This is the first two chapters of my debut novel, Hang-Ups and Hangovers. David McCleary is terrible with women. He is also broke. Still, he intends to master one to turn around his luck with the other.
“Are you a straight man, David?” Dr. Kirk asked.
“Excuse me?” I replied, sitting on Dr. Kirk’s examination table in only navy shorts. Navy shorts are the best shorts. They go with just about anything and they always look one degree nicer than khaki shorts. Plus they can be found cheap. I didn’t really believe in spending a lot of money on clothes. I had a couple pairs of khaki shorts, but I usually just wore the same navy shorts over and over.
At my feet, Dr. Kirk peered between my toes as his gloved hands separated each toe from the other. “Are you a heterosexual or a homosexual?” he asked, rephrasing the question as if I had failed to understand my available answers.
“I’m straight,” I said, unsure of his intentions.
“I know you are,” Dr. Kirk chuckled. “I read your book and it was pretty clear throughout.”
“You did? Did you like it?” I asked, eager for praise.
“Yeah, it was pretty good. Knowing you, I was surprised at its depth.” It was a textbook left-handed compliment but coming from Dr. Kirk I was pleased with it anyway.
“So why did you ask me that question?”
“I asked, David, because I wanted to make a point.” I waited for him to continue, but of course he didn’t. He liked playing coy. Stringing out the drama until I desperately pried the answer from him.
“And that point was…?”
“Straight men don’t use tanning beds, David. Especially not Irish ones. McClearys are not meant to be tan.”
“But I need a base tan!” I blurted out, which I immediately regretted as Dr. Kirk raised his eyebrow at me. “I mean, because I’m going to the beach tomorrow and I don’t want to burn.”
“Sunscreen!” Dr. Kirk urged from my feet and started moving his analysis up my calves.
“But I don’t want to be on the beach looking all ghostly—”
“McClearys are not meant to be tan!” Dr. Kirk repeated, standing up. “Look, I like you, Dave. You’re a nice guy. So I don’t want you coming in here having cancer because of your being a gay idiot, okay? Trust me. I worked in New York for fifteen years before this, and the only way to get tan up there was those deathbeds. You know how many people I diagnosed with skin cancer in one day? You wanna know what my record day was?”
I didn’t dare venture a guess. Dr. Kirk was the kind of guy who, no matter what you said, had a knack for turning everything you said into the dumbest thing he had ever heard. I shrugged my shoulders and asked him what his record day was. Before he answered he made a swooping gesture with his hands for me to stand up, extending his dramatic pause. He crouched down and looked over my knee and thigh. “Thirty-five,” Dr. Kirk replied flatly, as though his own record couldn’t impress himself. “I had thirty-five fucking guidos come into my office in a single day. All of ‘em roided out and tan, who all had some form of cancer on their bodies. Cancer is not a joke. You don’t want it. It’s awful.”
“No, I do not.”
Dr. Kirk stood up and looked at me, “Good. And also you don’t want people thinking you’re a queer, do you?” He slapped me hard on the shoulder and cracked a smile.
“I guess not.”
“Then stay the hell outta the tanning beds. Now…where is the one you’re worried about?” I twisted around so that I could connect my right pointer finger with the back of my right thigh and pointed to a freckle-sized mole right above the back of my knee. I started to explain its history.
“I was scratching the back of my leg and I felt this mole. It was kind of raised and rough so it made me a little nervous.”
Dr. Kirk moved in closer for inspection. “That?” he asked, tapping it with his finger. I nodded nervously. “That’s melanocytic nevus. You got that from your parents. That’s hereditary.”
“I got it from my parents? How do you get a mole from your parents?”
“It’s in your genes. When the egg and the sperm came together, you got that thing. It’s harmless. See it there?” He flippantly pointed the direction of a chart on the wall showing about ten different types of skin marks. “Completely harmless. Just a mole. You’re fine. Okay, moving on. You said there was one on your waist…”
I pointed to a smaller mole just above the belt loop to the right of my buckle.
“That. I am not impressed with that. I wouldn’t even worry about that.” He continued searching from my hips up to my ribs. “You see this?” Dr. Kirk quipped, grabbing a dark ring of flesh a few inches beneath my left nipple. “This is a third nipple that never fully developed.” I smiled. Someone had said that to me before and I forgot who told me. After the discovery, I had a sudden awareness of the notably longer and thicker hairs that germinated around my undeveloped nipple.
