan in pleasure as he moves down between my legs and continues to use his magical tongue, making circles over my clit before delving inside my pussy and hitting my g-spot.
“Oh sweet Jesus!” I scream out as I detonate again and again.
“Damn baby, you’re so tight. Do you think you can take all of me?” He moves up my body and places his cock at my throbbing entrance. And then the face on the sex god in front of me comes into focus and it’s…mmm, Dak Andersen. I mean, yuk, Dak Andersen. Whatever.
“Yes. Yes. Please put your gigantic cock inside me,” I beg.
“Get ready because I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to forget your name,” he says and pushes into me with a hard thrust. His cock is so huge it’s touching every point of pleasure inside me and I’m already coming again…and again. “What do you think the temperature is at this depth?” he asks as he keeps pounding into me.
“Mmm. It’s so…wait, what?”
The next thing I know I’m trying to wave the bright, irritating light away from my face. I move to get out of its path. The loud noise of my books crashing to the floor shakes me out of the sultry dream. I stretch, reveling in the sunlight streaming through the window and the afterglow of all the lovely, dirty things the guy in my dream was doing and saying to me. I’m drenched from the hundreds of explosive orgasms he brought me to. And then reality hits.
I bolt straight up. Holy shit. I fell asleep! It’s morning. No! I can’t be late for my first class. It’s at nine a.m. I grab my phone from the nightstand to see what time it is. I usually set my alarm when I get in bed, but I didn’t plan on falling asleep at eight o’clock last night and having a wet dream about—blech—Dak freaking Andersen.
It’s eight-thirty. No time to shower. I yank off my shorts and tank top and grab a clean pair of underwear and a bra. I slip into another tank, flannel shorts, and a pair of flip-flops. In the bathroom, I pull the elastic ties from my hair and run a brush through it. It’s wavy from the braid I didn’t mean to sleep in all night. Luckily, it works. The soft waves keep me from looking like a complete bedhead rag. I run a washcloth over my face. While the amount of time I take to brush my teeth and gargle would definitely not pass the ADA’s recommendations, the ADA isn’t about to make a late grand entrance into their first class at their new school, so screw correct hygiene.
I planned on riding my bike since, not only does it save on gas money and provide some aerobic exercise, it’s one of the ways I try to help save the planet from global warming. It’s a small gesture. Still, every little bit helps. But this morning I’m giving up the cause because my class is on the other side of campus in Carson Hall.
Grabbing my keys and backpack, I head out into the beautiful clear morning. One thing about this part of Maine, the scenery and environment are always spectacular, no matter what time of year it is. I take a deep breath to try to soak up some of the cleansing air to calm my already hectic day before throwing my backpack into the backseat of my shiny new fully loaded Hypergreen Rubicon. No shit.
It was a graduation present from my parents. They said I deserved it for all the hard work I had done both in school and in figure skating. I’m sure it was one more thing to try to pull me out of my depression over Sean. They would have bought me a fleet of cars if they thought it would help.
The outrageous color was my mom’s idea, of course. She said it represented my love for the environment and ecology. Also, “it looks hot with your auburn hair and brings out the color of your eyes.” Her exact words. I held back telling her if she had to coordinate the color of my car with important things in my life, an unobtrusive blue to represent my love of the ocean would be okay with me. But only a total spoiled brat would complain about the extravagant car given to her as a gift of love. And again, I didn’t want to disappoint my former-model slash current fashion designer mother with my lack of fashion sense.
Sloane has never disappointed our mom by wanting to be a nerdy scientist instead of a famous model or by falling in love with an asshole and then almost giving up everything when he dumps her. Nope. Sloane is gorgeous, levelheaded, and perfect. Besides being my sister, she’s my best friend in the whole world. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here, or anywhere, right now.
Thanks to her, here I am, climbing into the driver’s seat of my lizard green Jeep and heading off to my first graduate class in Marine Biogeochemistry.