Welp, I guess oral is out for tonight.
I reach between us and grip him, pleased at what I find. He grunts and drops his lips to the swell of my breast, and I’m ready to get this show on the road.
“Condom?” I ask, and he freezes for just a moment.
“Hmm?” He murmurs as he slips his fingers into my underwear.
“Condom,” I say more firmly, and he lifts himself up to meet my eyes.
“I actually don’t have any,” he says with a fake innocence. Baloney.
“That’s okay,” I say, and he visibly relaxes. Then I roll out from under him and add, “I carry my own.” I saunter over to my discarded clutch and pull out a foil packet.
As I walk back to the bed, he sits up and hits me with these big, ridiculous puppy dog eyes, and I’m already over him.
“Babe,” he says, and I start scanning the room for my clothes.
“Babe,” he says again. “How about we skip the condom? I can’t feel you as good with it.”
I scoff and put a hand on my hip. I’m standing in front of him in just my bra and underwear, and he rakes his eyes over every inch of my body. I know I look good.
That’s right, Brock. Look your fill. That’s the extent of what you’re going to get.
Despite my are you kidding me right now glare, Brock continues his pointless pitch.
“I don’t want anything between us, babe. I want to feel you when I make you come.”
“Yeah, I imagine sex without a condom feels great,” I coo seductively, and he nods eagerly. “But you know what also feels great?” He pauses his nodding and watches me carefully. Yeah, he knows he’s not winning this one. “Not having some random frat boy’s semen dripping from my vagina.” I start to put on my jeans. “Also, not having herpes. That also feels great, Brock.” I slip my shirt over my head and pick up my heels.
Brock is standing now with his hands on his hips, his semi-erect penis still visible beneath his boxers.
“Don’t be like this. I’ll wear the condom.”
“Too late, Brock. Any guy who is going to try to manipulate a girl into riding him bare isn’t the kind of guy I want inside me.”
I start out the door when he calls behind me.
“Fine. I don’t want to fuck your fat ass anyway.”
Ha. Just like an insecure boy to try and insult a woman’s appearance as a last-ditch effort to feel like a man.
I stop at the landing at the top of the stairs and look over my shoulder at him.
“That’s too bad,” I croon as I slide my hand down my body and stop at my butt cheek. “I might have let you have it,” and I give it a squeeze to emphasize my point. I’m totally lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.
I pause, letting the implication sink into his thick skull, and flick my eyes back to his visibly tented boxers. Goodness knows what kind of infections this man-child has going on down there.
Praise to the Goddess of Safe Sex for allowing me to dodge this STI-ridden bullet.
When I’m sure he thinks I’m about to run back into his giant arms—fat chance, dudebro—I drop my hand and descend the stairs, throwing my middle finger up behind me.
“Good luck with your chlamydia, Brock!”
And then I walk my sexy fat behind right out the door, the sound of his frat brothers laughing in my wake.
5
My routine for most Friday evenings includes checking the Friend Finder app before I hit the sack, so I know where Ivy landed for the night.