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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I spent my teenage years - and let's be honest, most of college, reading romance novels and fantasizing over when the day would come that I would meet someone that made me feel as crazy as these nutjobs apparently did. And while most books I've read lacked a certain realness or relatability to me - being the awkward motherfucker that I am, you better believe I still dog-eared every sex scene, only to come back to it when, erhm..., the timing was right.
People have always made sex seem like such an innate thing; whether in the aforementioned writing or movies, tv shows, or between friends - or so I've heard, I don't really have any so I can't say for sure. Like it's a coming-of-age thing that makes you suddenly see the world differently. As if it is automatic that you enjoy it and have a good time, with little effort - kind of like going to Disney Land.
What they don't tell you; Hollywood, online celebrities, and writers, is that it's not. You will be disappointed, feel like someone told you you'd be getting a Bentley only to send you the model car in a children's toy size. Like life itself, doesn't make sense now. If everyone is constantly chasing sex like it's a carrot in front of a starved mule, then what's wrong with me?
That's how I felt for a long time after my first experience - the non-consensual one. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, why I didn't enjoy it, why it was nothing like porn, nothing like the puzzle pieces of a reality that I'd always fantasized about. It felt like a very cold wake-up call from a deep sleep - kind of like when my mom used to spritz water on my face when I was a kid.
Why did she do that? The hell if I know.
Anyway, the point is that, that sex sucks. That's my god-honest opinion. The sex that exists in porn (two girls and one cup, anyone?), romance novels (50 shades of grey), and from stories heard around the locker room. Or, I suppose in my case, stories heard by eavesdropping on the conversations of random people on the subway.
Unless you're a man, they can stick their dick in a beehive and have an orgasm. Women, on the other hand, have been appointed with the duties of both judge and jury; having to do access control on their vaginas like we're bouncers at a club and have some really hot girls in tonight. Or some famous athletes, one of the two.
I've spent a long time waiting to feel like I could trust someone. Someone that I could both proverbially provide an access card to; both of that of my heart and nether regions. Someone I wouldn't have to explain that my lower half is not a microwave and takes time to warm up. That I am not working in the red-light district and want to be made love to, passionately and tenderly, and I want that to be enough for them.
No, scratch that, I want that to be more than enough for them. I want them to crave it, I want them to get their jollies blue from thinking about me doing something completely innocent like reading a book or laying next to them. I want them to want me as much as I want a decent sale on the H&M website.
And filling that role - and some other locations that can't be mentioned for Disney Channel sponsorship opportunities, is Erik King.
"Fuck, you feel so fucking good." He cusses, earning himself a lifetime imprisonment for owing money to the swear jar. I would enforce such penalties and make sure his debt is paid, but I'm kind of on top of him right now which would make that a little bit more than uncomfortable.
Like, oh hey can you drive me to the dollar store, waiting for me in the car while I look for a jar that's big enough to not get my hand stuck and has no cracks in it?Then you'll need to drive to an ATM, take out cash, go to a gas station, break a twenty until you have a quarter and then put exactly two and my jar.
I laugh, using my usual tendency of nervousness and anxiousness to ease the situation - and the thoughts inside my head which are going a mile a minute.
After having a very not PG rated conversation in the parking lot at work, during which I may or may not have divulged my slippery status, Erik drove us to some random hiking trail's parking lot. In which we are now sticking are tongues down each other's throats and seriously asking for by-law to come knock on our window. His window?
It makes me think of this scene in a Helena Hunting book where the two main characters are having sex in his car and he erupts inside her - just as the cops show up. I kind of wish Erik would erupt inside of me. Just so I can know what it feels like. I wonder if it's sticky or warm or will make me want to never use condoms again.
"Jesus, you're killing me Rosie." He tells me, shifting me from my current position, straddling him. That's right ladies and gentleman, I am currently sitting on Erik King's dick. The dick of Erik King. One of the two? Not one of his two dicks, he only has one. You know what, you get the point.
The point is I'm sitting on him and even with the fabric of my cheap paper bag pants and his jeans, I can feel exactly how hard he is. I can feel his dick like it's the catchphrase of a Taylor Swift song. It feels really nice; and brings this throbbing to my lady regions that makes me feel like I'm a crazed sex addict.
And while most would use this opportunity to say something equally sexy back to him, I whine like a dog that hasn't been fed in a while. Or one that needs to go to the bathroom, or for a walk. I'm good on both of those, I would however, like him to move things along and get inside me, though. That, would be nice.
Except he keeps stopping to look at me and kiss my neck and rock me back-and-forth on his dick, so much so that I start to wonder if he's trying to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a rocking horse. Or one of those fake ones at the mall that costs you a dollar and then only works for about a minute long.
He's also very loud, extremally loud. Not like, annoying weight-lifter at the gym grunting loud, but loud enough that if we were at home, Kayden would definitely be able to hear. It's his words and his grunts and his movements. I can tell he's letting loose and letting go, while I alternate between a state of panic - worrying about someone pulling in beside us; and annoyance for him making me be on top.
It's not that I don't like being on top. I enjoy being on top of a lot of things; my schedule, my to-do list, my goal-tracker, my inbox. What I don't enjoy being on top of, is a dick when I'm moving on it. Like, what the hell am I even supposed to do to it? Interrogate it? Then drown it with my vagina when I don't get a response?
"Can we go in the backseat?" I ask him, flipping my hair to one side - not like some supermodel or Mariah Carey in that weirdly sexual video with Eminem; but rather, the kind of hair flip that gets hair in my mouth and another strand stuck to my face. I know, va va voom, right?
Erik's one lucky man.
What he isn't though, is conscious. He's so focused on where our bodies are connected - or, almost connected, that it takes him a moment to even start thinking coherent again. And when he does, he glances over his shoulder at the cramped backseat of his truck and furrows his eyebrows.
"I don't know if that would work very well, babe." He responds, thinking thoughtfully for a moment like Winnie the Pooh on his log before looking back at me. "Wouldn't really give us a lot of space." He explains, his hands caringly caressing down my sides, stopping the grip and grinding of our bottom level executives to think about me. "Do you want to go back home? We could just do it there?"
I think about it for a second, considering my options like I am playing one of those Lumosity games. The one specifically, with the tomato and the berries and the boss that's telling you how to garden. Like, if the tomato can't be beside the grapes, then I think it has some issues. Maybe the two can try therapy?
Then, of course then, when I'm trying to cool down my engine or at least fan it from its overheating, I make eye contact with him. Erik, not the tomato; or the imaginary therapist; or the bossy gardener who's probably the wife of whoever invented that game.
Our eyes meet and it takes about one millisecond of me, seeing the amount of heat and combustion that is radiating from him as he looks at me, to decide.