Dr. Kirk moved to my left rib cage. “There’s a little birthmark. That’s cute,” he remarked under his breath. “You know what you need to do? What you need to do is find a nice tan-skinned Latina girl and marry her. That way you can save your kids from your awful skin.” I actually had a girlfriend whom I was on my way to see as soon as I left Dr. Kirk’s office. Her name was Leslie and she was indeed, tan. “Look here, you’re already freckling all over your shoulders. And you’ve got little white spots all over your back. That’s definitely from the tanning bed.” Finishing his inspection, Dr. Kirk took a seat on his little wheelie throne. “So, do you have anything else, I need to check out?” he asked, circling his hands around his erogenous zones.
“No,” I chuckled, “Everything is fine down there.”
“Good,” he breathed a sigh of relief, “because I definitely didn’t want to see your cock.”
I laughed. Dr. Kirk stood up with an air of content for his inspection and also the badass, don’t-give-a-fuck demeanor that he exhibited during its execution. “Alright,” Dr. Kirk concluded, “so, stay out of the tanning bed and get yourself a tan girlfriend.”
“My girlfriend is kind of tan,” I slipped in with quiet pride.
“Perfect. You’re beating me at my own advice. I married a blonde-haired, blue-eyed German girl.” Which didn’t surprise me one bit. I bet she was beautiful, too, and imagined Dr. Kirk to be the guy who married the cheerleading captain. Dr. Kirk probably grew up more successful and wittier than everyone around him; his sarcastic humor and confidence made it easy for me to picture him as the asshole everyone loved in college. “You keep that tan girl,” he said as he reached the door to leave. “Unless you find a hotter, more tan girl.” Dr. Kirk winked at me and exited the room.
Visits to Dr. Kirk were always amusing. I smiled to myself as I put on my shirt and slid my flip flops on. I smiled about my little harmless moles I had just spent seventy-five dollars to have made fun of. I smiled at Dr. Kirk’s bedside manner. I smiled about Leslie. I would be en route to her shortly. I smiled about seeing my bros, Evan and Nemo.
I left Dr. Kirk’s office and hopped in my night-race blue Corvette—my pride and joy. It was the one nice thing I purchased for myself from the success of my book. My next stop was Greenville, North Carolina, to see Leslie. I pulled my glasses out of the console and slid them on. The lenses were thin, black, rounded rectangles that did nothing really to combat the glare of the sun. The glasses were probably four or five years old and I had bought them at a gas station for twelve dollars. About a year prior, in the heat of a North Carolina summer, I left them sitting out in my old car, a 1998 Toyota, and one of the rubber nose pieces dried out and broke off. I used a tiny screwdriver to remove the nose piece off a different pair of neglected glasses at my parents’ house to replace the broken one in mine. The left nose piece was clear and the right was duller with a honey tint. The glasses were cheap and terrible but I had trouble replacing them. For one thing, I had a tiny head that precluded me from wearing normal-sized glasses or baseball hats. You couldn’t tell I had a small head just by looking at me, but when I put on a hatand the brim slid down the bridge of my nose, it would be obvious that my head didn’t have a lot of girth. I turned the key and the engine roared. Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow” resumed and I pulled out of the parking lot with the windows down.
Sitting in gridlocked traffic shortly thereafter, I cursed my stupidity for scheduling a doctor’s appointment at 3:00 p.m. on a Friday. All the worker-bee wage slaves of Charlotte flooded out of their offices at 5:00 p.m. and clogged every lane leading in and out of the city. The exit ramp from 77 toward I-85 consisted of one lane, which was idiotic. What a poor job of city planning, I thought, considering it was the main road out of the metropolis.
Locked between a black BMW and a red BMW, I made up the meat in their yuppie sandwich. What a bunch of brainwashed sheep, these people. The roads were chock full of folks stuck in repeat. Wake up, go to work, come home, pay bills, sleep, repeat.
