“Why what?”
“Why can’t they have him going down on her? They show guys getting blow jobs in PG-13 movies all the time. Hell, they do it in pretty family friendly comedies.”
“They do not. Name one movie where that happens.”
“Police Academy. Ghostbusters. Ace Ventura.”
She went to protest again, then stopped.
Mostly because her brain was already supplying the scenes he was talking about.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, you’re right.”
“I am as amazed as you are.”
“Are you writing this down?”
“Hell yeah I will, now that you think I have a point. What should I put, like—more women need to get head in movies? Better class it up, huh.” He took out his own notebook and started carefully noting down the idea, reading it aloud as he did. “There…is…a sexual double standard.”
“Sexual double standard sounds pretty good.”
“We should totally count how many women get something onscreen that could possibly lead to them actually having a good time. Or at least, a time that could conceivably make them come.”
“And how are we going to judge something like that?”
“What do you mean by judge?”
“Well, we have to establish a criterion for a good time,” she said, then immediately regretted it.
He was going to say something like pussy again. Something that made her sweat even harder.
And she was right to worry, too.
“Jumping aboard and pumping for thirty seconds, nope.”
“Yeah, but in most films you’re supposed to see that as a kind of condensing.”
“Are you? Or do the dudes making it just want you to think that’s normal? Like if you’re not coming out your ears by thrust four there’s something wrong with you?”
She could feel him staring at her. How could she not? His eyes were practically burning holes in the sides of her face. Her only hope was that her face had seemed flushed before—because of the heat in the room or the sexiness of the film or just anything, anything but the truth.
“Oh my god. You do actually think that.”
Shit fuck shit fuck balls bastard.
“No, not exactly. No. Not at all in fact.”
“You totally think you should be coming by thrust four.”
“Well it wasn’t thrust four.”
“Holy shit, Letty, come on. Where is your head, girl?”
“I don’t know. I just blew a hole in it with my imaginary gun. My brains are all over your comforter right now. Can we please just not talk about this?”
“Yeah. Yeah of course we can,” he said, as casual as anything.
He was lying, however.
She could see the urge to ask shivering underneath the surface of his face.
It was in his tense jaw, and his suddenly tight lips.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“Just be quiet and let me try really hard not to.”
“Goddamn it, Tate. You know you’re the last person I want to talk about my sex life with. Like, I get that yours is really amazing and adventurous, but I’d rather not have my face rubbed in that right now.”
“What makes you think my sex life is amazing and adventurous?”
“Well, you sure make it sound that way.”
“Because I know what it takes to make a girl come? Honey, your bar is super low on the amazing-sex front. Like, you should be coming as the bare fucking minimum. That’s rock-bottom standard—getting the person you’re with off. Otherwise what’s the fucking point in doing it?”
“Maybe people just enjoy being close.”
“Did you?”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
And that was enough to tell him all he needed to know.
“Yeah, you didn’t even get that out of it, did you.”
“I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“So let’s talk about me instead. You want to know about my amazing sex life? Last girl I hooked up with escaped out the bathroom window while I was waiting naked in bed.”
“What? Bullshit. Bull. Shit. Why would anyone do that to you?” she gasped, only realizing at the last possible second what she’d just implied.
“Well, I’m flattered, Letty.”
“Hang on, I didn’t—”
“No really, it’s cool you think I’m worth sticking around for.”
“I don’t think you’re worth sticking around for. I misspoke.”
“Are you sure? Because that bullshit sounded pretty insistent.”
“I meant that no one would do that to anybody. Not specifically you.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
“It’s a weird thing to do, all right?”
“Especially to me. Handsome and wonderful Tate Sullivan.”
She wasn’t sure what was worse: his singsong tone or the gestures that accompanied it.
He actually ran his fingers through his hair—then licked his hand and ran it down over his body.
He was a perfect nightmare of unbelievable awesomeness.
“You can’t have been that handsome and wonderful if she ran out on you.”
“She ran out on me because I have a can of Pringles in my pants.”
“Well, what the hell were you doing keeping them there?”