Sex Says

In fish speak, he had basically just said, Yeah, right.

“Whatever,” I muttered. “I know you don’t think I’ll be able to forget about…him…but I’m going to. I’ll prove your little fishy doubts wrong, dude.”

Louie gave no response, already done with the conversation.

“I knew I should’ve adopted a cat,” I mumbled and turned away from his fish house.

A cat would be an even bigger asshole, Reed’s unwelcome voice taunted in my head.

Go away! I shouted back telepathically.

God, if anyone knew how often I had conversations with my fish—if Reed knew—I’d never hear the end of it. They’d probably wrap me up in a straitjacket.

But I couldn’t help it. It was so much of a compulsion, a calling, if you will, I was convinced I’d probably become the fish version of the cat lady if I never found that perfect person to fill the void.

Logistically, I’d need a bigger aquarium; that was a certainty. And, the rest of my fish wouldn’t be sarcastic little bastards, either.

Okay, I just need to clear my head and get my writing mojo moving and shaking.

All I needed was the perfect playlist. The right topic. And a mind devoid of a certain prick of a vlogger turned columnist who seemed to think he knew everything.

Easy, right?

Once the addictive beat of The Kooks singing about a “Bad Habit” filled my otherwise quiet apartment, I made the short trip across the fluffy beige carpet of my living room, grabbed my laptop, and posted up on the sofa.

Five minutes later, any figment of concentration I’d been able to build was shot to hell by my sister. Like a demon, she started sending me text messages about her three lovable yet batshit crazy kids rapid fire. I mean, I loved my nieces and nephew, but the Reynolds’ kids were a serious little gang of insanity.

Annie: Help. Me. Is it legal to drop your kids off at Goodwill? Seriously? Do they accept children as donations?

On the surface, her text might’ve seemed like bad mommy material, but Emma, Lucy, and Henry—all adorable, blond-haired beauties under the age of eight—were loud, boisterous, and if unleashed without parental supervision, could destroy a house in three minutes flat.

Her frustrations were most likely warranted.

Me: Well… I don’t know their policy, but I think they frown upon donations that fall under the living, breathing human category.

Annie: Hey, didn’t you say you wanted to have kids?

Annie: You know what? Don’t answer that. Since you’re my baby sister and I love you so much, I’m willing to give up two of my children to you. I’ll even let you choose.

Me: HA! Yeah, right. You wouldn’t let me choose. I know which two you’d try to pawn off on me. And I never said I wanted kids. I said I didn’t know if I wanted kids, but I was open to kids. And that was like three Christmases ago.

The truth was, I didn’t really want kids. Hell, I didn’t even want marriage. Conventionality, in general, would probably never be a staple in my love life.

My outlook on relationships had morphed into something less traditional over the years, thanks to all that time spent watching with jaded eyes. Marriage wasn’t the key to happiness, like so many women prophesied. Commitment, compromise, and true cohabitation were.

I pictured my future plenty, but it wasn’t laid out like ducks in a row: engagement, marriage, kids, etc. It was with someone with whom I wanted to spend my life, who wanted to spend their life with me, and completely unfocused on the details. I didn’t need a five-year, ten-year, eighteen-year plan—I needed a partner who didn’t need one either.

Annie: Are you saying I play favorites with my kids?

Me: Yep. That’s exactly what I’m saying.

Annie: I can’t help it if Lucy is my favorite right now. The girl has a knack for keeping her room clean, and she’s so damn organized. Honestly, I’m a little concerned she might be a bit OCD, but I refuse to question it at this point in time because it’s one less room for me to clean.

Me: That’s real nice, Annie. Your child might be suffering a mental condition that causes her daily anxiety, but you’re ignoring it because she keeps shit clean. Oh, and, by the way, will you send her over to clean my room?

Annie: Of course I will. I want to make sure she’ll see her brother and sister often since they’re going to be living with you.

Me: God, you’re hilarious.

Annie: I know, right? :)

Annie: Here’s a question for the queen of relationship advice. Is it okay to just want to fuck your husband? Like, not make love, but just good old-fashioned fucking.

Good old-fashioned fucking? Now, that was a thought.

Even in a marriage, sex could just be about sex. It didn’t always have to revolve around intimate moments and sharing your soul with someone else.

Thanks to my sister, the wheels in my mind turned until they rolled straight into the Aha! moment of inspiration.

Me: Yes. Humans need just sex sometimes. And thank you.

Annie: Thank you?

Me: You just gave me an idea for my column.

Annie: What???? Please, tell me you’re not going to talk about me and Brian fucking in your column.

Me: First of all, you know me better than that. Secondly, are you still giving Brian blow jobs every day?

My sister wasn’t a prude. She had no issues talking about sex. But she had some big no-no topics regarding the subject, and blow jobs, well, it was one of those do-not-go danger zones for her.

I, being the wonderful sister I was, used it against her as often as I could.

Annie: I swear to God, I will strangle you the next time you ask me about that.

Me: Because you love giving head so much?

Annie: LOLA.

Me: I can’t believe how much you love sucking Brian off. I just never really expected that from you.

Annie: Seriously. I don’t love doing that.

Me: *singing to the tune of Crowd Pleaser* My big sister is a real cock pleaser… (I’m so proud of you, btw)

Annie: Oh. My. God. Sometimes I really think I might hate you.

Me: I love you, too. And I know how much you want to keep talking about blowing penises since it’s your favorite thing in the whole world, but I gotta go.