I needed a distraction from my negative thoughts. They had a way of spiraling out of control sometimes. I pulled my cell phone out and typed a quick text telling Leslie to get hyped for the weekend. Moving down the highway foot by foot, I pressed the gas then hit the brakes. Pressed the gas, hit the brakes. And then pressed the gas and hit the brakes some more. “Goddammit,” I muttered. Traffic stood still for another a minute and my left arm rested in the window baking in the sun’s rays. Concentrated blasts of cold air from my vents dried out my eyeballs. Traffic crept. Then picked up. Then moved. I lifted my foot off the brake and coasted forward. The buzz of my cell phone in my lap grabbed my attention. I opened the message. Oh…
On the screen a pair of perfectly defined and proportional nipples stared back at me. Perched at the peak of Leslie’s D-sized breasts, they were squeezed close together and slightly pointing toward each other, guided by Leslie’s arms. For the size of Leslie’s boobs, her nipples were exceptional. They were the perfect size. Big nipples grossed me out. Leslie’s nipples were perfect.
I lifted the phone and cocked my head sideways for a better look. My goodness. Even with her gifted bust size, Leslie still maintained a slender and toned tummy. I squinted at the picture to take in the details. As my eyes danced over the picture, images flashed through my mind of what I would do to Leslie once I reached her apartment. I shifted to make room for my growing member, and as I did, I caught sight of the backend of a red car and an M3 emblem that sat remarkably clear and close on the rear. I slammed on the brakes and my heart raced and my arms tingled with adrenaline. Too close. My Corvette was my baby. I didn’t know what I would do if something happened to her. I saw a Volkswagen Beetle rear-end a Fiat once. It was the cutest accident I’d ever seen. Traffic resumed its slow trickle forward and I reached I-85. Open road for the next three hours. Next stop: Leslie’s apartment.
I rapped my knuckles three times against Leslie’s door and waited. It was just after 8:00 p.m. During this time of year, the sun was still out, even at this hour. Shadows cast by nearby trees and vehicles grew taller and taller.
On the other side of the door the patter of a dog bouncing off the furniture and walls could be heard. The door cracked open and Leslie grunted as she skirmished to keep her border collie, Rufus, at bay. I squeezed into the inch-wide opening between the frame and door. “Hey, babe,” I said. I maneuvered myself the rest of the way inside, fending the dog away from the gap in the doorway with my leg. “Hey!” Leslie yiped. She spun in place on her toes and walked through the living room toward her bedroom. When she spun, her hair whipped near my face and the scent of her vanilla shampoo lingered. I inhaled its seductive fragrance. She had a cute, little strut to her walk. I adored her body. She was short, about 5’1 with long, wavy, brown hair and gymnast’s legs and ass.
I inhaled the familiar scent of Leslie’s apartment and felt the calming sensation of having reached my destination. I wasn’t aware of the urgency I had carried until the weight of it lifted.
Leslie’s apartment was a quaint one-bedroom. A textbook college student apartment. Soft, natural light split the blinds in the living room. The kitchen light was on. She had a matching brown couch and love seat set with purple throw pillows and a flat screen TV on a black, glass table. Tattered plastic dog toys and frayed tug-of-war ropes littered the floor. I started after Leslie, making my way towards her room. Rufus ran circles around me and blocked my path, tangling himself in my ankles. I stepped over him and he ran back between my legs and in my way. I grabbed his collar and led him to the side. When I let go, he ran a circle around me and nipped at my heel. In a knee-jerk, or rather heel-jerk, reaction, my foot responded with a swift lift and it connected with Rufus’s jaw. He yelped. “What was that?” Leslie asked, whipping her head out from her bedroom doorway.
“What?” I asked, throwing up my hands.
“Did you hit my dog?”
“No, of course not! I stepped on his foot on accident. The little shit keeps running around.”
“I swear to God…” she started.
“I’m telling you, if that dog had a super power it would be the ability to be in the way of every single person at all times.” I finally crossed the threshold into Leslie’s room. “I wouldn’t hit your dog, I promise.”
“You better not.”
“Do you love that damned dog more than me?”
“What?” Leslie said walking toward her dresser.
“Come here, babe. Don’t ya miss me?”
“I gotta get readyyy,” Leslie whined.
“Wait. You’re not ready?”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
“Babe, you’ve known about this trip for like three weeks.” I was peeved. It was already late and we had another hour of driving to reach the beach house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go without me?”
“What? Are you serious? I just drove all the way here from Charlotte. Pack your shit. And hurry up.”
“Errrr,” she growled as she leaned over to open her dresser drawers. I was pissed. I had just driven three and a half hours to pick her up for this trip. Instead of saying hi or giving me any hugs or kisses, she was suggesting I just go on without her.
“Like, why would you even ask me something like that? You don’t want to go?”
“I just don't need to be spending money with no money coming in. I still haven’t found a new job.”
