Long Shot (6 page)

“Yup!” Rob sounds even happier than before. “You’re totes my girlfriend now.”

“I don’t remember exactly agreeing...” I try to backtrack.

“Grownups don’t ask each other to go steady. It’s implied after the sexual relationship takes off.”

“This would never hold up in a court of law.” I’m really reaching here.

“Nah.” Rob shakes his head and kisses my temple. I feel the overwhelming urge to flee. “Probably not. But that’s hardly a likely scenario. Should we go grab some coffee before Jane and Bobby drink it all?”

“Oh, no you don’t.” I struggle to my feet, out of his grasp, and hunt around for clothes to put on. “No, you certainly do not. You go. I have coffee.”

“Hey!” He leans over on his and waggles his eyebrows at me. The romantic, sexy, devastatingly good-at-what-he-does guy is now replaced with a posing stripper in my bed. That I’m now apparently dating. “Wanna photograph my peen?”

“What?” I’m so horrified. Research has turned into flat-out pornography. “No! I most certainly do not. You...you need to leave.”

“What?” He laughs. “After all that, you want me to leave? We could have another round if you want. I’d let you have as many orgasms as you want.” He winks at me.

“NO!” I throw his clothes at him. “You need to go. I can’t even look at you right now.”

“I wonder if Jane and Bobby heard you yelling my name...they may want to congratulate us.”

If they did, I will never live this down. “
Out the window
!” I roar.

Rob takes an extra-long time to get dressed, while I throw on yoga pants and a tank. He seems to revel in teasing me with his body, which I try not to look at, even though I truly can’t help it. He’s got an amazing body. Not the body of a journalist. The body of a male dancer.

I need to start attending church more regularly.

I finally get him out of my room, despite his many attempts to stay and have coffee.

Rob takes his time straddling the sill and finding his footing on the trellis outside. “Call you tomorrow?”

“Ugh!” I slam the sash in his face. And then open it. “Obviously.”

I make the way up to my room, pretending I don’t hear Bobby and Jane in the living room, loudly discussing the fact that Rob’s car is in the driveway and certain incriminating things they heard.

I am so utterly humiliated. I can never go out again. This room is my prison, now.

I pull out all my knitting supplies and pop in
Magic Mike
on my laptop. Give me answers, movie. Could Rob be like Mike, with big dreams and aspirations and a desire for a real relationship, despite whoring himself out at night? Sure, Rob wants to be a journalist, but what if that was a line?

What if he was serious?

I don’t even know what to think anymore. I sort through my knitting projects bag, looking for something to clear my head. I need a repetitive-yet-complicated task to soothe myself. Maybe the sweater I started back in March. Or the floppy hat for Jane? Nothing seems right, so I grab a soft grey hand-dye and cast a few stitches on.

I’ll just start and see where it takes me.

Then I return to my inner monologue. It’s not that Rob’s a bad guy. He’s not. He’s smart and funny and tells silly jokes that somehow make me laugh anyway. He’s insanely good in bed and handled himself so well with my sister and brother-in-law last night. I actually think Bobby likes him, and Bobby is the last person to be swayed by a pretty face. Well, beside Jane’s.

But…a stripper? I can’t tell my mom about him. I can’t tell
anyone
about him. I’m going to have to deal with Jane as it is, who is now texting me questions about what it’s like to do a dancer. My life might as well be over.

I can’t even update my relationship status on Facebook, and that bit is mighty tempting. It would imply that my life is not as bad as it looks, that perhaps I’m staying with my sister and in between jobs, but at least I have a (gag) boyfriend, and a (gag) fledging freelance business.

This is my life now—strippers and dick. Annie Leibovitz would never do this. She would never take pictures of strippers’ dicks. She takes tasteful photos of beautiful people to showcase our inner person. What could I possibly showcase in freaking porn portfolio pictures?

And why, why, why, is it that every time Channing Tatum dances on screen, all I can picture is the way Rob made love to me earlier? The way Channing moves his hips just reminds me of how Rob used his sizable and completely satisfying dick to draw me to the brink of orgasm multiple times, only to tease me into arguably the biggest one I’ve ever had in my life?

Did I seriously want to take photos of
his
dick?

Why do I keep thinking about his dick? I’ve seen enough. I took photos of his roommate, for Pete’s sake! Pics of Pete for Pete’s sake. I wonder how many times I can say that fast.

My grandmother is going to disown me. It’s probably a good thing my dad died several years ago, because otherwise he’d die all over again of another heart attack. His baby girl, a dick photographer. I wonder if I could come up with a more respectable name. Manhood Portraiture? Boypart Keepsakes?

