don’t know what it is, but I’m in a civil war right now. The rational part of my brain is fighting for what’s right and what makes sense. The other part wants to do what it wants to do, no matter what, and right now that part is telling the other part to shut the hell up and let this guy be the man he wants to be with me. And I can tell that he wants to be.
I can see how he’s looking at me, even though he’s really trying not to. He makes good eye contact, and we all know how I feel about those eyes—but every few seconds they travel south to my lips, and he holds them there for only a second or two—enough for me to tell that’s very interested in what my mouth is doing.
Thirty minutes pass. I’ve had a glass and a half of wine and he’s had two whiskeys. He’s definitely not drunk, but I can tell that he’s feeling it. When our conversation winds down is when he makes the move that I knew he was waiting to make the entire time.
“So. . .” he starts. It’s the first time I’ve seen him be even a little bit awkward, and it’s kind of endearing. Kind of—I still hate him.
“So what?”
“What are you doing now?”
I decide to play along. “Nothing much. I have to get back and help Tori set up a little bit for tomorrow. You?”
“I was just going to go back to my room and chill.”
“Is Netflix going to be involved?”
“I doubt it,” he snickers. “But you’re welcome to come back and have another glass of wine if you want to keep talking.”
This time I snicker. “Something tells me that the word ‘talking’ is not really what you mean.”
“Does that frighten you?”
“Frighten me? You mean like your dick would be so massive as to actually inspire awe and fear? Kind of like how cave people reacted to fire? Like that? Do you have caveman fire dick?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I have had my share of compliments. What do you say?”
I’ve been waiting for an opportunity for days to say what I’m about to say to Conor Durden, and he just inadvertently set it up perfectly for me. I take my last sip of wine and stand up. I give him a fake flirtatious smile, then lean in and put my mouth so close to his ear I could practically nibble on it.
“I don’t think you’d want me anyhow. If I recall you choose Pass instead of Smash. Your choice, not mine.”
He pulls his face away from me and studies me for a few seconds in what can only be described as confused shock. I’m waiting. . . waiting. . . waiting. . .
“Hold on!” he says. There it is! “You’re. . .”
“Yeah. I am. YouTuber, influencer, blah, blah, blah. LM , Anyhow, yeah, that’s me. I guess, most important, you’d know me as one of the stars of your infamous videos.”
“Oh, shit,” he says. I turn to walk away. “Wait!” he yells. I can hear the desperation in his voice and I love it.
“Gotta go. Enjoy your whiskey. I hear it pairs well with blue balls. See you around Conor.”
Then I walk out.
I don’t remember ever feeling that satisfied.
Shoshana
“Wait, balls don’t really turn blue, do they?”
“You did not!”
Yup. Yup, I sure did.
Tori looks predictably shocked, which she shouldn’t really be at this point in our friendship—my crazy is well documented at this point. at what just happened.
“What did you say to him, exactly? Walk me through it, and don’t leave any details out.”
I tell her the whole story. How I ran into him, how flirty he was with me, how he asked me to go out with him, and finally how I left him horny and buzzed in that restaurant. “That’s exactly what happened. I almost feel bad that he’s all blue-ballsy and half-drunk.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he’s like that anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The drunk part, maybe.” She says. “But Conor doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to sit and pine over a girl. He probably tried to bag the waitress using his alpha male routine.”
“Or he went back to his room and jerked off viciously ‘cause, you know, men being men and all that.”
“Jesus, Shosh. I wasn’t even going. . . there. I just meant a guy like him isn’t sitting at a table alone, pining over you and wondering