“Well, you probably should have had a backup before you walked out on your last one.”
“Orrrr, you could finish one of those damn books and be my sugar daddy again. We still have to go to Burma.”
“That’s all you want, is my money…” I grumbled.
“Oh please. When we first started dating, you were just an accountant.”
“Not just an accountant. An auditor. At one of the largest CPA firms in the galaxy. And I made good money back then, too, which explains why you wanted me in the first place, doesn’t it?”
“Babe! I’m going by myself to meet your friends on Memorial Day weekend. Do you know how many of my friends I had to tell ‘no’ for this? Friends I grew up with. Friends I worked with. Friends I go to school with.”
“I know, I know. But I’m your boyfriend so I should always be number one. And yes, they are my friends but they are also the most important people in my life. And that is exactly why I want you to come. But now I think I just want to kill you and bury your body in a field somewhere.”
“Babe! You’re insane!”
“What? You’ve been acting like you don’t want to go for the last week, making up weird excuses like every day.”
“Okay! I’m going.” She pulled a giant purple suitcase from her closet and threw it on the floor in front of her dresser.
“You’re supposed to want to go. I shouldn’t have to beg and convince you to want to be with your boyfriend. That’s not good.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Leslie replied, shaking her head.
“Dramatic? I mean, here I am super stoked about this amazing weekend beach trip and my girlfriend isn’t ready and is acting like she doesn’t want to go. You’ve been a real pain in the ass. How the hell are you not ready?”
“Shut up,” she said, grabbing up heaps of clothes and chucking all the contents into the suitcase.
“Hey!” I barked and reached for her hand. She tried to shoo me away and I grabbed her arm and tugged her to a stand. “Gimme a kiss.”
“No.” She was bent over to her dresser again, grabbing armfuls of clothes from the bottom drawer and throwing them into her canyon-sized suitcase.
“Gimme a kiss.”
“Stop. Hey, stop. Come here.” I took hold of her arms above her elbow and pulled her back to me.
“What? I gotta paaaack,” she whined some more.
“But I want a kiss.”
“You don’t deserve one,” Leslie pouted.
“Deserve one? Trick, I just drove three and half hours to pick your not-ready ass up!” At this she giggled. She was acting like a little shit, putting me through the ringer, and she knew it. “Now come ‘ere. Gimme a kiss.” I moved in for a kiss and she ducked her chin.
“No,” she said, looking away, grinning.
“I’m gonna whip your ass.” I pulled her tighter and wrapped her up in my arms. I couldn’t help but smile at Leslie and her shit-eating grin as she continued her childish act. I moved in once again for a kiss again and she whipped her head the other way. I pecked her on the cheek. She whipped away again as I tried to maneuver once more for her lips. “You little shit.” I went left, she went right. I went right, she went left. Back and forth, faster and faster and she started giggling and I peppered her face with kisses.
Finally, after about a dozen kisses, Leslie had had enough and kissed me back. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her face into mine. It was the first time I felt like she really missed me since we had been apart.
I met Leslie while working for the CPA firm. One of my clients was a large hospital system in Greenville and I had to spend several weeks in a hotel. My favorite restaurant was The Ale House, a sports bar about a mile from my hotel. Leslie was my waitress.
I don’t have a fairy tale story about our meeting or how I swept her off her feet. As a matter of fact, I initially insulted her after she brought me water. She set the glass down in front of me and I couldn’t help but notice the ragged state of her fingernails. The polish was chipped off most of her nails and bits of dark purple still clung pathetically around the cuticles. Is it so hard to just remove the dead polish or put on a fresh coat? When I saw Leslie’s hand, I commented without thinking, as I often did, “Did you do your nails up just for me or is there some other special person you are expecting?” Her jaw dropped, but she smiled.
The next time she came back I asked her about her hair, which she had poorly attempted to wrangle with a half-assed ponytail. “Is that a new style? I’m just wondering. I don’t keep up with you kids and your fashion trends. Either way, it looks awful.” Leslie covered her mouth while she laughed at my audacity. It seemed the meaner I was to her, the better she responded. When she returned a third time with my food she said she may or may not have tampered with the contents. But she had that smile. That mischievous smirk. When she flashed it, it was over. I fell for her right there, that moment. I also noticed that a new, sweet, flowery scent followed her. She had put on scented lotion or perfume. She had also fixed her hair, fitting all the loose strands back into the ponytail.