I can’t tell a single soul about this. And the crazy thing? The crazy, bat shit thing is that I’m already fantasizing about our next rendezvous. If he called me up right now and said, “Meredith, come here” I’d probably be there in four seconds flat, already naked. Because there is something seriously wrong with me.

My knitting needles go to town while I’m watching the movie, and maybe—okay, hopefully—Rob really is a Mike. I mean, all fiction is based on truth to some extent, right? He starts as a dancer and ends respectable. That could be my Rob.

I mean, that could be Rob. Who is not mine.

But could be.

But won’t be.

I look down at my project and stop in total horror. The project I’d been mindlessly knitting? The project supposed to clear my head?

It’s a tiny penis sweater. And obviously the only person to wear it will be Rob.

Tears well up in my eyes. This is a whole new low. I’m knitting the stripper a wardrobe. For his penis. First photos, then the stripper sex, and now penis attire. This is so much worse than the last low, where I actually went out with a stripper.

I’m so confused. Why can’t he be a construction worker? Or a lawyer? Or a bartender, even, for fuck’s sake? Why do my emotions have to be tied up in a man who takes his clothes off and humps women’s faces for a living?

I sadly finish off the sweater but am somehow unable to stop myself from knitting it a matching hat and scarf. Because this is my life now. The occasional tear falls onto my handiwork, and I angrily wipe them off. I made these choices. Now I have to live with them.

I assemble the complete outfit on my bed as the credits of my movie roll. And there’s only one thing left to do.

I find Rob’s number in my phone with my recent call log, because I can’t bring myself to save his number in my phone and admit what’s happening.

Before he can say hello, I cut straight to the chase. “Come back over. We have business.”

H
ot damn
, I knew I was winning her over! What a day. Not only did I get laid twice in twenty-four hours, but
she
actually called
me
. I knew if I tried hard enough, I could get her to see the man behind the pretty face.

I mean, I’m more than just a stripper. I’m a man. A man with feelings and opinions and life goals. And sweet dance moves.

I jump in for a quick shower and trim up my scruff at the same time. Gotta look good for my girlfriend. My girlfriend! I do an extremely unmanly leap into the air at the thought.

“You okay, dude?” Pete yells.

“Yeah, man, just slipped on the wet floor,” I lie.

I wonder if I should stop off for flowers or something. She didn’t sound especially excited to have me come over, but then, she never looks especially excited to see me. I’ve never found resting bitch face especially sexy before, but she really does make it work. I decide against the flowers and grab a couple bottles of wine from the counter on my way out the door.

Now there is a bouquet I know she’ll appreciate.

I can already tell I’ve never dated anyone like her. She’s special. She’s smart and funny and crazy talented.

She’s perfect.

My phone buzzes and I check it at a red light, stealthily.

Come in the side door. Left it open. Everyone else is gone.

Oh my word. It’s a booty call. Our first booty call. This may be the greatest day of my life. I wonder if she wants me to dance a little this time. Just in case, I had the foresight to wear my special heart-printed undies.

I may wear them on-stage, but I want them to mean something special to her. I want them to be
our
thing.

I imagine how she’ll likely be nude when I enter her room. Waiting for me. Perhaps she’ll even have started without me. I imagine what she’ll look like. The moans coming out of her mouth, much like the ones that filled my ears only a few hours earlier.

It’s only by a miracle that I don’t come in my pants before I pull into her driveway. And yet, by Providence, I am still hard and ready for what I will find in her room.

Today is fucking awesome.

I lope up the stairs, still hoping my fantasy plays out in real life. First, I’m going down on her. Second, I’m going down on her. Third, well, I’ll probably see if she’s cool with me going down on her. I hesitate outside her bedroom door and shake myself out. I gently knock. It would be rude to walk in on her nude. If it’s her surprise, I don’t want to ruin it.

“Yeah,” she calls, and I open the door, so ready I could just burst.

Ummmm. The bed is tucked away, white sheets hang everywhere, and my sexy girl is in her Professional Photographer clothes, holding her camera. Ummmmm. Okay.

Not what I expected, but then, maybe, everyone has a little voyeur in them. Maybe she wants to take pictures of us having sex! A professional spank bank, if you will.

The more I consider it, the better my plan is. Boudoir pics are so hot, but couple’s pics could be a real hot market. A filtered, well-lit version of the grainy sex tape, only without all ofnthe awkward motions and wobbles. My girlfriend is the hottest. We’re going to crush these sexy pics.

“Take off your clothes.” She sounds a little pinched, but I’m understanding of the artistic process. Just because I understood the vision immediately doesn’t mean it’s easy for her to communicate it.

I hook my thumbs in my pant loops, but pause. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“What? I told you to take off your clothes.” She looks confused and a little angry and I am so delighted with how much she clearly just needs my body right now.

“I’m cool, babe, I just wasn’t sure if you were feeling all right.”

