Because I wanted my stomach to be extra flat, I hadn’t eaten, and to cover my awkwardness, I promptly started downing Champagne.
Naturally, I became overly drunk and flirty. And what do I do?
I flamboyantly hit on and sleep with the groom-to-be’s younger brother! I mean, he’s not like jailbait young, but young enough to be embarrassing. He’s only twenty-seven! I’m thirty-two. We’re not even in the same decade. He’s still in school, for god’s sake. Okay, medical school. Well, really, he’s an orthopedic resident, but that still counts and it’s humiliating. And he’s the groom’s brother!
How cliché can I get?
My stomach heats and jumps and my knees wobble a bit at the few memories I have. I think I might be sick so I sit down on a park bench and put my head into my open palms. The night is a series of blurry images, vague conversation and sex.
Lots and lots of sex. Correction. Lots and lots of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex. The kind of sex your momma definitely didn’t tell you about. The kind of sex that makes you believe in god, because you’ve screamed his name so many times.
When Chad introduced Christopher as his younger brother, it had given me a moment’s pause. But then he’d said hi, with that smile, and it had been game on. We’d flirted shamelessly, and he’d been so cute. Christopher Fellows was boyishly, endearingly handsome with butterscotch hair and light golden-brown eyes. He’d been tall and built. His hands big and hot on my hips. And he’d been so nice. So attentive. He seemed genuinely to like me. Although in retrospect, it probably only seemed like that in my drunken brain.
A guy always seems like he likes you until he screws you, right?
I shake my aching head at the part of the night I still remember. After hours of flirting like we were sixteen-year-olds, he’d dragged me into a storage closet and gone down on me. He’d knelt on the floor, put my leg on his shoulder, and went for it. I’m not going to lie; he has the most talented tongue in the history of tongues.
I’d come so hard my legs shook.
I groan and squeeze my lids tight. If only that was the end of it, but then he’d pinned me against the door and proceeded to fuck me hard enough I saw stars.
God kill me.
The rest of the night is kind of a blur. We drank. I know that. I remember us talking but I don’t remember what we said, all I know was that it seemed like he listened to me. Was interested. Even after the closet.
I’d obviously ended up at his apartment. I remember lots of sex. I remember orgasms. At some point I’d fallen asleep and when I’d woken I’d never been so humiliated.
It was bad enough to have a drunken one-night stand, but no, I had to go have a flirtfest with the groom’s baby brother and make a fool out of myself in front of practically every person I know.
My mind has a brief flash of us rolling around on the bed, hot and sweaty. Me riding him, my head thrown back, his hands on my breasts. I get another image of him pounding into me from behind, his fingers working my clit.
I gasp, flushing hot. Oh, dear god, no. Had I really swallowed his cock while I’d straddled his face?
The image crystalizes. Shit. I did.
I’d really grinded away there, hadn’t I?
I’d also screamed, moaned, and groaned. I’d been insatiable. I hadn’t even cared what I looked like. There was something about Christopher that had made me want to come again. And again. And again.
Just shoot me.
If I’ve learned anything from my long list of humiliations, it’s that when you slut it up with a guy the first night you’ve lost their respect. But, how was I to know he’d turn me into a raving sex maniac?
He’d been so cute! He looked liked he’d be a puppy dog in bed—which is honestly why I’d glommed onto him. I thought he’d be eager and playful and cuddly. I thought I’d have to give him instructions. Show him where the clitoris was. Make him think about baseball so he wouldn’t come too fast.
I thought he’d make me feel good about myself again.
I was wrong.
We’d had super-dirty, porn sex. Like, insane, embarrassing sex. It was the best I’d ever had.
There’s no coming back from that.
So I’d crawled out of his bed, crept through his apartment, and left.
Now, here I am. Clearly, I’ll never be able to face him again. I’ll have to somehow come up with an excuse for why I can’t go to Chad and Ruby’s wedding.
My head is pounding. My body sore from the workout I’d given it last night.
This is wrong. I have to make some changes. I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t keep looking outside myself for validation. For acceptance. I can’t keep expecting some guy to fill me up and make me whole. I remember the words Christopher’s brother, Chad, spoke to me so long ago, a man won’t fix what’s broken inside you. And this morning, after sleeping with Christopher, I finally understand what he meant.
I have to change. I need to find peace.