Page 48 of Hey Girl
“I have to tell you though, Iggy got a little too friendly with me while I was doing naked yoga earlier -,”
“Naked yoga?” I cock my head up to regard my blobby boyfriend.
“I’m trying to rechannel my energy for our relationship,” he says with exaggerated attentiveness. “You can’t be the one making all the changes. And greeting the morning sun while naked and pure is surprisingly Zen-like. Anyway, I think Iggy was mistaking my wang for another naked cat, and now he’s giving come hither eyes to my junk. So I might have to stop manscaping.”
So he is still thinking of sleeping with me. Also, what the fuck? It’s too early for this shit. Although I supposed, I’d love to usher the big fat elephant out of the room sooner rather than later so I can get on with laying here while I try not to die.
“Speaking of… that, I seem to recall offering up my womanhood on a silver platter last night. How mortified should I be, on a scale of one to ten?”
“Negative seven, baby,” he softens his tone. “Believe me, I wanted to. But we only get to do our first time once,” he proceeds thoughtfully.
“Have you been reading poetry after naked yoga?”
“Only on Pinterest. My point is, I want you to remember every moment. Plus, be of sound mind to give consent and all that.”
“Oh.” My heart feels warm and fuzzy at that. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. If I have to ralph again, I’m going tobe very upset. “How did you lose your virginity?” I ask, surprised that I don’t feel anxious or insecure, just curious.
“To an angry kitten in the back of my van,” he rattles off casually and a spray of Raspberry Blast comes sputtering out from between my lips. “Not that kind of kitten you adorable moron,” he says affectionately while dabbing at my chin with the collar of his t-shirt I’m wearing. “I’m talking about the Aussie Girl punk band.”
Oh. The Angry Kittens.
“But that’s a whole other story,” he says, wistfully. “In an anthology far away.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, why don’t you lay back and give the BLAST a chance to do it’s magic. I’ll be downstairs.”
My eyes drop shut as if there’s weights attached to them.
When I wakeup I’m not sure how much later, I find myself surprisingly refreshed and send up a prayer of thanks to the BLAST gods as I pull the covers back.
After wrestling with my contact lenses and rinsing out my poor eyeballs, I pop in a fresh set, and still clad in Chris’s t-shirt and my Underoos, I wander down the stairs of his expansive pad. While finding him is my goal, I take a quick detour to the kitchen to chug a bottle of water I find in the fully stocked fridge. I’ve visited Chris’s house a few times over the last few weeks, but we usually hang out at mine because he wants me to be comfortable. But I do remember the way to his pretty fly finished basement where I can hear the very faint beats of a drum kit floating up the stairs. When I reach the plush carpet at thebottom of the stairs, I see him through the large picture window, closed off from the rest of the basement space.
Even though I’ve seen him perform plenty on my phone screen, and in person last night, seeing him now, I’m in awe. It’s a phenomenon how all of his movements are deliberate, yet without hardly any thought or effort. I know he’s jamming out relying on pure muscle memory, but damn if his talent isn’t a turn on. He’s burning off energy, yet he couldn’t be more relaxed.
He’s shirtless, with a sheen of sweat making his tattoos shine and glisten, making my lady bits shrug and ask, what hangover?
His head bobs from side to side with the beats, and when his green eyes catch mine, he gives me a relaxed smile, tilting his chin at me. God that’s sexy. Shifting his sticks to one hand, he reaches over to some kind of sound system in the corner behind him and makes an adjustment before turning back and jerking his head, motioning me to come inside the small cubicle.
Turning the knob and pushing through the door, I’m greeted by some background music that’s turned down low, but is unmistakably “One” by Metallica.
“Hey cutie, how’s your head?” Chris holds out an arm for me to come sit on his lap, and my heart damn near explodes inside my chest. Once again, I’m in disbelief that this is actually my life.
“Fine,” I tell him softly as I sit gingerly on his thigh and let my arms settle around his neck. “Playing along to the Metallica?” I ask rhetorically.
“Well, Lars is a respectable idol, but I actually have a whole mix of rock classics loaded up, minus the drumlines.”
“So, like karaoke for drummers?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Just like that,” he nods affectionately. “Backup vocals too, in fact, if you’re sure your head is okay, I’m taking requests,” he gives my earlobe a gentle nibble and another zing shoots between my legs.
“Come Together by the Beatles?”
He drops his forehead to my shoulder briefly before looking back up at me. “Girl after my heart. Ringo is in my top five,” he shifts me slightly while he reaches over, searching for the right track. I move to get off him when he holds me fast with his free arm. “Where do you think you’re going, come here,” he shifts me with both arms so that I’m straddling him, my bare legs draped on either side of his waist.
Oh my god, fuck me.
No, seriously…