Knickers

Penis Hop

I can't leave the bar quickly enough to avoid Maya and Layla. They spot me ducking through the crowd, hurriedly calling as I walk one of the Ubers that swarms LA hotspots on weekends. They intercept me at the front door, stopping me in my tracks.
By now my makeup is everywhere, my vision blurry with runny eyeliner and tears. Maya takes my face into her hands and blots the black smudges away.
"What happened? Did you tell him?"
"No," I say. "He's with someone. A girl."
"Oh, Marley," Maya sighs, pulling me into a hug. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I tell her, dragging her hands away. "This is my fault."
Maya frowns. "Let's go home, hm?"
"No," I retort. "No, please go to Rocky tonight. Please."
"But I—"
"Please," I repeat, gripping her wrist. "I'd hate myself to disrupt your date."
"You're sure?"
"Positive," I tell her. "My Uber is meeting me at the corner."
"Okay. Text me when you're home."
I nod once, shooting a shameful apology Layla's way for interrupting her night. She dismisses me with a string of friendly reassurances, and after this they allow me to rush out of the bar and into the parking lot.
I stop at the corner at the end of the block, pacing back and forth and trying to calm down some, maybe rationalize what I saw, but the recollection hurts. The image is burnt into my mind, almost as much as the knowledge that I might have been able to prevent it had I given into temptation last night.
This must be a sign that hookup culture is the only flirtation with intimacy I'm ever meant to have. I have Maya, she knows me better than anyone, and I can just penis-hop until the day I die and entrust my emotional needs to her.
It's what I've been doing for a long time, seemingly by a natural inclination. I shouldn't have tried to swim upstream.
My Uber arrives then, and thankfully my driver is dead silent. No sounds disrupt the quiet ride save for the muted noises of Saturday night in Los Angeles, at least until my phone begins to vibrate.
It's Dom.
I decline the call in a panic.
Then, of course, he calls again.
After the second rejected call, my phone lights up with messages from him.
Were you crying?
You ok?
Where r you?
Did you leave the bar?
You ok?
These I ignore as well.
Then, several minutes later, a text from Maya.
Blud boy's worried. Jsyk.
Like, really worried.
Jsyk.
I mute her also.
Once back in my apartment, I send a courtesy text to Maya and shut my phone off completely. I attempt to write a few scripts, but my mind is far too distracted to create anything of quality.
Eventually I find myself on the floor of my shower, clutching the neck of Maya's bottle of tequila in one hand and noncommittally scrubbing my face with the other.
There's not much to think about in here besides the thing I'm trying to avoid. He looked like he was having the blowjob of his life before I barged in.
Maybe I should have responded to his texts, so at least I could play it off like I didn't care. Maybe I shouldn't have left the bar at all. My reaction would discredit me if I were to deny that it was more than embarrassment that I felt.
On top of it all, it still hurts.
Jealousy has never been a problem for me, ever.
I don't know how to handle the sharp ache that comes with my thoughts. There's no denying how big of an idiot I am now.
I had the chance last night, ready and waiting, and I did nothing.
Though if Dom had any feelings toward me, I doubt he would have failed to tell me. Maybe my hesitation saved me from a harsh rejection; finding him in that stall was only a confirmation of a narrowly avoided disaster.
The tequila soothes my mind after a while, thankfully silencing all my pointless speculation. When I knock out that night it's with the dull ache of lost love, and a firm belief that I should avoid any future charming British rockstars that invite me onto their tour bus.