I’d
been a mathlete. I’m not making that up, it’s a real thing. We
had matching t-shirts and we traveled to other high schools to
compete about things like who could solve quadratic equations the
fastest. That’s what I knew about competing.
An MMA fight? Not a
clue.
The elevator doors
parted and I nearly gasped. The lobby teemed with people, cameras
flashing and people laughing and posing, the excitement palpable in
the air. The crowd was dressed up, Saturday night in L.A. how could
you expect anything less, but it wasn’t anything like the kinds of
entertainment industry and charity events my mother sometimes dragged
me to.
This was a freaking
party. The women wore next-to-nothing, I’m not even exaggerating.
Some of them walked around in scraps of clothes, string bikinis and
heels, more makeup than a drag queen. Most of them seemed to have
fake boobs—again, no big surprise in L.A.—but these were on full,
buoyant display with only tiny triangles to barely cover their
nipples. I’d seen a lot of big fake boobs in my life, but here, on
some of these girls, what they had could double as flotation devices.
Had I thought I was
under-dressed? I suddenly felt like a spinster schoolteacher in an
old wool suit, my pantyhose wrinkled around my ankles. These girls
were smoking hot and knew it, throwing their long, styled hair back
in laughter as they offered up their fabulous, huge breasts, their
asses high and tight and perched up atop heels that made my wedge
sandals look like nerdsville.
Back to being a
wallflower, I skulked into the corner, hoping to become invisible.
I’d noticed the women first, but then I realized I was in a room
that had to be about seventy percent men. And these men were huge. A
lot of them looked like fighters, themselves. Or they had the broad
shoulders and arms of men who’d once been fighters, coupled with
the beer gut of those who’d become spectators and fans. Either way,
they were big, occupying a ton of space. I shrunk myself back against
the wall as much as I could.
Holy tattoos. I
realized I might be the only person there without any ink. I felt
like a shy, nerdy virgin. Maybe because I was one.
What had I been
thinking heading there in this virginal dress? Was I trying to be
Natalie Wood in West Side Story ,
debuting at my first dance with the big kids? A girl walked by me
with huge, glittery fake eyelashes, a pink neon bikini advertising
her XXX curves and clear plastic platform heels. Trashy as hell but
straight out of most guys’ wet dreams.
So this was the crowd
Tuck ran with now? No wonder he thought I was ridiculous, a stumbling
inexperienced idiot. These girls knew more about pleasing a man than
I’d ever learn in a lifetime. And I was sure they were all over
him. A rising heavyweight fighter, fresh on the circuit, they
probably circled him like sharks, vying to be the first to take a
bite. Or have him take a bite out of them. Either way, it was way out
of my league.
The whole scene was,
really. A guy jabbed me with his elbow and didn’t turn around to
apologize. A man in a flashy suit stood under bright lights being
interviewed, the TV camera a couple feet away. Near me a girl dropped
a glass of water on her tank top, plastering the white to her black
bra. She cried in mock flirtatious dismay to the semi-circle of male
onlookers. On purpose, I realized. She was competing in her own wet
t-shirt contest. I’d declare her the winner.
I didn’t know what I
was supposed to do. Was I supposed to go and try to find Tuck? I’d
been too drunk last night to ask him anything. I’d nearly jumped
his bones in the car after he’d driven me home. Thank God he’d
chased me out, but how humiliating. I’d sat there next to him,
leaning closer, lips parted, the buzz from the margaritas fading, but
replaced by something stronger, much more potent. His nearness, his
maleness, his scent. He’d had to beat me off with a stick.
He’d left me a note this morning:
See
you
been a mathlete. I’m not making that up, it’s a real thing. We
had matching t-shirts and we traveled to other high schools to
compete about things like who could solve quadratic equations the
fastest. That’s what I knew about competing.
An MMA fight? Not a
clue.
The elevator doors
parted and I nearly gasped. The lobby teemed with people, cameras
flashing and people laughing and posing, the excitement palpable in
the air. The crowd was dressed up, Saturday night in L.A. how could
you expect anything less, but it wasn’t anything like the kinds of
entertainment industry and charity events my mother sometimes dragged
me to.
This was a freaking
party. The women wore next-to-nothing, I’m not even exaggerating.
Some of them walked around in scraps of clothes, string bikinis and
heels, more makeup than a drag queen. Most of them seemed to have
fake boobs—again, no big surprise in L.A.—but these were on full,
buoyant display with only tiny triangles to barely cover their
nipples. I’d seen a lot of big fake boobs in my life, but here, on
some of these girls, what they had could double as flotation devices.
Had I thought I was
under-dressed? I suddenly felt like a spinster schoolteacher in an
old wool suit, my pantyhose wrinkled around my ankles. These girls
were smoking hot and knew it, throwing their long, styled hair back
in laughter as they offered up their fabulous, huge breasts, their
asses high and tight and perched up atop heels that made my wedge
sandals look like nerdsville.
Back to being a
wallflower, I skulked into the corner, hoping to become invisible.
I’d noticed the women first, but then I realized I was in a room
that had to be about seventy percent men. And these men were huge. A
lot of them looked like fighters, themselves. Or they had the broad
shoulders and arms of men who’d once been fighters, coupled with
the beer gut of those who’d become spectators and fans. Either way,
they were big, occupying a ton of space. I shrunk myself back against
the wall as much as I could.
Holy tattoos. I
realized I might be the only person there without any ink. I felt
like a shy, nerdy virgin. Maybe because I was one.
What had I been
thinking heading there in this virginal dress? Was I trying to be
Natalie Wood in West Side Story ,
debuting at my first dance with the big kids? A girl walked by me
with huge, glittery fake eyelashes, a pink neon bikini advertising
her XXX curves and clear plastic platform heels. Trashy as hell but
straight out of most guys’ wet dreams.
So this was the crowd
Tuck ran with now? No wonder he thought I was ridiculous, a stumbling
inexperienced idiot. These girls knew more about pleasing a man than
I’d ever learn in a lifetime. And I was sure they were all over
him. A rising heavyweight fighter, fresh on the circuit, they
probably circled him like sharks, vying to be the first to take a
bite. Or have him take a bite out of them. Either way, it was way out
of my league.
The whole scene was,
really. A guy jabbed me with his elbow and didn’t turn around to
apologize. A man in a flashy suit stood under bright lights being
interviewed, the TV camera a couple feet away. Near me a girl dropped
a glass of water on her tank top, plastering the white to her black
bra. She cried in mock flirtatious dismay to the semi-circle of male
onlookers. On purpose, I realized. She was competing in her own wet
t-shirt contest. I’d declare her the winner.
I didn’t know what I
was supposed to do. Was I supposed to go and try to find Tuck? I’d
been too drunk last night to ask him anything. I’d nearly jumped
his bones in the car after he’d driven me home. Thank God he’d
chased me out, but how humiliating. I’d sat there next to him,
leaning closer, lips parted, the buzz from the margaritas fading, but
replaced by something stronger, much more potent. His nearness, his
maleness, his scent. He’d had to beat me off with a stick.
He’d left me a note this morning:
See
you
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