“I feel terrible, but thanks for nothing.”

“Want me to turn on some JT? Some Ed Sheeran? A lil 1D?” My iPod is ready.

She shakes her head, and then says quietly, “Your taste in music is truly atrocious. This would be easier if your taste in music was less atrocious.”

“Do you prefer older school? I have both N’Sync and Backstreet,” I turn towards the door. “Perhaps there’s an old OTown in my car…”

“You’re disgusting.”

I think she loves me. Also, clearly a 98 Degrees fan.

I flash her a winning smile, and she almost gags. Definitely in love.

“Just—just get naked,” she tells me, and I am super ready.

So I strip for her. Humming a medley of mid-nineties pop hits, I slowly unbutton my shirt, tease her with my pants, etc. She only rolls her eyes four times so I can tell she’s loving it. I idly wonder if any of those twenties are left from the night we met. No, no. She’s prize enough.

Shockingly, Meredith actually cracks a smile by the time I’m down to my birthday suit. Her eyes are on my junk, which is starting to respond to her attention. This may be an unorthodox booty call, but I’m into it.

“Am I getting my own portfolio?” I strike a pose against the backdrop, very Herculean. “Does this mean I get a professional fluffer?”

The girl is on her knees before I finish talking. Wowzers. I’m half erect by the time her hot little mouth is around my cock. Her lips feel like silk around me—hot, sexy, incredibly erotic. Twice already in twenty-four hours or not, I have to concentrate pretty hard not to lose it immediately with her.

The perfect soundtrack song pops into my head—Flo Rida’s Right Round. I thrust my hips in time to the music in my head. Her hair is twisted in my fist, my cock is hitting her throat, and my hips are rollin’. Then suddenly, her mouth is gone.

“Are you singing?” she demands.

“What? No! Come on. Who does that?” I was definitely singing. Blessedly, her mouth returns to me.

Already, I feel the familiar and excellent tingles and jingles rolling through my length. Nothing crazy, but it’s my favorite part of anything sex related. Orgasms are great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the lead up—that electricity pumping through my veins hot and heavy—that always gets me. Sex is the most fun thing in the world. It feels good, it tastes good, it smells good. Did I mention it feels good?

Meredith works me with relish, so much so that I completely forget this is just a fluff job, and not a full on party in her mouth. She suddenly pops off of me and leaves me wet and cold and so horny it hurts. I want to bend her over the chair and show her what a bad girl she’s been. I want to have her screaming my name and apologizing for leaving my cock high and dry like this. I want…

What on earth?

She’s doing something weird to me and I don’t think I like it but maybe I do? I just can’t quite tell what’s happening.

“So, uh…the beejer was better than this, uh…this
thing
…” I try to be as casual as possible. Something feels warm, but not wet. Is that—wool?

“Okay.” She exhales a bit. “This looks way better than I thought it would.”

Her hands finally move and she steps away. I glance down and would do a spit-take if I had something in my mouth. “Can I have a glass of water?”

She cocks an eyebrow at me, but I remain unblinking. She grabs a glass from the desk on the other side of the room and hands it over. I take a sip, and then spit it out.

Yes, that displayed my feelings adequately. Because my penis is now wearing clothes.

“Ahoy there, matey!” I waggle my clothed dick around. Is that a scarf? She put a sweater and a scarf and a hat on my cock. I’m horrified and fascinated, but probably more fascinated. “It looks like a fishing captain!”

I don’t think I can properly articulate how fucking amazing this is. My girlfriend made a tiny outfit for my Mini Rob.

This. Is. Awesome.

She still looks horrified. I keep waggling my goods at her. “Looooooook at me, off fer a day’s sailing, ain’t I, lassie?”

A smile, albeit a tiny one, crosses her stressed little face. “I thought you’d hate it.”

“Are ye kidding me, lass? You dressed me cock! I’m ready to go sailin’ on yer seven seas!”

“It…well, okay, it does look like a sea captain. But your Scottish accent needs some serious work. Why is it Scottish? Wait—was that an anal reference?”

“Don’t question Captain Cock.”

“You named it?” She laughs. “Captain Cock? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Pirate Dickfingers, reporting for duty! Arg, matey!” I parade around the small room, loving every second of this. “I’m off ter find treasure in Davey Jones’ locker!”

Meredith has her camera in hand and rolls her eyes at me. “Okay, Pirate Dickfingers. Get back there and pose for me.”

“God, Peter is going to be so fucking jealous. His dick didn’t get a wardrobe.” I perch on a stool and she dives back down on her knees, which just gets me eight shades of excited. I like it when she’s on her knees around me. A lot.

