Say It's Not Fake

Not many twenty-year-old guys could think with more than their dick, but I wasn’t most twenty-year-old guys. I was rational and sensible, and I knew what I wanted in life.

And I knew that I wanted Whitney.

Yet it seemed Whitney wasn’t in the same headspace.

When I emailed her a couple of weeks ago saying I wanted to come for a visit, she hadn’t seemed overly enthused by the idea. Yeah, it had been on a whim. I had been kicking around the idea of coming out to see her since she moved to California to try and break into the movie industry as a makeup artist.

Our small hometown in Pennsylvania hadn’t felt the same since she left. It felt hollow.

Adam told me I was setting myself up for a giant kick in the nuts.

“It’s Whitney Galloway, man,” Adam said when I told him I was thinking of reaching out to the woman of my dreams. He was home from college visiting his parents, thankfully without his obnoxious leach of a girlfriend, Chelsea. We were drinking beers in the Decates’ backyard, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t mentioned the idea at all.

Adam shook his head. “She’ll never give you the time of day. She thinks she’s too good for mere mortals. She’s out in Hollywood with movie stars and celebrities. What makes you think she’s going to want a visit from some guy who spent most of his adolescence drooling all over her high heels?”

Adam’s words felt like a punch to the gut. Even though part of me believed he was right, I couldn’t help feeling like now was the time. We were both adults, and I was tired of waiting for something to happen. I had decided to take life by the proverbial balls, starting with Whitney.

I had been saving money since I was old enough to start working and had put aside a nice chunk of cash. College wasn’t my thing, so I hadn’t had an opportunity to do much with it yet. I was still weighing options. I was lucky I had parents that supported me in whatever I chose to do. Being their only child, they put all their eggs in one basket, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

I didn’t want to make any decisions about where I was going with my life until I saw for myself if something with Whitney was possible. I was willing to throw everything in on a chance with her. A lot of people would call me an idiot for hinging such monumental choices on the desires of a hot chick. But Whitney wasn’t just any hot chick.

She was everything.

“Slap my ass,” she shouted, pushing back against my crotch, my dick burying deeper inside her—though I hadn’t thought it possible. I was about to come again. It’s not like I could last long anyway. I was lucky to get past the ten-minute mark.

“What?” I asked, confused. My brain was muddled, and I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. There was no way beautiful, perfect, Whitney Galloway wanted me to smack her on the butt during sex. This was morphing in surprising and weird ways I wasn’t exactly prepared for.

“Damn it, Kyle,” she snapped. She was doing all the work, gyrating her hips. Doing this little swivel thing that felt unbelievable.

Had she done this before? With who?

Ugh, I didn’t want to think about that.

I wouldn’t think about that.

I tapped her firm ass cheek. Not hard, just a light brush of my fingers.

“Not like that. Harder.” That seemed to be her mantra since we got naked. Harder. Rougher.

This was a far cry from the sweet, gentle lovemaking I had pictured in my head. Okay, I was a dude—I had fantasized about pushing her against the wall and fucking her sideways. But there was always lots of kissing and touching and murmuring of sweet nothings.

It seemed the traditional gender roles were completely reversed with Whitney and me.

I felt the pressure increase in my balls, radiating up my shaft. I was about to blow my load. I couldn’t keep this pace much longer.

“Wait a second, Whit …” I gripped her hips, trying to slow her down. I didn’t want to virgin out and lose it five minutes in. I was a newbie to the whole screwing thing, after all. And this position was making it hard to hold it together.

Whitney wasn’t getting the memo. She rolled onto her back, wrapped her legs around my waist, digging her nails into my thighs. Her chest and face were flushed. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her full lips parted as she panted. Her dark red hair spilled out on the pillow, and I couldn’t stop staring at her.

At her face. At her breasts. At her creamy, flat stomach.

I felt my chest tighten, and my eyes start to burn. Crap, I couldn’t start crying in the middle of sex. That would be a level of humiliation I would never live down. I bit down on the inside of my cheek and breathed heavily through my nose.