“You’re great, and on any other day I’d be so fucking into you right now, but I’ve just got something really complicated I’ve got to deal with.”
“Are you serious right now? You’re just gonna walk out?”
“Again, I’m sorry,” I say, holding my palms out one more time before making for the door like there’s a fire in the building.
What the hell is going on with me? Am I really doing this? Did I really just bail on a date with a girl that hot? Did I really possibly just fuck up my proposal of the vlog to Melissa?
I get to the taxi stand with a million thoughts tangling themselves up in my head. Each thought ending with me returning to images of how Margo’s thighs looked in those tight leggings, how her mouth tasted, how her skin felt. Pangs of regret and the notion that I’ve fucked everything up mixing with the dark, forbidden, blood-thumping bliss of what we did, how perfectly our bodies fit together.
By the time I’m sitting in the back of the cab, I feel better. Half-hoping that Margo will call me tonight, or shoot me a text. Because even if this was a mistake—a massive, possibly-unrepairable mistake—maybe I can make it happen just one more time…just once more. Just to get it out of my system, to shake off this fixation. Because that’s clearly all this is. Right?
I’m burning up with desire by the time I reach my apartment, a heady cocktail of testosterone and lust rushing in my blood. Muscles aching to get my hands on her again, mind wild with all the things I want to do to her.
Except she’s not there, of course. Time to fix that.
I drop onto the couch and start typing out texts to her, inviting her over for dinner or telling her all the things I want to do to her, how good I’m gonna make her body feel when she gets here—but I don’t end up sending a single one. Because it would be a mistake.
In the end, I know the right thing to do. To just move on, pretend nothing ever happened. Chalk it up to the alcohol and her breakup and never speak of it until it ends up being so long ago that we can laugh about it. To focus on our work, to fall back into the same groove we had of supportive jokes and mutual respect. To edit what we did out of our memories like a deleted scene in the story of our friendship. Doing that would be smart.
I could even write a long list of reasons why it would be smart to be sure this goes no further. Margo’s vulnerable mental state over her messy breakup, the fact that we work next to each other, the fact that I might be given a vlog about my serial dating if I’m lucky. Maybe throw in the fact that she’s the type who’s looking for a long-term, meaningful connection, while I’m just happy having fun with my clothes off.
Letting this go would be mature, responsible, and beneficial to both of us.
But at the moment I’m sitting in my apartment with a head full of her, an overactive imagination and a body full of pent-up tension—and maturity isn’t going to fix that. I take my phone out again, suddenly sure that Margo must have sent me a text by now, but in the stack of messages none of them are hers. I browse lazily through a couple of dirty texts, mainly from the girl I saw a couple days ago for the dating blog. A couple of messages from Manny, my best friend, asking me to go hit the town with him and take advantage of the St. Patrick’s Day party weekend. No Margo. I toss the phone onto the coffee table and lean back against the couch cushions, hardly believing I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
The fuck do I want anyway? Why does the idea of letting this go bug me so much? I wrestle with my thoughts, trying to turn them back toward the girl I just sat in a restaurant with (whose name I’ve already forgotten). I think about her tits, glorious enough for her to show that much of them. Unconsciously, I undo my fly. I think about those crimson-red lips she kept licking as I pull my cock from my boxers. Those prom-queen curls, falling about her fluttering eyes. I start stroking slowly, letting my mind take over, letting the images play out behind closed eyelids, except the moment I stop forcing it I think of Margo in that thigh-length sweater, how I could see the curve of her thighs when she crossed her legs…
“Shit,” I say, stopping myself suddenly.
What exactly do I want? To fuck Margo again? And then what? To carry on fucking her at the same time I fuck my career up? To fuck up our friendship too? How would that even work, sitting next to her day after day? And what happens when it all, inevitably, turns to shit? Or when a decent guy who wants her for more than just a fuck buddy comes along?
It’s not like I could just drop a note on her desk as I walk by one afternoon, telling her to meet me in one of the conference rooms. Maybe on a day she’s wearing that pencil skirt/blouse combo, the one that makes her look kinda like a hipster secretary. I’d wait for her there, blinds down, and she’d enter with that stoic smile. I’d tell her to lock the door before grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling her head onto me. Fill her mouth with cock, look down at her kneeling body, ass like a mountain range, tell her to be quiet so nobody hears us. Tell her she’s mine and have those green eyes look up at me in devoted awe. Fuck her hot, wet mouth while I let those misty, perfect eyes get me closer and closer to…
I come so hard I don’t even care about the mess. Hours of tension and lust leaving my body like weight. Jerking off shouldn’t feel this good—it never has before. Something’s definitely wrong, and now that my mind is at least a little bit clearer, I think I know what it might be. Nothing left to do now but figure out how to fix it.
6
Margo
My sister Louise is four years younger than me, but we could be twins—albeit twins separated at birth and raised in completely different households. We’ve got the same green eyes, the same half-moon smile, and even the same physique. But while I wear glasses, Louise wears contacts all day long. I leave my hair its natural brunette but Louise changes hair colors like she changes outfits. She says I dress like I’m in a new wave band, I say she dresses like she’s on the cover of Glamour magazine.
Whatever the differences though, we both love big novels, awesome food, and each other. That’s why my favorite day of the week is Sunday, when we meet up to indulge our other shared passion—open-air markets.
Today it’s the Melrose Trading Place, and after we hug each other like we haven’t seen one another in years (it’s only been a week), and grab a few lemon blueberry donuts from a vendor, we start ambling between the vintage clothes and upcycled antique furniture.
“So how have you been?” I ask as we navigate the relaxed crowds, lazily taking things in.
Louise whips her straight, newly-blonde hair aside as she turns to flash me a roll of the eyes.
“Another audition,” she sighs, “another sleepless night in my tiny studio in a noisy apartment complex, another week of minimum-wage slavery at the Baby Gap. Pretty uneventful, actually.”