Sex Says

My phone vibrated with a text, and I opened up the never-ending group message with two of my girlfriends.

Abby: Ummm… Who the fuck is this Reed Luca guy?

Jen: Whoever he is…he’s not hard on the eyes. I mean… Holy hell…

Sigh. Everyone in my life had seen the asshole’s YouTube video, which was why Jen and Abby had been prattling on about it for the past twenty minutes.

With my feet propped up on my couch, I groaned. Reed Luca had even found his way into conversations with my friends. He was a real thorn in my side.

I loved Abby and Jen, I really did. They were two of my closest friends whom I’d met when we were freshmen at UCLA. Back then, they had been your typical California girls—bubbly, blond, blue eyes, and sun-kissed skin—and I was the weirdo in Doc Martens and baby doll dresses. I’d gone through a bit of a grunge nineties phase during my first two years of college.

We’d met at a house party, and honestly, it was still a tad of a mystery how we’d become friends. But somehow, my eccentricity meshed well with their conventionality.

And it still did, despite the fact that I wasn’t digging their current choice in conversation topics revolving around the one guy I’d rather fucking forget about.

Me: I hate Reed Luca.

Jen: I’m not sure I could ever hate a guy with those blue eyes…

Me: Enough of the ellipses, Jen. We get it. You think Reed Luca is sexy.

Jen: Tell me this… Do you think Reed Luca is sexy?

Me: That’s beside the point. He made a YouTube video that bashed my column. It went viral. Gained national exposure. And now, he’s writing an opposing column with the Journal. Reed Luca can lick my asshole.

Abby: So, you think Reed is sexy AND you want him to lick your asshole?

Me: The moral support occurring within this group text is staggering. I mean, honestly. I’m overwhelmed, guys. You’re the best.

Abby: Sorry, Lo. I take it back. Reed Luca is a dick. I hope his penis shrivels up and he never has sex again. I hope he sits on a parking cone. I wish him one hundred years of no sex and acne.

Jen: I wonder what Reed Luca’s penis looks like… Like, it can’t be small…

Abby: Jen, you’re not helping.

Jen: What? It was a simple question.

Me: Can we talk about something else besides Reed Luca? I feel like this guy is trying to ruin my life but, like, also won’t get out of my goddamn lifeboat. For the love of God, change the subject or I’m ignoring you guys.

Abby: Fine…um… Simone is back in town.

Jen: Oh. No.

Me: How do you know?

Simone had been our friend since our college days. And she was kind of a bitch. She was the type of friend who made it a point to constantly talk about herself and all of the wonderful things in her life while finding a way to tell you awful things about yourself.

I often wondered why we still considered her a friend.

Abby: I saw her out and about yesterday while I was running errands.

Jen: How many times did she passive aggressively offend you?

Abby: Ten, but then again, she didn’t have a lot of time. I made up an excuse of being late for a doctor’s appointment.

Abby: Oh wait, make that eleven. She got one final dig in before I all but sprinted away. “Oh, are you seeing a dermatologist for that horrid mole on your cheek? I’ve always wondered if you were getting that looked at.”

Jen: Jesus. Is she still using that British accent?

Abby: Yes.

Me: I don’t understand the accent. I mean, she grew up in SoCal. Her family is from Alabama.

Abby: Apparently, she just got back from Paris. Where she is currently working on a clothing line with Ralph Lauren.

Simone was also known for being a bit of a liar.

Hmmm… Sounds like someone else I know…

Nope. Never mind. I refused to even think his name.

Me: God. Ralph Lauren isn’t even based in Paris. They’re in New York. And wouldn’t residing in Paris support a French accent?

Jen: I have no idea how she keeps up with all of the lies. I mean, the last time I saw her, she told me Bon Jovi gave her a ride home from the airport.

Me: That doesn’t even make sense. Bon Jovi is a band. The whole band gave her a ride home from the airport?

Jen: Do you think I even tried to question it? I didn’t want to be taken down that bottomless well of lies. I might never have gotten out. I mean, she would’ve ended up telling me she had afternoon tea with Jenny from the Block.

Abby: Dude. She goes by JLo now.

Jen: Whatever.

Me: I honestly feel bad how much I really can’t stand Simone.

Jen: That’s because you have this internal need to please everyone.

