She cocks an eyebrow, knowingly, like Buddha or some other wise religious figure, and points.
Huzzah! Danny is playing tonsil tennis with Michelle Obama Junior! This is excellent news. He can no longer go all Judge Judy on me for my romantic escapades. I celebrate with another beer and plonk myself down on the sofa. Ajita and I play a game of Shut Uppa Yo Face, whereby we watch other people’s conversations from a distance and improvize what we think they’re saying, each of us taking a character. The loser is the one who can’t think of anything to say and stalls, ultimately conceding with the words, “Shut uppa yo face.” I will admit this is a very niche game and not suitable for most social situations.
We’re right in the middle of an epic duologue – a big-issue argument over whether shredded cheese tastes different to its blockier counterparts [obviously I prefer shredded because of my fundamental laziness] – when Carson approaches us. As Ajita and I are both deeply competitive souls, neither of us wants to lose, so we just keep going and going and going, debating heatedly about the merits of grated cheddar. Carson finds this difficult to respond to. Interestingly he does not contribute to the conversation, given he has no idea it is part of an elaborate improvization contest. Maybe he just doesn’t have strong opinions about cheese, which I have difficulty wrapping my head around.
Eventually I lose the game because my beer-marinated banter is not on top form by this stage. Ajita politely excuses herself, disappearing in the direction of Baxter’s hotel-like bathroom.
“O’Neill,” Carson says. His voice is amazing, all warm and gravelly. “Can I sit?”
I resist the temptation to sarcastically reject him and say, “Sure.”
He seems genuinely pleased as he sinks into the sofa next to me. He’s close enough that his arm is pressed against mine, and I can feel his muscles bulging. The smell of his cologne makes me want to lean in even closer, but I manage to control myself for once. The soft remixed reggae continues to play in the background.
“This music’s pretty cool,” I say, bobbing along idiotically to the laid-back beat. I wish I could stop myself from looking like such a moron at all times, but alas I cannot. I’m actually pretty nervous, though I hate to admit it. It’s rare for me to like someone for more than sex – I’m no virgin, but I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. Or, you know. A relationship, period.
“Thanks!” he grins. “It’s actually my iPod.” Again he looks genuinely pleased with the compliment. He’s peeling away the label on his beer bottle and not actually looking at me, though, which makes me think maybe he’s feeling the same nerves as I am. I hope.
We chat idly for a while longer. I would love to give you a play-by-play of this conversation, but frankly it’s a little fuzzy. But what I do remember is . . .
“So, hey,” he says, slurring his words slightly. “I found your blog.”
Any blogger in the history of the internet will understand the sheer horror and humiliation associated with this sentence. It is the stuff of nightmares. It is legitimately enough reason to load yourself into a cannon and fire yourself into the ocean, clutching your laptop to your lifeless chest.
I start scanning my mental archives for any and all mentions of a) periods, b) other bodily functions, or c) Carson himself. Ding ding ding. Pretty sure I’ve covered all the important shame bases with my now-not-so-hilarious anecdotes. I’m about to excuse myself to go and immediately change my URL and install a password [which you will be relieved to know I have now done] and swallow a liter of bleach [have not yet done this, but give it time] when he adds: “So you like me, huh?”
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “I just think you’re hot in a sexy-yet-unintimidating way.”
He grins wolfishly. “Always the goal.”
I think I might as well just tattoo perma-blush to my face at this point because the amount of time I’ve spent in a state of embarrassment tonight is unprecedented and deeply concerning. I should just save my blood the hassle of having to rush to the surface of my skin and have red ink injected into my cheeks. Fortunately for my Corona-addled voice box, Carson picks up the conversational baton once again.
“And I think you’re hot too. In an entirely intimidating way.”
Then he kisses me!!!
Lest you think I am an even worse homo sapiens than you already do, let me just say that I am fully aware of how inappropriate this is. I can’t even enjoy the moment I’ve fantasized about endlessly through classes on trigonometry, because I’m scanning the room for Danny and/or Vaughan through the corners of my eyes. For a minute I wonder why I am so concerned about Vaughan, and it’s not just that I don’t want him to tell people about my gas problems. I think it’s maybe the fact I’ve recently learned he’s not a grade-A asshole and actually has a soul? Who knows?
Clearly I am not ashamed enough to stop the Carson-kissing and such, but just so you know, I do have a conscience, although it is perpetually buried under several liters of beer and an abnormally high sex drive.
The music is very loud and most people are very drunk, and I’m very dizzy like I’ve spun around in circles for eleven days, so eventually I just relax and let myself enjoy it. Surprisingly Carson is not as good a kisser as Vaughan – too much Dorito-flavored saliva for my personal taste, although I am sure others are into that particular sensation – but he’s kinda cute in the way he keeps pulling away and smiling bashfully before diving in for another round of tongue hockey. Don’t worry, he won’t read this review of his snogging technique. Like I say, I’ve password-protected my blog now. [Which should have really been my first move upon its creation, but you live and learn.]
I’m in a slight quandary.
Part of me – the biggest part – wants to get it on with Carson. He’s cute and funny and, well, I want to, which should not be too hard for you to grasp.
Then there’s the annoying, niggling part of me that worries what people will think of me if I do. If the school population discovers I banged two dudes in one night, the girls will call me a bitch and a slut, and the guys will high five and call me easy while flinging their own feces at each other.
Anyway, due to that abnormally high sex drive I mentioned earlier, I’m soon following him upstairs to Baxter’s parents’ room, where we proceed to have a lovely time. Ten out of ten would recommend having sex with Carson Manning. You can do it at least three times in one commercial break, and I sometimes think brevity is an underrated quality in coitus. I’d rather have short and sweet than cross over into slightly-boring-and-chafey territory.
[I know you’re probably reading this thinking, Oh my god, what an unbelievable whore! even though you generally consider yourself to be fairly progressive, but don’t worry. Later in the book I plan to address your problematic concerns about my promiscuity in a personal essay titled “Old White Men Love It When You Slut-shame”.]
Monday 19 September
5.47 a.m.