How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel (18 page)

“But don’t you ever wish you could grow into something bigger and reach your full potential?”

“Are we still talking about my junk?”

I laugh. How did I just do that again? There must be something about knowing that this guy deals in sex for a living that makes me sound like it’s all I have going in the back of my mind. Or maybe all this not-sleeping-with-John stuff is causing me to actually have nothing but sex going in the back of my mind. This is not good. I really need to get laid soon.

I bring the conversation back to my pitch, “I’m trying to tell you that in my professional opinion, you could be a sexology mogul.”

“A mogul! See that’s how I’d prefer to have what’s in my pants described.” This time he did it. That one really wasn’t my fault. It’s still funny though, so I still laugh.

Then, I use it to set up the hard sell, “And don’t you want an image to match? Because I could fix that. I can get you on TV talk shows and radio shows to promote your book. And we could do things to raise awareness of your website. Then you could make instructional sex videos, and sex toys, and do an advice blog. We could turn you into an empire! You could be rich. People want to know about sex. I mean, everyone is worried they’re doing it wrong!”

Marty looks serious for the first time since I’ve met him. He’s thinking about it, taking it in. He seems both excited and concerned. I wait silently, patiently. I’m giving him the opportunity to say yes.

“I do like where you’re going with this,” he finally concludes, “but are we sure people want to hear about it from me? I’m not exactly getting it that often.”

“Well I wouldn’t go around publicizing that, but yeah. You’re hysterically funny, you’re sweet and charming—“ I sincerely mean all this, and I would go on with an even longer list of attributes if he didn’t interrupt me.

“Did I already ask you what you’re doing later?” he jokes, calling back his earlier response to my unsolicited compliments, and reminding me how humble he is.

I’m starting to understand that compliments make him uncomfortable. But there’s only one thing to do about that, and that’s to get him used to receiving them, because if he’s going to be a client of mine, he’s going to get them a lot. I really do believe in him though, and I want that to translate into belief in himself.

“I’m just saying, I believe in you, Marty.”

If I didn’t know better, I would think I saw the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes.

“Wow…” he says, completely floored, “I’m flattered. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re in!”

“I’m in! I’m excited. Let’s do this.”

“Good! Great!”

“I’m a little scared,” he confesses.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” I console, “I’ll guide you through anything that intimidates you.”

He looks at me admiringly and says, “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

It feels good to be looked at that way. It feels good to be seen that way.

“I know in my heart that this venture is the right thing to do. And when you know something is right in your heart, you don’t have to be scared.” This answer seems to appease him. It is just the right thing to say to gain his trust completely in this endeavor.

“So let me get this straight,” Marty confirms, “the reason Lacey won’t kiss me is because I’m not rich?”

Well it sounds really bad when you put it that way! Maybe I didn’t spin that quite right. I want to say, “No, that’s not it! She’s just taking it slow because she thinks you’re awesome and doesn’t want to mess things up!” Unfortunately, my face has already given me away, and anything positive I were to say now, would come off as an obvious lie.

I worked hard to gain his trust. Throwing that away now, isn’t in anyone’s best interest. But I can fix this. I’m just gonna have to tell Lacey that the next time she sees him, she has no choice. She has to let him kiss her.

Chapter 20

On our next date, John and I go backpacking. I told him I liked backpacking because I knew that he liked it. Obviously, I had never done it before. I’m a fan of car camping. You pull up, put up your tent, make a fire, cook your feast over it, listen to the birds chirp in the trees, look at the stars, smell the pine, and if the conditions get too nasty, you just put down the seats and sleep in the car. You can bring pretty much everything and anything you think you might need, a stove, a lantern, an outdoor shower, a table, some chairs, your car charger and electronics, a stereo, a blow up mattress—basically anything you can fit in your car. Backpacking is the opposite of that.

Whatever you need, you have to carry in and out on your back—including your food and your poop wipes. It’s hard and strenuous and sweaty and dirty. It does not make a girl feel pretty.

