Page 36 of Not Your Valentine
I close my eyes and return to where the dream ended, though I save time by imagining we’re both already naked. (I also remove the Martian landscape because it’s just bizarre.) Taylor is on his knees, running the tip of his tongue over my entrance as I arch against the brick wall. I trail the head of the dildo through my folds, imagining it’s him instead. Slipping his tongue inside me.
I may release the tiniest of moans.
And then I’m no longer against the brick wall but lying down on a mattress that’s conveniently right there. He’s braced on top of me, notching his cock between my legs.
I take the full length of the dildo inside me and groan. I thrust it a few times, eyes closed, imagining he’s thrusting again and again. I can hear how ridiculously wet I am as I move the toy. When I sit up, the dildo shifts, burying itself a little deeper. Oh, fuck. I sit so my heel presses against my clit through my underwear, and I rock against it, moving the dildo inside me and as I enjoy the friction against my clit.
He’s kissing my neck as he fucks me. I slip one of his fingers inside my mouth, rolling my tongue around it, showing him what I’ll do to his cock next time, and he smiles. Then his finger moves between my thighs, brushing my clit just the way I like it.
I stiffen as I come.
“Taylor,” I whisper.
I slump forward on my bed and take a few slow, deep breaths before I clean everything up and start my coffee. Sleep isn’t going to happen, I know it.
I feel a bit strange after that much-needed orgasm. Not because there’s anything wrong with getting myself off, but Taylor has been in all my sexual fantasies lately, and he’s my friend. We kissed last night, but what does he want?
I have no idea.
And what does it mean for me? Last night, I was in this weird, dreamlike state, and I started thinking a relationship was a possibility, but in the light of morning, my mind a little clearer in the aftermath of that orgasm, I assume last night happened just because I was horny and haven’t had sex in nearly a year.
Yeah, that’s more likely. I shouldn’t think it means anything more than that.
Some foolish part of me protests, but it’s full of nonsense. I’m just a little sexually frustrated, and romance is not something I need.
It’s safest this way. No videos of someone dumping me in a restaurant can go viral if I avoid romance. Though the odds of that happening again are slim, knowing my luck, they’re not zero—and even if it hadn’t been filmed, I still would have felt terrible.
Relationships can lead to all sorts of horrible situations. As I sip my coffee, I remind myself of stories I’ve heard about from acquaintances and friends over the years.
“But Taylor wouldn’t be like that, right?” I say to Lucifer, who seems even more unimpressed with me than usual. “Sorry. I shouldn’t bother you with my human troubles.”
Anyway, Taylor probably doesn’t want something more with me, the cool person talking to her goldfish. He, too, could be having a sexual dry spell and kissed me simply because of that. And if I mention my strange feelings to him, it might mess up our long-time friendship.
Still, I can’t help my disappointment that he hasn’t texted me since I got home yesterday, and as I go about my day, I check my phone more than usual, just to make sure I don’t miss any messages.
I know, I know, it’s pathetic. I’m acting like a lovesick fool, even though I’m not in love.
And I can’t tell my other friends about this situation because they think my relationship with Taylor is real. (At least, I hope they do. Esther seemed a touch skeptical, though she hasn’t said anything more.) They aren’t pitying me now, but not being able to tell the truth is awkward.
Having a fake boyfriend wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.
By Tuesday evening, I still haven’t heard from Taylor. I’m trying not to obsess about it and failing miserably.
When he’s not pretending to be my boyfriend, we frequently go several weeks without communicating. But since the start of our fake relationship, we’ve been in contact almost every day, even if it’s just him sending me a photo of a pink heart-shaped cake and me telling him to fuck off.
I consider texting him just to make sure everything’s okay, then tell myself I’m being foolish. Still, I keep worrying that he regrets the kissing and nothing will ever be the same between us again.
On Wednesday, I get a text at dinnertime, but it’s only Shirley, asking what we should get Dad for his birthday.
Afterward, I look at the pictures of Taylor smiling in wonder at the lights.
On Thursday, I have a shitty day at work. I measure something incorrectly and have to redo it—I never make mistakes like that—and Kellie doesn’t get my hints that I want to be left alone at lunch. The rush-hour traffic is particularly nightmarish, too.
When I arrive home, it’s almost an hour later than usual, and instant noodles are all I’m prepared to make for dinner. I’ve just poured boiling water over the noodles when I finally get a text from Taylor.
Hey, how are you doing?
Not great, I reply.