Kissing Leslie in her room, I felt the same attraction and passion for her as the moment we met. I opened my mouth and she opened hers. My tongue slid in between her lips and met hers. Softly, they caressed each other. I felt down her back with one hand and squeezed her ass, lifting upward. She breathed more heavily. A hint of a whimper slipped from her breath. I drew back and looked down into her eyes. I have a weakness for brown eyes. While in school, I always thought I liked blue or green eyes, like my own hazel eyes. About halfway through my freshman year of high school I realized all my crushes had tan skin, brown hair, and brown eyes. I embraced that as my “type” every day since.
Leslie’s eyes were perfect. Deep and dark, the iris barely separated itself from her pupil. They twinkled when she smiled. Looking up into my eyes, she bit her lip. Lifting her up from the ground by her butt I took a couple steps for the bed. She wrapped her legs around my waist. I laid her down on her back. She pulled away, whispering, “But, babe. I gotta pack.” She watched for my reaction through a wry smile.
“I’ll whip your ass…” I threatened. I reached for the button on her coral shorts and pulled them open. She slid her thumbs in her bottoms at the waist and lifted her butt up into the air. Her shorts and panties slid right off. On my knees over Leslie, I unbuttoned my shorts and yanked them to my knees and fell over on my side. Kicking off the shorts, I threw myself back on top of her. I grabbed her by her hips, which were smooth to the touch, thick, and tight with muscle. I easily slid inside of her. She yiped. Leslie didn’t really do the whole moan thing. She was a “yiper.” She would let out short, intense, ear-piercing squeals. Every time she let out a yipe from pleasure, it would shatter my eardrums and shoot an extra pint of blood straight into my cock. This created a heavenly cycle of yipes, pain, and intensifying erections, which is the formula for the best sex ever. Leslie and I didn’t make love often, but we fucked constantly. This time, I plowed into her like I had been forced into abstinence for the last three months.
I thrust into Leslie and she wrapped her thick legs around my waist, locking her ankles. The bed rocked in rhythm as I picked up pace and her screams escalated to deafening intensity. She gushed and I could feel it spreading over to my thighs. Her back arched. She gripped onto her pillow under her head and squealed. To this day, I’m convinced she got off on the idea that her neighbors above us could hear her cries. Startled by his keeper’s screams, Rufus dashed into the room and stood beside the bed and barked. It was distracting. The bed creaked and groaned, Leslie yiped, I grunted, and Rufus barked. One of my feet hooked the side of the bed and Rufus nipped the heel. “HEY!” I shouted, ready to kill him.
“Rufus, no!” Leslie shouted. “Don’t stop, baby,” she commanded. What the fuck, Rufus?
Rufus barked some more and gestured half charges, threatening another strike. “Goddammit,” I growled, grabbing the comforter and throwing it over Leslie and myself. He started barking frantically. If the neighbor could hear us now, I bet her imagination was painting an interesting picture.
“Babe! Focus!” Leslie demanded. I couldn’t. Fucking stupid dog. I labored to regain my stride but the magic had disappeared, and when I finished, I did so unceremoniously and mechanically. I rolled onto my back, and instead of reflecting on what should have been amazing and hot sex, I imagined in what way I would be able to explain to Leslie how I accidentally dropkicked Rufus through a window. With all the excitement over, Rufus sat like a piece of shit beside the bed and watched me. I glared at him, hoping that in his little dog brain he would still be able to register the enmity in my glower.
Rufus, Destroyer of Game.
On the first night Leslie had invited me to come over, Rufus wrecked the entire evening. I stood outside Leslie’s door in October, seven months earlier, when it was unseasonably cold outside, almost freezing. The blades of grass around the sidewalks had frosted tips from the icy dew. I knocked just like I had today, and I waited, just like I had today. Leslie cracked open the door and looked around the edge with half her face. She was so cute. She let me inside and walked into the living room. As soon as I crossed the threshold into her apartment, the promised land for any twenty-something male meeting up with a sexy waitress, that little cock sucker Rufus bolted out of the door. Some guard dog he was, dashing out of the house as soon as a strange man entered. Leslie and I spent over an hour chasing him around the apartments. In a great big, open field primed for more apartment units, Rufus turned it into an arena for a game of cat and mouse with us. He wouldn’t listen to anything Leslie commanded and I made up my mind that Satan had sent him. Leslie kept tossing pieces of strawberry Pop Tarts out to bait him into coming close enough to grab. He would run in, snatch the Pop Tart pieces up, and take off. I should have suggested she throw him chocolate….