As we arrive at our campsite in the woods, I plop down my bag. It pulls me to the ground with it, and I’m not sure I can get up again, no less gather firewood and make a fire to cook what little dinner we could fit in our packs. I thought this would be a lot more similar to car camping, with maybe a little hike thrown in. I hadn’t accounted for all the work and heavy lifting!

“I’m just gonna let you take care of dinner tonight,” I say from my spot on the ground.

John laughs at my pain, “I guess it’s been a while since you’ve done this, huh?”

“Oh yeah, it’s been a long while.” 30 years, 3 months, and seventeen days to be exact.

He takes the tent out of his pack and throws it on the ground.

“Why don’t I go gather some wood, so we can get this fire going before it gets dark,” he offers. And with that, he prances off into the forest, with the leftover energy of a Tasmanian devil.

I figure I’d better make myself useful, so I get up off my ass and put the tent together. It’s something I know how to do from regular camping, and it’ll make it look like I’m both an experienced backpacker and a team player.

As the tent comes together and I make up the beds, laying our inflatable mats side by side, and unrolling our sleeping bags, something dawns on me. We are going to have to sleep next to each other tonight. I can’t kick him out if it gets too hot and heavy, and I have nowhere to go if I wanna leave. He hasn’t said “I love you” yet, or given me any other definitive signs of being out of control crazy about me, so unless it happens tonight, I’m going to have to stay very alert all night to avoid falling on his penis.

To make matters worse, when night falls and the fire is lit, it gets naturally romantic. After dinner, John comes out of the tent with a small blanket, and comes up behind me where he wraps his arms around me, cuddling me up in the blanket. I feel so warm and cozy in his arms.

He kisses the back of my neck, sending a jolt down my spine and right into every erogenous zone in my body. I shiver a little too obviously, and it’s not cold out here. John takes this cue to softly cup my breasts, as he continues kissing my neck. Oh that feels nice. He gently massages one breast, his other hand making its way down toward my belly. Well it didn’t take much, but I want him. I’m not gonna make it through a night of laying next to him without cracking. If only I had some proof that he feels attached to me, that he’s driven by the need to be with me… I need for him to tell me he loves me, and now!

“This is nice,” I say, trying to steer the conversation toward sweet nothings, “I love being out here with you.”

“I know. I love being out here with you, too.”

Did that count? Subtract a few extraneous words and he did say, “I love you.” I battle with myself inside my own mind until the reasonable part of me is able to convince the insane part of me that by every definition of “I love you,” that would be a stretch. I try a new tack.

“I like it when you tell me how you feel.” Nudge- nudge. Hint-hint.

“I feel turned on,” he says, thinking he’s giving me what I want to hear. In his defense, I should’ve seen that coming.

“No, I meant—I mean, I’m glad that you feel turned on, but—” Maybe it would help if his hand weren’t cupping my boob right now. I can’t just remove it—that would be weird, so I turn around to face him, which naturally forces his hand to rest on my back. This is also good because now we can look each other in the eyes. No one ever says I love you the first time without looking into the other person’s eyes. You have to. You wanna make sure you see the true reaction that spontaneously occurs in the other person’s soul, and that can only be seen through the eyes.

“I meant, like,” I continue, struggling to get the words out, “when you tell me what you’re feeling on more of an… emotional level.” Phew! Got it out. It was awkward. I just couldn’t think of any more subtle way to put it.

“Well, I feel happy around you.” That’s a little closer.

“Yeah? Is that all?”

“That’s not enough for you?” he teases with his usual chuckle. I blush and lower my head.

“Sorry,” I say shyly.

Maybe I should just come right out and ask him how committed to me he is? Then again, I don’t want to seem pushy or put any kind of pressure on him that might make him run away or freak out or think I’m getting “too serious”. I want so badly to tell him that I just need to know that he’s really committed to me. But it’s tricky and I’m scared to lose him if he’s not there yet.

Maybe if I make myself vulnerable first, he’ll know that he has the go ahead to tell me he loves me, and that I won’t reject him when he does. Here goes…

“I just meant, like, what level of happiness are your feelings at? I mean, for example, my feelings for you are pretty strong, you know?” Even though it’s true, I still feel a little embarrassed having said it. He smiles sweetly.

