J.
Topping was never Jane's strong suit. To put it bluntly, her hips are as stiff as a redneck during his prostate exam. It's such a waste, considering her thighs alone could make an onlooker spill themselves over their phone screen. Too bad she doesn't showcase herself to be gawked at. She could hardly muster the courage to strip down in front of this spindly green bean, half-balding, piece of cardboard type of man.
"Move a little-a little left." He instructs, guiding her hips with clammy hands. She acknowledges him, closing her eyes, trying not to picture Steve Bushemi. Nate was in his 20's, but had the unfortunate curse of premature aging.
She lifts herself to the left and the head of his penis grazes her from back to front, as it had been doing for the past ten minutes. Jane worries if she'll ever be comfortable in these situations. She hopes her body isn't putting any strain on him, since her thighs are a barbecue, flaming up and primed for a sausage.
"Haven't you done this before?" His pelvis juts upward from impatience. His penis hammers onto her surface like he were playing wack-a-mole.
"Yeah, yeah, gimme a second." She blames herself for their misfortune, understanding why he's impatient. She'll get it in eventually.
To guide the snake to its habitat, Jane grasps him in her hand. She assures herself it's as easy as a tampon. With partial confidence, she leans it against herself, and it awaits permission to enter. Her arms find the headboard for balance when she brazenly meets his eyes. No, monster house! No, grown ups! No, Monsters Inc.! Redirecting her attention just above the headboard, there's a poster of a bikini bodied girl that sits on the hood of a navy mustang. Jane imagines for a moment that she is as desirable as her. If Jane looked like that, men would be groveling on their knees for her. With an empowered facade, she gyrates. This time, however, the misalignment barred real consequences. His penis kinks with her force, bending like undercooked asparagus.
A forehead vein protrudes the center while his face gains a strained crimson hue "Shit, woman!" He howls, simultaneously cupping his jewels and shoving her to the side.
The mattress absorbs any fall damage she would have taken, as well as the humiliation that she manages to wash through herself.
"Sorry." He croaks out, his pubic hairs slithering through the gaps of his fingers.
"No, that's my bad!" Although she's apologetic, she expects he'll overcome the pain soon and climb on top like he should have in the first place.
The room fills with his winces of pain. Jane flips to her back, bending one of her freckled legs. She wonders if she weren't plus sized, if he'd have made it in by now. She knows for sure she wouldn't have kinked his dick. Jane breathes in deep, eyes trapped in a cycling wooden fan. She's growing irritated with how dramatic he's being.
The below-average man lets her know he's getting water, before waddling out of the bedroom.
She doesn't debate leaving. She's here to get the job done.
Dragging his feet back in the room, he finishes the glass, setting it down on his nightstand.
Jane wasn't thirsty anyway.
"Feel better?" She leans on her elbow, fingers wrestling in her unkempt scarlet locks.
"I am now, yeah," He begins climbing over her, which blocks her preferred view of the ceiling fan. He gives her more motion sickness than any cyclic object ever could. She wishes she were on her stomach, prepared for doggie instead. "Almost gave me blue balls there. The worst kind."
Jane offers a guilty smile as she wraps her legs around his lower back, "My bad." She doesn't feel all that guilty, though. In truth, she hadn't given herself the opportunity to over analyze it--yet.
"Ready?"
She's flattered by his confirmation of consent, but this isn't a quality men should be celebrated for. Her bar is so low, even the Earth's mantle wouldn't be deep enough. "Yep."
He maneuvers his dick to her entrance. As he pushes in with ease, she arches her back, gasping. Her reaction sends a smile creeping up his cheeks. He slides partially in and out, and Jane has to grip the pillow to her left. She doesn't have sex often. By no means does that mean Jane doesn't want to fuck. Jane wants to fuck, and it's not for the pleasure. Nothing is pleasurable to her about being distended past Gods Will, having her organs punctured in the process. Every time it's in her, her anxiety ramps up from the discomfort. It's like a tumor she needs to punch out of her stomach.
So then why is she here, now? It's not complicated:
Jane is tired of being invisible.
She dresses in hoodies and baggy jeans to hide herself during class. She finds a seat anywhere past the 3rd row. She did no sports growing up, nor is she notarized for an 'outgoing personality.' She has one friend, Brenda, because all the rest left her in the dust. She was never invited to parties, asked to school dances, or been on a single date.
