Page 22 of Spiral
I was torn between saying I wanted him to fuck me over the table and also saying I could move as slow as a glacier if that was what he wanted.
“Yeah,” I said, as the waitress came over with drinks and tiny plates of starters. “We can do slow.”
No one has ever died of blue balls. Right?
Chapter Ten
Craig
I was prettysure I was going to die of blue balls.
Dating Jamie was amazing. Going slow? Meh, not as incredible as I’d envisioned it to be, but it was helping us learn about each other. Which was why, two weeks into our officially slow dating regime, I was jerking off more than I had when I’d been fourteen. Which was a lot.
I wondered if I should contact my financial advisor and have him drop some cash into lube and tissue stock. Given how much of both items I was using, the stock had to be rising steadily. We’d barely even kissed the four times we’d been out. A peck on the cheek and a soft goodbye was all I’d gotten. Which was fine. Good. It was good. The only downside was that I knew what he tasted like, and I yearned for more. And not just taste. I wanted to touch him, smell him, hear him, see him moving on my dick. If I’d never experienced being with him—in him—I wouldn’t have known what I was missing. Being able to replay that night of passion made denying myself much more painful. Like giving up cheesy doodles for Lent. I knew the little cheese curls weredelicious, and so that long stint of denying myself was twice as rough compared to if I’d not known the glory that were Cheetos.
“Fuck,” I groaned then shoved the heel of my hand into the raging boner in my shorts.
Sitting outside the movie theater in my SUV waiting for Jamie to show up for date five, I was not happy with the erection popping to life down yonder. “Chill out.” I inhaled and exhaled. My dick didn’t follow suit. “Stupid thing.” I gave it another shove then tried to bring up some mental images of something disgusting. The only thing I could envision was a shudder-worthy memory of my great Aunt Tippie modeling the bikini she’d worn to catch Uncle Roger’s eye back in 1968.
A sharp rap on the window jarred me out of the horrors of Tippie in that crocheted bikini. I blinked at Jamie smiling at me through my window. I smiled back, peeked down at my now flaccid prick, and then exited my SUV.
“You looked a thousand miles away,” Jamie said as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I really wanted to turn my head to meet his lips, but I bussed him back. All friendly and not Grabby McGrabby Hands the way I wanted to.
“Reliving childhood trauma,” I confessed as I held out my hand. He threaded his fingers through mine as he glanced at me with mild confusion. The night was a sticky one, rain was being predicted for the area. Sorely needed rain as the woods were dry as tissue paper. Everyone in this state lived in a heightened awareness of how easy a wildfire started. And those nimrods who didn’t heed the fire conditions needed a sharp kick in the balls. “Nothing too severe, just an old lady in a skimpy swimsuit.”
“Gods, that’s quite the trauma.” A rolling rumble of thunder moved over the city, and we both glanced skyward. “We’d best get into the theater. I don’t want to get my new silk shirt and coat wet.”
He did look fantastic. Always so well-dressed and perfectly groomed. Some nights I felt like a schlub next to him. People were probably wondering what this stunningly smart and sexy man was doing with a puck-pushing jock. I wondered that myself almost every day. Then I thanked my lucky stars that Jamie seemed to be into big jocks.
We’d just entered the lobby of a retro theater, recently redone to resemble an old movie palace, when the first raindrops began to fall.
“Just in time,” Jamie noted, then tried to offer me money for his ticket. I paid before he could argue too vehemently. “I’m buying the snacks.”
“Works for me.” I’d not had time to eat since lunch. I’d spent the afternoon at a car dealership, the same one I bought my new car from, shooting a commercial. Then I’d raced to a dyslexia support group over in Glendale where I’d sat with parents, educators, and caregivers of kids with learning disabilities. We’d discussed my journey, the ups and downs of parenting dyslexic kids, and the recent bill giving several million dollars to local schools to enhance their early intervention for children with learning disabilities programs. I’d been scheduled for an hour, but I was there for three with only some terrible coffee to fill my belly.
Ten minutes later, we headed to the theater with our arms loaded. Well,myarms were loaded, Jamie had a diet soda and some gummy bears.
“That might be the largest accumulation of junk food I have ever seen.” He chuckled as we found our seats in the back row—far left—and settled in.
“Crispin, the new team dietician, would birth a water buffalo if he saw this.” I snickered, placing my jumbo popcorn with extra butter on the thigh closest to Jamie so he could dip into the tub ifhe so desired. I tore into the first of five candy bars then washed it down with a few sips of my lemon-lime soda.
“So, since we have time to kill, let’s pick up our getting-to-know-you game from the last date,” he suggested, then popped a red bear into his mouth. I nodded with a mouth full of nougat and caramel. The crash from all of this sugar was going to be epic. “I’ll go first. What was the name of your first pet?”
“Mm, easy. Her name was Piggles. She was the meanest Guinea pig ever to walk the earth. My sister lived in abject fear of Piggles. To this day she’s leery of anything smaller than a cat.”
Jamie laughed softly before eating a grape bear. He was so meticulous. One bear at a time, chew politely, swallow, and then pick another bear. I’d probably dump half the box into my pie hole at once. I loved that about him.
“My turn.” I washed down candy bar three with more soda. “Do British people get schooling in being fussy?”
“‘Fussy’?” He sat up in a huff, touched his chest, and gave me an icy look. “I amnotfussy.”
“You eat one bear at a time,” I pointed out. He pursed his lips. “And you fold and iron your hankies. Your hair is always on point, and your trousers always have a crease pressed into them. Oh, and you dust off my car seat with that crisp handkerchief before you sit in it. Shall we even mention the waistcoats, which I think are amazing and super-hot? Ergo and to whit, you are an adorable fussbudget.”
“I’m not roasting you like a chicken on a spit because you said I was adorable.” I winked at him and got a playful eye roll in return. “The reason I dust off your car seat is because they generally have a fine coating of orange Wotsits dust.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s totally fair, they do.”
He waggled a brow, just a bit, and then stole some popcorn from the bucket.
