Melanie
“I mean it—about the sex. I can have all the sex now,” I say when I wake up. I’m groggy and barely prying my eyes open when I realize we’re not alone. Hennessey is in an armchair near the couch, and my little proclamation sends him running. He gets up quickly and walks by Jameson while offering him a fist bump that Jameson doesn’t refuse.
“Where’s Royal?” he asks.
“You know what sounds good? Cake.”
Cake plus sex equals win.
I decide, moving on from my second proclamation, that I’m totally good to get down and do the horizontal boogie. I do have some shame left. I’m nestled into his chest, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t much care where his sister is. I actually don’t care where anyone is but him. I know he’s going to turn into Mr. Bossy if I don’t answer him, though, and I love a bossy Mr. Gorgeous.
“Focus, baby. Where’s Royal?”
“Sick in the bathroom.”
“I should have watched you both better,” he says while twirling a finger in my hair.
“We’re adults,” I say. “She can do adult things. Like I can do adult things.” I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, but I can tell my mouth is heading down a road that’s going to embarrass the rest of me. I feel clearheaded and foggy all at the same time. It’s like I’ve activated some sensors whose only mission is to get Jameson naked and try to remember how this sex thing works.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a partner.
“Oh really, like sitting here on the couch drunk off your ass? Adult things like that?” he says and pokes me in my side with his finger. I jump in place and start giggling uncontrollably at the images in my head of him poking me with his dick and not his finger. My drunk brain distorts his finger into a finger dick that’s poking me relentlessly. But not in my side.
“Finger dicks are weird,” I say. His chest rumbles with a deep laugh.
“God you’re fucking wasted.”
“No really,” I say and turn around to face him. I’m lacking the faculties required to realize that when I turn around I’m going to be pressing my crotch up to his, but once I’ve turned, I don’t bother to move. This is the closest I’ve been to his impressive firehose since the day he told me he loves me.
“Seriously, though. Penises are weird. They’re all cylindrical, and they have a mushroom head. Weird.”
Holy fuck, Melanie. Shut up.
Sober Mel gets nervous and is awkward and says inappropriate things, but drunk Mel gets nervous and says all the inappropriate things about her boyfriend’s dick that she can think of, apparently.
“Hey, my dick isn’t weird,” he says with a devastating smile. He adjusts a throw pillow behind him and props his head up better so he can look down at me. “I’ve never had any complaints about my dick.”
“Well, I have a complaint about your dick,” I say and slap at his chest in irritation. He seems to recognize the error of his ways, and his smile falls. Somewhere in the back of my head I’m screaming at myself to Just. Stop. Talking. But I don’t. Because that would be wise and Drunk Mel is a fucking idiot.
“I can’t wait to hear this.” His lips are fighting a losing battle with the smile he recovers that’s brightening up my entire world.
“We’re in love, and I’ve never touched your firehose. Don’t you think that’s rude?” Once the words are out, they don’t sound so bad. It’s a decent argument, I suppose. “Friends are supposed to share their toys, and last I checked, I’m your girlfriend, so I have rights to that sucker.”
“Jesus,” he says while scrubbing his face and taking a ragged breath. “You’re too drunk for this shit.”
“Jameson Hayes, I want you to share your toys!” I crawl up his chest so we’re eye to eye and cross my arms over his gloriously defined pecs. When I realize I’m petting his nipples, I have to force myself to stop before he calls me out on it. I let my fingers walk up his chest to his throat and to his chin where I tap on his lips. This isn’t sexy, I tell myself. Be sexy, Mel. Be sexy.
“I bet you give good oral.”
That’s not sexy, stupid.
He narrows his eyes and swallows hard before gently dragging us into a sitting position. He gets me set on his lap and loops his arms under my back and my legs, holding me bridal style. It takes a deep breath and some grunting, but he manages to stand us up with me in his arms like I’ve just taken his name and he’s going to be mine forever. But even through my drunk state and images of finger penises and his firehose, I know that’s not the case. I’m just embarrassing myself, and it seems the only way I know how to make it better is by shaming myself more and more with every comment.