Me: I can’t help it. And plus, she always appears so aloof to the fact that she comes across as a complete asshole. I just don’t understand how someone could be so blind to the fact that they offend literally everyone.

Jen: You know she’s going to call you and want to hang out.

Me: I’m not answering her calls.

Abby: Liar.

Me: I’m not! And like you guys should talk. Last time she was in town, I met you guys for lunch and she was there. I know for a fact I didn’t invite her.

Jen: That doesn’t count. She just so happened to be at the restaurant and sat down at our table. She basically crashed our lunch.

Me: And yet no one had the balls to tell her she wasn’t invited?

Abby: I think we need to just stop answering her calls and texts. We gotta cut the cord. Release that poisonous viper from our veins.

Me: Ugh. That sounds really harsh.

Jen: And talking about her behind her back isn’t harsh?

Me: True. But, in our defense, she isn’t exactly nice. I mean, last time I talked to her, she told me she was really proud of me for having the strength to still go out in public with the “horrid” dark circles under my eyes. I WAS ON A DEADLINE.

Jen: God, she’s awful. Maybe one of us just needs to tell her. Like, hey, Simone, you’re our friend and all, but you’re just like too shitty of a person for us to continue to be friends with you.

Me: Not it!

Abby: Not it!

Jen: Real mature, bitches.

Me: Good luck, Jen. Tell me how it goes! Chat later! Love you!

Abby: Same! Love you guys! Byeeeeee!

Jen: I’M NOT DOING IT, ASSHOLES.

Jen: Hello?

Jen: Did you guys seriously just do that?

Jen: Ugh. Bitches.

Poor Jen.

But in my defense, I wasn’t very good at confrontation. I oftentimes did everything possible to avoid it.

When I was sixteen, I had attempted to tell a girl named Melissa what I really thought about her telling everyone at school I was easy. Which was preposterous, considering I had spent most of my teenage youth inside my parents’ basement watching Gilmore Girls and reading Jane Eyre.

But the “Lola is easy” rumor had ticked me off, and I had been ready to rumble…with words, of course. Teenage Lola Sexton wasn’t going to back down; she was convinced that day was going to be the day she stood her ground and confronted someone.

For lack of better words, it had been on like Donkey Kong.

If an awkward hello, a moment of panic, and handing Melissa a baggie full of fresh blueberry muffins made by my mother was considered “on like Donkey Kong,” then I had confronted that chick like a goddamn professional.

Yeah, confrontation. It wasn’t my thing.

Well, unless the person was Reed Luca. For some reason, he brought out a different side in me. His ability to twist my funny columns into ludicrous insinuations that I was brainwashing my readers lit a fire under my normally reserved ass, and I had no qualms about telling him how I felt.

Sure, most of it was through emails, but baby steps. At least I wasn’t sending him baked goods and flowers, right?

Confident that Jen was the best woman for the confrontation job, I tossed my cell phone onto the coffee table, grabbed my roller skates from the side of the couch, and started to lace up. Okay, I also had to knee-pad up, and elbow-pad up, and wrist-guard up, and protect my head with my favorite glittery helmet. I might’ve loved to skate, but I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was an expert skater. The fact that I even bought a mouthguard to wear while roller skating was proof of that. I refused to wear it, though. I had a tendency to whistle to whatever music I was listening to, and whistling with a mouthguard in was damn near impossible.

I know, I know. I’m an odd bird.

But in my defense, San Francisco has a lot of hills, and that’s no easy feat for an amateur roller skater.

Even though my skating skills lacked accuracy, I was determined to make it another form of transportation. I still hadn’t found my vehicle version of Delilah, and a girl needed options besides her bike.

Today, I was using the skates to make a quick run to my favorite mom-and-pop grocery store for coffee creamer. My fridge’s contents were dismal at best, and one day soon, I’d get determined and actually go to the grocery store to buy more than just one item and some candy from the display by the checkout line.

But seriously, how can anyone not buy at least a bag of M&Ms while they’re waiting in the checkout line?

Whoever you are—because I really think there’s only one person in the entire world who can achieve this insanely difficult task—I applaud you.

“Be good, Louie,” I shouted over my shoulder as I carefully walked over the carpet with my skates and toward the door.