“Peter’s dick doesn’t deserve a wardrobe.” My little professional moves my cock with expert hands. It’s no longer especially erotic, it’s just basically hilarious. I spread my legs out for her. “Push your balls up. Between your legs. I don’t want to see your hands.”

I obey. We move like this for a while longer, her positioning me and snapping shots, me trying to stay hard and not laugh. The guys at the club are going to be so jealous. Dressed up cock photos are way cooler than regular photos. And honestly, the longer this goes on, the more I think it’s really pretty cute. I mean—my junk looks cute. Sue me, I’m digging this.

My favorite pose is imitating Captain Morgan, my delightfully dressed cock waving in the wind as I search for a port to dock in. Which gives me so many ideas. So many dirty, naughty, naked ideas.

Meredith stops for a glass of water and offers me some. I watch her as she drinks—the way she holds herself, the way she brushes her hair over her shoulder, the way she’s turned flush with excitement as she snaps shots and positions me to get the look she’s after. She’s in her element and it makes me so proud of her.

It’s also bizarrely sexy to have your dick photographed. Fuck, maybe porn
is
in my future. I hear that it pays a hell of a lot better than stripping. Also, having Meredith this close to my cock has gotten me all wound up again. There may be a scratchy little hat on my dick, but I can still feel the phantom of her mouth on me, and the tip of my hat is a little damp from thinking about it.

Not porn. Just her. I want to have dirty, showy, weird, and awesome sex with
her
.

“You’re a surprisingly good model.” She flashes me a smile, looking all hot and bothered. Maybe this much personal time with mini-Rob has gotten her flustered. But why is it a surprise that I’m good at this?

“I’m good at a lot of things.” I wink at her and waggle Captain Cock again. “I’m looookin’ fer safe harbor, lassie. May I dock in yer port?”

Captain Cock is thirsty for a good woman.

“I take it all back.” She unbuttons her shirt and slides it off. I remain rock solid as she pulls her camisole over her head, even though my heart races and my cock throbs against its tiny knit prison. “
This
is the lowest I’ve fallen.”

“You were on your knees just a little while ago, which was probably technically—”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

She shimmies out of her pants and it’s adorable how annoyed she looks. Now when she says lowest she’s fallen, could she mean she’s falling for me?

The look on her face says I probably shouldn’t ask.

And then her bra comes off, exposing those miraculous tits. I fumble for a condom and am ready by the time the panties come off her perfect ass. Her nails dig into my back and I take a deep inhale of the scent of her hair. She smells like jasmine, I think? It’s powerful and soft, and she feels so soft pressed up against me. I bury my head in her shoulder and squeeze her tight.

“Can I take you now?” I murmur into her. “Are we done with pictures? Because I have wanted you from the moment you took your lips off my cock. I have wanted to fill you up with every inch of me, and cease becoming Rob. I want you to stop being Meredith. I want us to be two beating hearts.”

“Are you trying to be poetic?” She kind of laughs.

“No. I’m trying to woo you. Is it working?”

“No, it’s just really weird, actually.” Fair enough. I reach over and flip on the playlist I made for jerking off to her. D’Angelo starts up. Aw yiss.

“Jesus Christ,
stop singing
!” she all but yells. I must get her really passionate. Mental note: sing more. She covers my mouth with hers and that stops me.

My hardened cock leaps and presses into her soft skin. Meredith rubs herself against it, and I can barely keep my wits about me. When this girl has hold of my cock, it’s very hard to remain focused or act like a normal human being.

I revert to my caveman self, where all I know is thrusting and licking and fingering and humping.

She pushes me away, and I let her, then she pushes the mattress down from its vertical photo-shoot position. She’s still bending over when I grab her hips and force her face-first into the bed. She lets out a yelp of surprise that quickly turns into a throaty moan as I spread her lips from behind and lick her sweet pussy hard and slow.

She tastes like a dream. I could do this all day.

Instead, I take turns kissing down her thighs between licks of her pussy. My girl trembles and moans on cue, letting me know everything I’m doing is exactly to her liking. It’s like I’m programmed to pleasure her, know all of her hotspots before she does. This body was designed for me, and I’m going to pleasure her until she falls apart.

I’m so hard, so turned on by this, that I’m actually worried it will make me come without so much as touching myself. It is unbelievably sexy to pleasure a girl’s pussy. It’s their most beautiful, sensitive spot. A sex goddess lives down there; treat it right and the gifts from the gods will come raining down. But her? She’s better than anything. Anyone.

She’s perfection.

Meredith slowly starts riding my mouth, which doesn’t make staying in control any easier. I snake a hand down her tight body and palm one of her breasts as I tongue her, rolling her pert nipple between my fingers.

I may not be perfect. But being like this with Meredith—loving on this magnificent girl who challenges me and knocks me down a few pegs—makes me feel like everything I’m doing is
right
.