“No.” I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the paper in front of me. “You don’t have to worry about that. Not really a ladies’ man.” But what about Emma . . . I glance at her and ask, “Are you going to be putting socks on the doorknob?”
Looking flustered from my bold question, she says, “Oh, gosh no. It’s been so long for me. You don’t have to worry about Mr. Donkey Dick coming in here and drilling me while you’re trying to catch a little shut-eye. Nope, nope, nope, the sex doesn’t happen very often for me. Nope. No . . . no sex here.”
“Okay.” I chuckle and try to focus on the rules, but what the fuck? It’s been so long for me. Sex doesn’t happen very often for me. Are the guys at her college fucking blind?
Exactly how long? Fuck, I want to know, but it’s not my business, so I bite my tongue and take a few deep breaths, warning myself from getting too personal with Emma. She’s clearly flustered, and I don’t want to embarrass her more by diving deep into her lack of sex. Not that I have much room to speak.
“Well, this is awkward,” Emma states, twisting her hands on her lap.
“Nah, it’s cool.” I clear my throat and say, “We already talked about this, but rule number four is don’t go in the other spare room.”
“That’s a given, you don’t have to write it down.” She places her hand on my arm. “Please trust me, I won’t go in there.”
I let out a long breath. “Yeah, okay.” Wanting to lighten the mood, I say, “Rule number four, we might not have to worry about it given our recent confession of apparently both being celibate motherfuckers, but this is important. If at any point in time the butter leaves the kitchen, for any uh, reason,” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, “the butter is not to be returned to the kitchen.”
Her pause in reaction throws me for a second before she throws her head back and laughs. “I don’t even want to know how you’ve been scarred in the past by misplaced butter.”
“Yeah, you really don’t.” I put a period at the end of the rule and then say, “One more rule, five seems like a respectable number. Your turn, Em.”
“Hmm, I want to make it a good one, but I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be hard to follow up the butter rule.”
“Give it your best shot,” I say with humor in my voice.
“We’re good on stuff like dishes and toilet paper reloading and putting the seat down?”
“Yeah, common-sense shit doesn’t count.”
“And returned butter isn’t common sense.”
I lean forward and whisper, “You would be fucking surprised.”
The shiver that shakes her whole body . . . “Gross. I really don’t want to know what happened. You keep that tidbit to yourself.”
“All right, but if you ever get the urge to know . . .”
“You’ll be the first I come to.” Shivering again, she rests her head against the wall, her neck stretching to a long length, showing off the smooth column of skin. For some odd reason, I have the urge to lean over and take in her scent, to see if she smells as sweet as she acts.
What the hell, man? This is Emma. Jesus, this hard cider must be getting to my head. Cheap girly shit of a drink.
“Oh, I got it,” Emma says, moving her head back to a neutral position. “Music Mondays. We get to pick a song for that week. We can rotate weeks. And we should write down the songs we pick. Who knows, we could have one hell of a playlist by the time I graduate.”
“Good rule. I’ll fucking school you in music selection, just a fair warning.”
“No way. Weren’t you listening to EMO back in high school?”
I pull my gaze from the pad where I’m writing to say, “People change, babe, I have good taste now. Just you wait.” I finish up writing down the rule and ask, “Who gets to pick first?”
“Rock paper scissors?”
“That works.” We get into position and clang our hands against our open palms and both say rock, paper, scissors. My paper beats her rock, making me the victor. “That’s fucking right, I go first. And since I won, I think whoever’s in charge of Music Monday is in charge of the rest of the rules that week. That way we don’t get confused. Deal?”
I hold my hand out to her, which she stares at for a second before gripping it and shaking. “Deal.”
“That a girl.” I look down at my watch, my eyes feeling tired as I take in the time. “Fuck, I’m spent. I’m going to head up to bed. Are you all set? Do you need anything?”
“I’m good.” We both stand. She gathers the pizza box and drinks and sticks them in the bare-bones fridge. Shit, I need to buy groceries.
Wanting to make it official, I rip the rules off the pad of paper, reach into the junk drawer in the kitchen and take a piece of Duct Tape from the roll I keep handy. I put the paper against the wall in the kitchen where we can both easily see it and tape it down.
I bring Emma close to my body by wrapping my arm around her and say, “It’s official. We’re roomies.” It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience with my arm around Emma. I don’t do this, this touchy-feely bullshit, and yet, here I am, being a considerate motherfucker with Emma.
“I guess so.”
“Don’t forget to pay your rent. I’m not opposed to evicting.” I give her a wink before taking off upstairs. “Have a good night, Emma. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” I hear her whispered response. My chest swells with pride. For the first time since I’ve lived in this house, I don’t feel so fucking lonely. Maybe having Emma stay with me was a good idea after all.
Tucker and Emma’s House Rules for Living Together
Once a week, Emma has to put down the books and do something fun, let the wind flap in her tits. Enjoyment of chosen activity is a must. *Edited to add all activities involving heights, holding snakes, or porcelain dolls aren’t considered enjoyment for Emma. Do not try to include them.
One night a week, Emma and Tucker talk about sex, all the sex, penises and vaginas, vaginas and penises. The good, the bad, and the dirty. Condoms are encouraged to be used as hand puppets for educational purposes.
One night a week, Emma and Tucker cook dinner together, something healthy that doesn’t involve pizza, tacos, or beer. One veggie is required in the meal, but it can’t be iceberg lettuce; it’s just water, nor a potato.
If the butter is removed from the kitchen, the butter is not allowed back in the kitchen. Respect the butter, respect your roomies, and keep genitals away from butter tub, even if said genitals can’t believe it’s not butter.
Music Mondays. DJ Hot Cock, aka Tucker, and DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits, aka Emma, take turns picking a song for the week. DJ Hot Cock will ultimately school DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits in what’s good music. *Edited to add, DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits is not happy with her DJ name. **Edited to add, DJ Hot Cock is very pleased with his DJ name.
Chapter Seven
EMMA
Bacon.
Yes, I lift my head some more, my nostril leading the way. That is bacon.
The position of my bed allows me to easily pull back the curtain covering one of my floor-to-ceiling windows and take a look outside. Still dark. What time is it?