“Then what?” Marcus asked, trying like hell to trip me up.
“Then . . .” I paused. I had to continue. “Then you’re right there . . . on the precipice of the big finish.” It’s amazing how you could almost describe anything using sexual innuendo. I was nailing this. The men around us were hooked; a few of them had moved closer and closer as I spoke. They seemed to be hooked, anyway. I couldn’t be sure if I was selling to them or if they were just horny bastards acting like dogs panting over me. Or maybe they were both. I let out a soft moan for emphasis.
“Then you fly,” Paul intervened. “You feel free and weightless. The adrenaline rush is intense.”
“It sounds intense,” the one standing closest to me said, his gaze fixed on me. “Maybe I can get your number and you can tell me some more about it?”
Before I could respond, Paul whipped a brochure out of his back pocket and handed it to him. “Call that number there or visit our website.” With that, he took my beer and threw one arm around me, placing his hand on the bare skin of my side. I was stunned. Marcus was too, apparently, as his mouth twisted even more. The one that asked for my number backed away, holding his hands up as if surrendering. I moved to jerk Paul’s hand away, but his grip tightened. Then he said, “You guys enjoy the race.” Paul led me away, his arm still around me, his hand gripping my waist. When we were about twenty feet away, I got my wits back and shoved him off of me. He laughed as he stumbled to the side.
“What the hell was that?” I hissed.
“They were about to mount and start dry humping you.”
“You’re the one that told me I should flirt to sell!”
“Yes, flirt. Not look like you were auditioning for Playboy.”
I rubbed my forehead. This conversation was killing me. But deep down, I knew what he was saying. He thought I went overboard; went too far. And I did. I knew that. But I was so tired of him and Marcus and the guys making me out to be this shrew with a stick up my ass. Just because I didn’t walk around and act like a bimbo and fawn all over every attractive man I saw, didn’t mean I was incapable of doing it. Looking back, it was stupid. I was an intelligent woman. And I reduced myself to prove him wrong. The feminists of the world would have hung their heads in shame if they’d witnessed it. But on the other side of that, there was this: I wanted to make Paul see me in a different way. I wanted him to see I could be sexy. However, I would never have told him that. So I played dumb. “You said to flirt. You challenged me to prove I could do it.”
He chuckled disdainfully. “Well, I didn’t know you’d go over there and act like a sex kitten,” he grumbled.
Shaking my head, I asked, “Sex kitten?”
“What was with rubbing the beer all over you like that?”
I laughed. Like, really laughed. “I thought it was a nice touch.”
“All you needed was some cheesy music and you’d have had the start of an amateur porn movie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now you’re exaggerating.”
“Dude was about to bend you over the cornhole boards and go at it.”
“Paul!” I shrieked, looking around to see if people passing by heard him. “You’re being disgusting.”
“It could have been titled: Corn in The Hole.
“You’re so gross!” I groaned as I tugged my shirt back down, my modesty having returned full force.
“No,” Marcus piped in, making me jump. I hadn’t noticed him behind us. What was it with this guy? “He’s not so gross. He’s so jealous.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure of how to respond to that. Was Paul really jealous? As for Paul, he pretended not to hear Marcus. Instead, he immediately beelined for another group of people and stopped right in front of a woman with huge boobs wearing a white T-shirt. And she had no bra on. Paul was like white on rice. Maybe he wasn’t jealous after all.
Ashley watches me, the slightest smirk on her face. “He was definitely jealous.”
I snicker. “He was the most confusing man I’d ever met.” Looking at my watch, I realize I’m already late for dinner. “Are we done for today? I’m late.”
“Oh, sure. Same time next week?”
“See you then.”
When I get home after Ashley releases me, it’s already close to seven. As I climb the stairs of my porch, the front door opens and out steps Mei-ling, donning a Chinese Hanfu dress. It’s red, with gold flowers embroidered into it. Her black hair is tied up in a seemingly loose bun, sticks crossing in the back of it. She looks like a China doll, her skin flawless, lightened with makeup and rouge added to her cheeks.
“Ni hao,” she greets me, bowing slightly. I stare at her a moment, slightly stunned. I was expecting to come home and eat pizza and pass out on the couch while watching some corny movie with everyone, not to be greeted at the door this way. From the open doorway, beautiful music plays, beats and twangs of instruments I’m not familiar with, but the sound is amazing. Foreign.