“Babe,” Leslie said, peeking down the comforter we laid under. “Your socks!” I looked down at my feet. I was still wearing my black socks, and I laughed out loud. Leslie had a weird thing about socks during sex. “Eww! I hate when you do that! Take them off!” I laughed harder. “Babe! I’m serious!”
“Relax. I gotta hop in the shower then we gotta go.”
“You’re such a weirdo.”
“You shower more than anyone I’ve ever met. You shower like fifty times a day.”
“I shower after sweaty, juicy, squirter sex before I climb in my car to sit for hours, yes.” Bare-assed, I walked into the attached bathroom and pissed. Leslie and I were past the formalities of closing doors while we peed.
“Yeah, but you shower fifty times a day irregardless.”
“That’s not a fucking word! And I like to be clean,” I said over my shoulder.
“Whatever. Weirdo. And put down the seat.”
I flushed and replaced the toilet seat. “Don’t yell at me. Shouldn’t you be packing?” I started the shower. The running water beat loudly against the tub floor while I waited for it to heat up.
“Asshole.” Leslie hopped her little, naked ass off the bed and knelt beside her bag to resume packing. Goddammit, she was cute.
About ninety minutes behind schedule, Leslie and I pulled out of the apartment complex in her white 4Runner. I didn’t want beach sand in my Corvette and her car offered more room for her canyon-sized suitcase. I drove. I had donned a silky white, flower-patterned shirt. We listened to country tunes on the radio. About forty-five minutes into our road trip, Leslie cried out, “SPADIDDLE!” and scared the bejesus out of me.
“What?” I asked, puzzled.
“Spadiddle. Don’t tell me you’ve never played Spadiddle, babe.”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it. It’s a driving game. If you see a car coming with a headlight out you say ‘Spadiddle’ and whoever says it last has to take off a piece of clothing. We played it all the time in high school. You’ve never played it before?”
“Well, I wasn’t a total whore in high school, so…”
“I’m not a whore.”
“No, you’re not.” I had struck a nerve.
“Yes. I am.”
“SPADIDDLE!” she cried out again and punched me in the arm. “What are the chances? Oh sorry. We don’t have to play my whore game.”
“Ow! What the fuck? Now there’s punching?” I jabbed, ignoring Leslie’s latter comment. She went into pout mode with her arms folded across her chest, bottom lip poking out slightly. Maybe I was supposed to feel bad but I couldn’t help gawk at how cute she was when she was mad. “Take the wheel,” I instructed.
“Take the wheel,” I repeated as I slid my head into the neck of my shirt.
“Babe!” Leslie reached across the console for the wheel.
“Don’t kill us!” I shouted, sliding myself out of my shirt. “There. You win. Shirt’s off. But you won’t get the best of me twice.”
“You could have just unbuttoned it!”
“Yeah, but what fun would that have been?”
“You’re such a psycho,” she whispered.
“Hey! What did I tell you about that? I don’t like that.” Leslie showed a childlike grin and once again I was transfixed by her cuteness. “I love you,” I said. She could do no wrong.
“Love you too, babe,” she said, facing the front of the car again. “I’m glad we had sex earlier ‘cause that’s all you get this weekend.”
“Oh yeah? How you figure?”
“I’m supposed to start my period today.”
“So? That’s just more lubrication for me. I’m tryin’ to get my red wings tonight.”
“Babe! That’s nasty!”
“Oh yeah, that’s not gonna stop me. One Bud Light and I won’t even think twice about a little blood.”
“You’re so disgusting!”
“I’m serious. It’s gonna look like a murder scene in the spare bedroom. I ain’t scurred.”
“Oh my God.”
“All this talk about period sex got me all hot.”
“You are a psycho! Babe for real though, this is my first time staying there so we can’t have sex. I want to make a good first impression. Bloody sheets are probably a bad start.”
“Whatever, you’ve already met Evan.”
“I know, but I haven’t met Nemo and it’s his beach house.”
“Nemo’s house means it’s basically my house. He really likes me.”
“You guys have been best friends since what? The third grade?”
“Yeah. I need new friends. I can’t stand that asshole,” I joked.
“Oh, whatever. So no sex this weekend, okay?”
“Whatever. I ain’t worried about it. You’ll have a sip of rum and coke and be trying to bang me in a dirty beach bar bathroom.”