Jane didn't want pleasure, she wanted attention.
So when the sweaty man utters, "You know, while you did break my dick, I'm happy you didn't leave 'cause I only fuck fat chicks," It does all, but inflate her confidence.
Jane tenses harder. The emotional pain strikes her gut with more ferocity than any tumor-analogous-intercourse could. Her eyes screw shut. She yearns to leave her body. All the while, He continues to thrust, oblivious to the fact that he'd thrown her into a dysmorphic spiral.
'Is it dysmorphia if it's true?' She contemplates. 'At least he's into me.'
Quickening the time between thrusts, they produce a clapping sound as their skin collides. It tempts Jane into rolling off the bed.
Somewhat recovered from his verbal assault, she finally peaks at the scene. He's up on his knees, grasping at the front of her thighs. His fingers are spread, digging in, then readjusting, never in a set spot. Jane is given a hint of gratification, as he's trying to grab as much of her as her can; and he likes it.
She sits up on her elbows, still holding her breath for each shock of penetration. Ego being built up brick-by-brick, the physical pain gradually subsides. His gaze pries over the landscape of her stomach. Despite the comment, she doesn't feel the urge to recede like an unbloomed tulip. She invites speculation. He's getting a high off this.
He's getting a high off her body.
His eyes roll back with his head, granting Jane the euphoric validation she'd been craving.
"I'm gonna cum."
For a brief moment, she's still swimming in the serene pools of fulfillment. That is, until she remembers neither of them have condoms. "Maybe, pull out?" She gently suggests, because it should be obvious, right?
"Yeah, yeah," He continues to thrust, "I will."
This close to mission takeoff, she should be sliding out of his affliction. Yet, she stays put, trusting he'll know when.
She is raw pizza dough, being kneaded as his breathing gets shallower. He makes more desperate grabs at her and Jane is losing hope for a vacant womb.
Just as she starts to whimper, "Please, you should-" her stomach is splattered with warm streaks of slime. His syrup drizzles over her like he's decorating a sundae, pulsating with each release of the goo.
This fluid is foreign to her. Sure, she'd pleasured men in the past, but none have gotten so far as to finish with her. As his confetti embellishes her torso, she's frozen in pure disgust. This is no party for her. She treats it like glitter, afraid to move in fear of it dripping onto the sheets.
"I'll get you a towel." He flatly comments, unperturbed with his mess.
On the way to the bathroom, he's interrupted by a phone call. "This is Nate Casper's phone."
Stood in the middle of the bedroom, his eyes dart around as he gets situated. The chlorine stench of the slime has Jane holding her breath to conceal a gag. Wouldn't want to be rude.
She gathers that Nate is on a business phone call, discussing the next conference meeting. Jane gestures to her predicament, trying not to be pushy.
An erect finger is shot up to signal, "You and your slip n' slide stomach can wait. I can clearly only focus one one thing at a time, you hippo woman," Or something. Her imagination tends to get carried away.
---
H.
"Tell me, Harry Styles,"
He really dislikes when people use his full name.
"How did I get lucky enough to be on a date with you?"
A proper response was always lost upon him. A million thoughts race through his mind about the detriment of idolization and guilt of all the while being highly imperfect. He's disenchanted by those who pride themselves on being in his company. He's consistently advocated that he was a normal guy with an abnormal job. Why couldn't people treat him that way? Harry hates living on the pedestal people persistently superglue him to.
"Dunno."
The restaurant is lightly buzzing in conversations Harry would rather be having. He admires a suited elderly man who's patting a napkin on his date's cheek.
"Well, Harry Styles, I am glad I messaged you. Also, you look incredible, as usual."
"Thank you." He politely accepts. He'd already complimented her when his driver picked them up, though he takes this opportunity to discover something else he likes. "Your hair is absolutely stunning."
Her bashful smile incites the idea he hadn't considered until now. If he's not going to continue to date her, why not keep her for a quickie? She doesn't seem too bad and Harry prefers to not spend his nights alone. "It's very healthy." He admires the sleekness of it, curious about the feeling. "How do you keep it that way?"
"Oh, genetics." She bobbles her head proudly.
Disappointed in her answer, he genuinely wanted to learn how to revive his curls to the same sleekness. "May I feel?"
