Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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There are some sounds in life that are familiar. The sound of the pizza delivery guy's shoes against the pavement; the sound of Kayden having loud (questionable) sex; and the sound of my boyfriend, taking a dump in the bathroom. Okay, that last one might be a little TMI - but, if you've ever lived with someone, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
As someone with a plethora of mental disorders, these sounds bring me comfort because I know what they mean. It's the uncanny, unpredictable, unheard before ones, which bring me a rush of anxiety, stronger than my boyfriend's bowel movements after he's had Indian food.
"What time's your game?" I ask Erik, just as he's coming out the bathroom door. I don't need to wait for him to say something to make me aware of his appearance, because the simple adjustment of the bathroom fan is enough to be as loud as a siren call. That and the fact that his entering the bedroom means a variety of scents and aromas has now come along with him.
And before you think I'm some weird scat enthusiast, I mean the smell of the Dove soap we use, not his feces. The smell of that is masked by Poo-Pourri and the frequent use of a Febreze spray. It's scented Hawaiian Paradise; so anytime I feel like I'm in Maui, I know he's taken a dump.
"7:30." He answers, casually strolling out in only a bath towel tied around his waist. Yes, nothing else. Nothing to dry his hair (obviously, he's a boy); but more importantly, nothing to conceal his Greek God like body, or stop me from potentially seeing his Johnson, if his towel were to fall off.
I realize his baring of skin when he leans over to give me a kiss and I make direct eye contact with his towel. His dick which is hidden beneath it, no doubt swinging forward to say "hello". Well joke's on him, because by the time he has some meeting availability, I'll be fast asleep. Just another one of the many perks of having a different sleep schedule than your boyfriend.
I don't say anything, but make an awkward noise with my throat - something between a laugh and a clearing of the throat. I do it because when Erik doesn't have clothes on, I can't think straight. Perhaps it's my body's way of trying to figure out if I have any brain cells available; or if they've all been killed off by my self tanner.
He shoots me a confused look, furrowing his eyebrows together while raising them in a questioning dad, sort-of-way. I really need to stop comparing Erik to a dad, because people will really start to think I have some weird incestuous kink. In reality, I just see some traits in him that I suppose I wish I'd seen in my father.
A protector; a carer; someone that would want to slay all the dragons for me. Something I always craved to have in my own family tree, but never did. Now, 21 years after I needed it, I've found those same traits in the man I've come to love. Talk about a plot twist.
"What?" He wanders, casually strolling across the room and heading towards our dresser. Technically it's his dresser; but if technicality was really concerned, it's all mine. After all, it's my bras; underwear; t-shirts; and various brands of leggings that take up the majority of its space.
