I’m a goddamned eleven-year-old who just got busted for having a joint in his underwear drawer.
“I haven’t done any of that stuff since I met you. I swear it,” I say eventually, just to break the uncomfortable silence ringing through the liquor store. “I haven’t needed to. Because I have you.”
Emma turns her body away from me and looks at the row of bottles again. She takes a deep breath and a long pause before she talks.
“Of course I know you have a dealer. Had a dealer. It’s just that it’s a piece of your life I’d rather not be reminded of, especially not by someone with a plethora of venereal diseases under her belt.” She’s calmer, now, but her skin is still pink.
Before I can come up with a response, she picks up one of the bottles and starts walking toward the liquor-store man. I pay for the wine and the fifth of Svedka Emma puts on the counter next to it. When we get out of the store, she takes the vodka and walks over to Nikki.
“Hey, ginger,” Nikki says to her when they are face-to-face.
“Hey yourself, sugar pie,” Emma says with a shitload of completely bogus sweetness. She hands the bottle of Svedka to Nikki and sharply adds, “Let’s call it even. Oh, and tell Ray-Ray we said hi.”
And just like that, she turns her back to Nikki and walks over to me, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the street. I turn my head and look back at Nikki. She’s standing there holding the vodka with her mouth open and her brow raised, like she can’t believe what just happened.
By the time we’re halfway home, it’s obvious that Emma’s still upset about something because she hasn’t said a single word.
“I don’t understand why you’re still so worked up about me having had a dealer,” I say eventually.
“That’s not why I’m upset.” She stops in her tracks and turns to me. She’s trying to snuff the anger out of her voice and replace it with forced niceness. Why?
“When I questioned you about whether or not you’d fucked that skank and asked you if you had cootie-funk,” she continues, “you got excited. You got really fucking excited. Do you not realize that I can totally see how happy you get when I’m pissed off? I can feel it, for Christ’s sake. Hell, I’ve been able to feel it since the morning I found you putting the floor down in my new kitchen without my permission. And that’s what I’m upset about. Not your fucking dealer. Smoke crack till you’re blue in the face, David, but stop finding my temper so goddamn amusing.”
Wow. She can feel it?
“I can’t help it,” I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. “I just think it’s fucking hot. And, despite what you may think, it’s not like I’m riling you up on purpose. I’m just not putting out the fire as quickly as I could because, frankly, it turns me on.” I hitch my free hand onto her waist, pull her against me, and grind my hips.
“See what I mean? You’re doing that on purpose, just to piss me off!” she says, but this time her voice is lighter. She’s joking now, too. “It’s like you’ve got some funky-ass form of sadism,” she adds with a forgiving little giggle.
“I can think of a whole lot of other forms of funky-ass sadism that would be way worse than this one,” I say in jest, pumping my hips against her like a horny little dog, “and I’ve got some of those, too.”
She freezes.
Shit.
I stop moving and let go of her body.
She steps back from me, her face serious again. Fuck me. I know what she’s thinking, but what the old me did was far from some funky-ass form of sadism. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t sadism. It wasn’t cruel or sexual. It wasn’t some form of punishment. And it never turned me on. Not sexually, at any rate. It was not sadism in any way, shape, or form. It was control.
I need to turn this around. I need her to know that just because I enjoy seeing her angry, doesn’t mean I’m some sadist. Funky-ass or
“I haven’t done any of that stuff since I met you. I swear it,” I say eventually, just to break the uncomfortable silence ringing through the liquor store. “I haven’t needed to. Because I have you.”
Emma turns her body away from me and looks at the row of bottles again. She takes a deep breath and a long pause before she talks.
“Of course I know you have a dealer. Had a dealer. It’s just that it’s a piece of your life I’d rather not be reminded of, especially not by someone with a plethora of venereal diseases under her belt.” She’s calmer, now, but her skin is still pink.
Before I can come up with a response, she picks up one of the bottles and starts walking toward the liquor-store man. I pay for the wine and the fifth of Svedka Emma puts on the counter next to it. When we get out of the store, she takes the vodka and walks over to Nikki.
“Hey, ginger,” Nikki says to her when they are face-to-face.
“Hey yourself, sugar pie,” Emma says with a shitload of completely bogus sweetness. She hands the bottle of Svedka to Nikki and sharply adds, “Let’s call it even. Oh, and tell Ray-Ray we said hi.”
And just like that, she turns her back to Nikki and walks over to me, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the street. I turn my head and look back at Nikki. She’s standing there holding the vodka with her mouth open and her brow raised, like she can’t believe what just happened.
By the time we’re halfway home, it’s obvious that Emma’s still upset about something because she hasn’t said a single word.
“I don’t understand why you’re still so worked up about me having had a dealer,” I say eventually.
“That’s not why I’m upset.” She stops in her tracks and turns to me. She’s trying to snuff the anger out of her voice and replace it with forced niceness. Why?
“When I questioned you about whether or not you’d fucked that skank and asked you if you had cootie-funk,” she continues, “you got excited. You got really fucking excited. Do you not realize that I can totally see how happy you get when I’m pissed off? I can feel it, for Christ’s sake. Hell, I’ve been able to feel it since the morning I found you putting the floor down in my new kitchen without my permission. And that’s what I’m upset about. Not your fucking dealer. Smoke crack till you’re blue in the face, David, but stop finding my temper so goddamn amusing.”
Wow. She can feel it?
“I can’t help it,” I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. “I just think it’s fucking hot. And, despite what you may think, it’s not like I’m riling you up on purpose. I’m just not putting out the fire as quickly as I could because, frankly, it turns me on.” I hitch my free hand onto her waist, pull her against me, and grind my hips.
“See what I mean? You’re doing that on purpose, just to piss me off!” she says, but this time her voice is lighter. She’s joking now, too. “It’s like you’ve got some funky-ass form of sadism,” she adds with a forgiving little giggle.
“I can think of a whole lot of other forms of funky-ass sadism that would be way worse than this one,” I say in jest, pumping my hips against her like a horny little dog, “and I’ve got some of those, too.”
She freezes.
Shit.
I stop moving and let go of her body.
She steps back from me, her face serious again. Fuck me. I know what she’s thinking, but what the old me did was far from some funky-ass form of sadism. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t sadism. It wasn’t cruel or sexual. It wasn’t some form of punishment. And it never turned me on. Not sexually, at any rate. It was not sadism in any way, shape, or form. It was control.
I need to turn this around. I need her to know that just because I enjoy seeing her angry, doesn’t mean I’m some sadist. Funky-ass or
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