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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I have always felt like a bit of an odd duck, quacking along by myself and never really thinking that I would find myself feel any different. As the years of my life went on (all 21, I know, I'm old as fuck and planning my funeral as we speak), I have found myself more regimented and less easy-going than the average person. More of a ruler-follower than one that would go by the sway of the crowd.
Now, this has made it somewhat difficult to pursue romantic relationships, as though usually include uncontrollable variables. How long your boyfriend will last in bed (3 minutes for Erik, tops), how long it'll be before he asks you to be his girlfriend (debatable), and how long it is before he tells you he wants to spend the rest of his life with you (5 hours and 24 minutes over text the first time we met; and about three weeks when we first started our tom-foolery in person).
The transition of text to facetime was always one that terrified me a little; and now when I think about it, our past relationship played by me as myself and him as Matthew, I wonder if that's maybe the reason why I reacted so strongly to his dislike towards my Only Fans plan. He ended up being right about it, anyway - which is one thing I am glad that he has never uttered the words I told you so, about. Because that would make me actually want to never speak to him again.
All this being said, text is easy; in-person is hard. Hard like his dick, yes; but also hard like the level of Mario Kart that I've never seemed to be able to master. All the touching and kissing and unknowns have always made me feel like one of the three blind mice when I was with men before. And by men, I mean the far and few-between encounters that didn't involve Erik.
I think about all this while he goes to get a condom, from where, is anyone's guess. Maybe he Amazon Primes it and has an account he's been holding out on me from; maybe he asks his brother for one - for why a married man would willingly give him a condom when they have five kids of their own, I'm not sure; or maybe he retrieves one from the large stash that had been sitting in his bedside drawer.
Not that I snooped; though, I had to show some serious restrain to not go rifling through his contents like a raccoon looking for a midnight snack. But I would be lying to myself if I didn't acknowledge that he's likely had many, many, partners before I. That he hasn't parked his ding-a-long in the parking lot of many other women, whose names didn't begin and end just like mine.
"Got one." He informs me, returning to our secret hideaway (aka the guest bathroom in the basement that has a cobweb growing in the left corner of the ceiling), with a giant grin on his face. It's the shit-eating grin kind, the same kind he usually wears when he's able to make me arrive within five minutes.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, Erik King made me cream my jeans whilst his nieces and nephews are asleep, a few floors away. The audacity to be so good with kids, so handsome, and still good in bed. How dare he?
"Great." I respond, twiddling with my fingers like I'm testing the strings of my guitar. If that is, in fact, something that people do. I, having the musical talent of a piece of string cheese, wouldn't know. "Are you gonna take off your pants now?" I ask him, the slightly differentiated tone in my voice, beaming through like a florescent light when you're playing hide-and-seek.
