“I know a thing or two about artists. You spend your time boinking college students and bartenders and same-sex acquaintances.”
It was difficult to know what to think about that. On one hand, I was flattered to think he thought basically every person I met wanted to do it with me. On the other, I was super insulted that he thought my standards were so low as to boink anyone who was in college or in a bar or who was a chick.
“No…orgies,” I said as casually as I was capable of. “Not tonight, anyway.”
“Disappointing,” Marc said more unintelligibly as he gulped another finger of bourbon. I’d brought the bottle back with me from the kitchen and stuck it on the coffee table.
“Are you an orgy aficionado?” I asked extremely politely. It’s the only way to ask that question.
“If by aficionado you mean frequent fantasizer? Then yes.” Well, well, well. Marc was kinky. This was a surprise. I was both frightened and turned on at once.
“Magnifique,” I said. “You would understand that if you spoke Fran?oise.”
“Francais?”
“Obviously.” That was what I meant, I thought.
“I’m working on it. I’m spending August in France before school starts.” He cackled, actually cackled to himself. “I’m taking a bangcation.”
“Is that… what I think it is?” Is this what the literati get up to? Could a man who used the term bangcation still be considered part of the literati?
“Look,” he said. I waited. And waited some more. Poured another round of bourbon.
“I thought there was going to be a follow-up to that,” I finally remarked.
“No, I mean just look around. Look at me.” I did. “Not my crotch.” Oh. “This is where I live.” I sort of knew that part already. “And this is the most exciting Friday night I’ve had in recent memory. My whole life is just… beige.”
“I’m sure there’s…Well maybe…” I had nothing. I really didn’t know the guy.
“The beigiest beige that ever beiged,” he opined, slopping some brown drink on the (yes, beige) couch. It created a dark beige mark. I began to see his point. “Unlike you. You’re all bright-colored nn shiiiit.”
“What, this?” I pulled on a lock of my recently dyed hair. The bottom few inches were a shade of purple that The Joker would be pleased with. “It’s just Manic Panic. It washes out after a couple weeks.”
“No. I mean you’re exciting. You stay out all night. Those orgies you do. I never do anything like that. There’s a million things I haven’t done. It’s just study and write papers and study some more. And then at the end of it? I’m going to teach. Literally school forever. France is gonna be everything I missed. It’ll make up for all of it.”
I couldn’t argue that, and not just because the room was starting to tilt in varying directions.
But I could make him feel better.
“I don’t orgy,” I sighed. There went my brand new rep as a badass. “I’ve only been with two guys in my life. And you do know that I work the night shift?”
“You bartend to support your art? You’re so co—wait, did you say two guys? You’ve only threesomed?”
“Um, no…” I really should have just rolled with the orgy thing. “Just two guys. Separately. Comprise my entire sexual history.”
“Two guys.” There was a distinct whiff of disappointment in his voice as he got up to adjust the thermostat.
Good call. It was chilly. I’d already found myself pressed up against his leg for warmth, and the blanket was covering both of us now.
Of course, I took the opportunity to stare at his ass. There was nothing beige about that, man. Firm and round and I could just bite—
I felt my cheeks warm as he turned around. What had he just said?
Oh. “Yes. Two guys.” That was embarrassing, right? Maybe he’d think that’s why I was blushing. “One of them was my high school boyfriend, the other I dated for like a semester in art school.”
That was even more pathetic when I said it out loud.
Perhaps he would not remember in the morning if he was drunk enough. To be quite sure, I topped off his drink after he sat back down. And then mine.
Strange. The bottle must have spilled at some point, because it was inexplicably empty. Also, it was suddenly one in the morning.
“Two guys. Shiiiiiiiit. Why don’t you…deal with that?” He was wobbling. Or I was. Which was weird since we were both sitting down.
“Cause every time I try to date a guy, he just wants to like—come on my tits.” Did I actually say that?
Shit. I did.
Marc’s expression morphed into confusion. “You don’t like that?”
“I just don’t––I don’t even know how to do it. The tit thing. Do I smush em together? Or… what?”
“Huh.” Silence.
I twisted my bottom lip with my fingers.
More silence.
I side-eyed him. “Are you thinking about coming on my tits now?”
“No!” Swear to god, his face went beet red. “Maybe. Okay, yes. I could show you how it works.”
“No way! You are an ass.” A really good-looking ass. Like, really, really good-looking.
“I’m drunk.” Marc’s face was so much closer to mine than I’d remembered it being. Close enough that our noses were near touching. “Du-runk.”
I felt really wise with my reply. I whispered it because we were so close. “Drunk ideas are bad. Bad ideas.”
“Bad, bad ideas,” he whispered back.
Thank goodness we agreed on that.
Three
I woke up the next morning with a start to a jackhammer drilling inside my head.
Pounding, pounding, pounding. The least sexy pounding there is. I was afraid to open my eyes, certain that any amount of light wouldn’t help the situation.
On top of that, someone had transported a desert into my mouth. That was the only explanation for my extreme thirst. Also, I was naked, which was strange since I almost never slept in the nude, but that was the least of my concerns.
I fumbled for the water bottle I always kept by my bed.
Not there.
But someone had thoughtfully placed a box of tissues and a container of lotion on the nightstand.
Wait. Why would––?
Oh, sweet Odin. This was not my bed.
The memories of last night crashed down at exactly the same time as the jackhammer in my head moved to its highest drilling setting. I remembered no pants and lots of bourbon. Something about a bangcation in France. Then a conversation regarding semen on my tits.
Holy cats. The mortification. What on earth had prompted me to bring that up?
Suddenly, the status of my nakedness moved from the least of my worries to the top of the list. Had we––? Had he––?
I grabbed my ladies. Seemed okay. I groped around on them for a second longer searching for anything dry or crusted.
Nothing. Thankfully they’d escaped his amorous attentions.
“Is this your normal morning routine?” came a rumbly voice next to me.
I froze, my position now a means of covering up rather than exploration. Because of course. Of course that’s where I was. In Hot Marc’s bed. Where else would I be? And I hadn’t even ascertained the extent of the humiliation before I got busted feeling myself up.