Lip curling upward, his date couldn't be more enthralled with the suggestion. She even leans forward to shorten their distance across the table.
He takes a front strand, running it between his pointer and thumb. Slippery as ice, the silky strands slides through his fingers, bouncing back into position. He pulls back with a bright smile. "Wow, that's amazing. Really, how do you get it like that?"
"All from my mama," The whiteness in her eyes is frightening him a bit.
As the waitress jots their order, she requests a picture with Harry. She introduces herself as a long-time fan. He never understood how so many lacked the politeness to interrupt someone during their meal. It reminded him of how lucky he was to have been raised by a well-mannered mother. Anne got the Lion's share of the love he had to give. Anyway, Harry would always oblige to make someone's day. He had a hard time turning anyone down, and fans were his Achilles heel.
It doesn't take much further into the Brussel Sprout appetizer for him to extinguish any ideas of sex tonight. She was asking far too personal of questions, leading him to inquire the authenticity of her infatuation. Initially Harry thought it was excitement over being with 'the harry styles'. As dissatisfied as he was by that intention, the idea that she'd only come to pry had made her far less appealing.
Harry's decade of media training prepared him for the "how to be vague" strategy. When she questioned the name of his therapist, he chuckled through the answer: 'I kind of take up a lot of her time. You know, you obviously can't risk your therapist being busy when you might need them 'cause you're crying with a tub of ice cream and is friends on in the background.'
She hadn't laughed. As if she's on the clock, she continued her invasion on his personal life: 'You didn't really take Kendall's vcard, right? I heard she fucked someone before you.' She was relentless until the end of dinner. 'But Louis wouldn't have tweeted that if you weren't in love, right?'
He hadn't attempted to get to know her. He was never going to see her again. Plus, it was easier to let her do the talking.
She ordered 3x the amount of Sangrias as him; he paid the full bill anyway. The waitress insisted on rushing them out the back door, since a small crowd of fans had gathered in the front. God works quick, but the fans worked quicker. All it takes is one picture to circulate around twitter and girls drift in his direction with the wind's breeze.
He stands, offering a helping hand to his date. She's so proud to have him in her hold, she doesn't unclasp when up and balanced. She awkwardly grabs her purse off the back of the chair, which would have been an easier task without the leash to her pet celebrity.
Harry worries for the girls pressing their phones against the glass. They're capturing the handhold for all the internet to see. He loosens up on her, to signal the let go, but she grips harder in return. This isn't a date he wanted public.
As they exit through the doors behind the kitchen, Harry is not relieved by any means. Flashes of bright light bombard them like firecrackers. Harry beams his vision downward, leading the way through the small crowd. The boisterous men are a murder of crows, squawking at the pair.
"Harry! Is this your new girlfriend!"
"Harry! When is One Direction getting back together!"
"Harry! What's your love life look like!"
The repetitive questions have long been white noise to him.
"Have a good night." He says.
Once slid in the back of the SUV, he forcibly detaches from her, in order to fasten his seatbelt. As his date gushes about the thrill of the paps, he slumps down, sullen over the fans he'd neglected. Those poor girls waited hours just for him to go out another way and be far more bothered.
"Where to, Harry?" His driver, Sal questions.
Harry requests Sal to bring his date home. He'd been dreading this moment, in fear of hurting her. He was aware that she would be disappointed for selfish reasons, but even then, Harry never intended to disappoint anyone.
"626 Park Ave." Her tone was deflated, like a little girl after getting grounded from sweets. It makes Harry wish he chose to have pity sex with her instead.
She didn't peep another word throughout the 15 minute drive. Harry enjoyed the opportunity to bask in the silence, unbothered by her nosiness.
Her 6 inch heels clack one at a time against the concrete as she climbs down from the escalade.
"Have a great night, Natalia!" He wishes.
She breathes in the sorrow of her rejection. "Thanks, you too." She stops the motion of the door closing to ask one more question, "Where did it go wrong, Harry Styles?"
Taking his usual moment to reflect, he tactfully responds, "I prefer to be called Harry."
Her single celled mind is baffled. She couldn't wrap her head around how one mistake would deem her unfuckable. "That's all?"
"Yea, I'm just Harry."
She huffed. "Well, Harry. You're very nice. But it makes you very boring."