CHAPTER SEVEN
Candy
What kind of a girl gets turned on by algebra?
In fairness, it’s really pre-calculus so let me start over.
What kind of a girl gets turned on by pre-calculus?
It’s torture to just sit at the dining room table and look at the book with my bright yellow writing tablet on one side, a tablet filled with graph paper next to it and my calculator right between. I almost get up and get another cup of coffee but I’m not having trouble concentrating on my homework because of anything other than how damned horny I am.
And Jesus Christ am I horny!
It probably makes me a big of a nymphomaniac that after a week of not having sex with Thaddeus, I’m so damned horny I feel like I’ll explode. Even walking feels like masturbating. My nipples have been hard as hell and, worse, I haven’t masturbated at all. I’ve never been one to masturbate in the shower and now I’m completely self-conscious about masturbating in my bedroom. I’m certain Thad would hear me and if I’m unable to control myself and end up crying out, it’s his name I’ll shout when I cum.
I don’t believe how desperate I am for sex.
It seems unlike me, and part of me feels a little guilty, too. Ultimately, I’m using sex as a weapon, aren’t I? Withholding sex to get a man to do what I want? Well, even when I had a bit of a skewed idea of independence and control, I thought that was wrong.
But, no. I’m not. I’m not withholding sex from my boyfriend because we’re officially broken up.
I hate this.
Oddly, despite how desperate I am for the sex, it’s the rest of the relationship I miss. I miss our conversations. I miss the advice he might give me and the encouragement, although he would never give it in context to being a Daddy. As though he reads my thoughts, I hear Thad’s voice. “The key to graphing a quadratic equation is just finding the starting point. You can determine the slope easily by just—”
“I’ll manage,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I’m just trying to help, Candy,” he says.
“When I have a Daddy,” I reply, “He’ll help me with my fucking homework. He’ll also help me choose my fucking classes and help me start my fucking business, too.”
“Damn it, why do you do that?”
I look at him and shake my head. “Because I love you. Because you love me. You know it and I know it. Seven months and you still won’t go all in. You’re hurting, I know it. You won’t let me help with your hurt. You won’t let me pour oil in your wounds, so to speak.”
“Oil in my wounds?”
“It’s the story of the Good Samaritan. You should read it. A guy gets beat up by robbers and a whole bunch…”
“I know the story.”
“…of men walk right by. They’re supposed to be the good people. There’s a politician, I think, a priest, and a merchant and…”
“I said I know the story.”
“…they all just let the man bleed. Then a Samaritan comes by and he pours oil and wine in his wounds. Then, you know what he does? He…”
“I know this story, Candy!”
“…lifts the wounded man up and puts him on his own donkey. This means the Samaritan has to walk as he takes the wounded man to an inn and pays for a room there and gives the owner of the hotel some money and says he’ll bring more money when he comes back if the innkeeper has to spend any more money on the guy who got hurt.”
“I know the story.”
“But you’re a fucking idiot,” I say. He bristles at the language. “Fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking.”
“Come on!” he snaps.
“See, if you said, ‘Come on, little girl,’ I would listen. But you’re a fucking idiot because…”