Then, he takes my cue and kisses me tenderly. No!!!! Kisses don’t tell me anything. They just tell me you want to sleep with me, which I already know! I need words or clear signs to sleep with you! I need to hear that you love me. Oh man, that feels good. I could do this all night. And before we know it, he is laying on top of me on the dirt ground, rubbing and gyrating, and making me lose my mind a little bit.

“There’s no one around,” he says, “we could make love under the night sky. I can’t think of a more romantic first time.” Neither can I. I’ve gotta get out of here.

I force myself to yawn.

“I’m so tired. I’m gonna go rest up for tomorrow’s hike back,” is my escape. I get up, and he looks severely rejected. I hate doing this to him, but all he has to do is give me three little words, and I will turn around and fuck him right in front of that coyote over there.

“Ahhh! A coyote!” I scream, realizing that it’s no joke. I run into the tent. John sees it and screams, following on my heels.

We quickly zip up the tent and burst out laughing, as we shush each other to avoid attracting the coyote any closer.

“Why did we think this whole backpacking thing was a good idea,” I laugh, finally getting an opportunity to speak my truth.

“I screamed like a little girl,” he says, also still cracking up. “Did you hear that?”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

We giggle together like third graders at a slumber party. I get into my sleeping bag and zip it all the way up over my head.

“I’m gonna hide in here, you need to stand guard and protect me.”

“What if I wanna hide, too?” he retorts, still laughing.

“Then I guess we’ll both hide, and one of us will find out we don’t taste very good, when we wake up in the morning to find the other one eaten.” We both giggle.

“I should be fine then,” John says, “you smell way better than I do. I’m sure he’ll eat you first.”

“Too bad for you, survivor’s guilt is a fate worse than death.” We laugh, before I warn, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.” Hopefully he will actually give this some thought, leading him to the realization that he loves me and his life would be awful without me.

But he’s still thinking about the coyote, “Hopefully that fire will keep him away. I’ll get up in a bit to put it out so we don’t burn down the whole mountain.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that. That would be embarrassing.” We giggle some more.

Finally, we calm down, and I try to sleep, but that whole coyote thing has got my adrenaline pumping. And John’s warm body next to mine isn’t gonna help me sleep either.

~

In the morning, John spoons me, again cupping my breasts with one hand, while the other holds firmly onto my butt cheek. Mornings are vulnerable times for me. I’m half out of it, and cuddling feels extra super-duper good—especially the part where his hands gently pulsate around my butt and boobs. I accidentally respond physically, by shoving my body parts a little harder into his hands. Turns out, he’s not sleeping. He allows his hands to move a little more. Slowly rubbing in circles and squeezing softly with his fingers. I’m not thinking right now, I’m just feeling. I’m not even alert enough to be sure if this is a dream or reality.

He runs his hands from my butt down my leg, and on the way back, he runs it up the inside of my thigh, just missing his final destination. He repeats this caress a few more times, each time getting closer and closer, teasing me until I find my body trying to meet him half way. Oh God, I just gave him the signal. That’s as good as the go ahead.

On the next pass, he gently touches me, almost tickling my nether regions. I hope he didn’t notice the moisture down there.

He did. He decides to go inspect the situation further, slipping his fingers into my panties. At first he just caresses my pubic area, teasing me. I want him so badly, please tell me this is a dream and I don’t have to stop him because he doesn’t even know of the things we’re doing exclusively in my mind.

Soon, his fingers find their way inside of me, and I open my eyes to see that it’s not a dream. This is the furthest we’ve ever gone (on this cycle), and I have to regain my wits about me and stop him before I give in and he disappears from my life all over again.

Lucky for me, a man’s fingers don’t have the same effect on me as his tongue. Sometimes they even hurt a little. This is in part because most men don’t know how to use them, but also because their hands are often dirty, and the vagina is a delicate balance of flora, which can easily be disrupted by unwanted strains of the wrong kinds of bacteria, like the kind found under a man’s fingernails after he’s been living in the dirt and playing with ashes and soot for two days.