Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
I can’t formulate a response. My head is reeling.
“And, to be clear, I don’t have only meaningless sex. I absolutely love meaningful sex, too, but I’m not hung up about it either way. I do what I want—oh, and I’m very selective. I’m just saying when I do have meaningless sex, it’s because I want to do it—and, therefore, I’m not at all sorry or ashamed about it. My choice.”
I mull that over.
“So I take it you’ve never had meaningless sex, then?” she asks. “That’s so sweet.”
“This is a really bizarre conversation. Excuse me,” I say to the bartender. “Two more shots of Patron, please.”
“Have you ever wished you could have meaningless sex, Josh?” she persists.
I roll my eyes. “I’ve had meaningless sex, Kat.”
“But it was somehow supposed to be simultaneously meaningful for the woman you were screwing, is that it?”
“No. Of course, not.”
“Well, there you go. Works both ways. Have you ever had meaningful sex?”
“Of course. I strongly prefer it, actually. But I find it’s much, much harder to come by.”
She nods. “I agree. I prefer it, too—and, yes, it’s much, much harder to come by.”
We stare at each other for a long beat.
The bartender places our shots in front of us.
“To you, Kat—to the honorary dude who’s blowing my mind right now.”
“To you, Josh—to the playboy who’s maybe not quite as much of a playboy as I originally thought.”
We knock back our shots.
“Whew,” she says. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“So do you possess any other dude-like qualities besides unapologetically engaging in meaningless sex with sports stars?” I ask.
“Well, my brothers say I laugh like a dude, but I don’t know about that.”
“You do. Totally.”
“I hardly ever cry.”
“Okay. That’s a plus.”
“I’m not easily offended, but when I am, watch the fuck out, because I’ve got a fucking temper, motherfucker, and I will cut you.”
“Whoa. Good to know. Anything else?”
“Well, I can burp the alphabet. And I don’t flinch when men fart around me—the sound of men farting is just white noise to me at this point, like a sound machine that lulls me to sleep.”
I laugh. “Wow.”
“Yup.”
“What about girlie stuff? Tell me some of that stuff so I don’t start imagining you hiding a dick and balls under there.”
“Well, let’s start with the biggest girlie thing of all: I have a vagina.”
“That’s definitely a biggie. Glad to hear it.”
“Oh, and here’s something. I like saying the word vagina. Vagina, vagina, vagina. I say it a lot. Vagina.”
“Actually, I think that’s another dude thing. Vagina, vagina, vagina. See? I like saying it, too. Vagina.”
“Or maybe that’s a girlie thing about you.”
“Hmm. I never thought of it that way. Vagina. Hmm. I dunno. You may be right.”
“Have you noticed people never say that word?” she says. “Why is that?”
“Because they’re pussies,” I reply.
She laughs.
“What else?” I ask. “Tell me something really girlie about you that’ll prove you’ve got a vagina under there, once and for all.”
“Okay. Well, I’m a sucker for sequins and fringe.”
“You and Neil Diamond. That proves nothing.”
She laughs. “Good point. You’re right. Okay. Let’s see. Pink is my favorite color.” She looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “I love getting pedicures and doing yoga and drinking white wine. Oh, and eating cupcakes. That’s all pretty girlie.”
“Especially if you do all of it while wearing sequins and fringe,” I say.
She laughs. “I have Hello Kitty sheets on my bed. And I’m not talking about my childhood room at my parents’ house. I currently have Hello Kitty sheets on my bed in my apartment.”
“Whoa.”
“Kitty Kat,” she says by way of explanation. She winks.
“I figured.”
“Let’s see. Well, my all-time favorite movie is The Bodyguard. My close second after that is Pretty Woman. And the bronze goes to Magic Mike.”
“Okay, okay. That’s it,” I say, holding up my hands. “I need nothing further. I’m now one hundred percent convinced you’ve got a vagina.”
“Whew. What a relief. I was beginning to worry my dick was really, really tiny.”
I laugh.
We sit and stare at each other for a long moment. I’d pay an inordinate amount of money to know what she’s thinking right now. Right after paying an inordinate amount of money to fuck her.
“You said sleeping with a pro athlete is one of your fantasies?” I say.
“Correct. Well, it was.” She snickers and makes a “check mark” motion with her finger in the air.
I grimace.
She laughs. “But, actually, my pro-athlete fantasy is a bit more elaborate than what I did with Cameron. And it involves an NFL player, actually—not a baseball star—so maybe that checkmark was a wee bit premature.”
“Wow. Your fantasy is pretty specific, huh?”
She nods. “MVP of the Super Bowl, to be exact—in the locker room after the big game.”
“Interesting. Are all your fantasies that specific?”
She nods. “You have no idea.”
“You’ve got a lot of fantasies?” I ask.
“I do. Lots and lots.” She sips her drink.