Coming Together

Have you ever been on a long car ride? Your siblings scream in the back seat while your parents try to navigate a weird state that they’ve never been to before. Yet, they act like they know exactly what they are doing.

Then a thin—and I mean thin—silver lining appears when your favorite song plays on the radio. It could be Usher, P!nk, fucking Fall Out Boy for all I care. The point is, your will to live increases ever so slightly.

Now imagine your parents are bickering, too self-focused to keep it down. You can barely make out the song’s beginning, but that’s not important, right? Everyone knows the climax is what really gets us going.

So there you are, blocking out the shitty bumps in the road and snide remarks about gaining weight when the music swells. Your heartbeat speeds up. The world seems right again. Timothy Williams never spit in your fruit punch in the third grade.

Everything—and I mean everything—is perfect.

And then, just when you’re about to scream the lyrics at the top of your lungs, your dad leans over and cuts off the radio.

You learned to swear that day, didn’t you?

That’s what it feels like when you’re twenty-one, getting railed at your begrudgingly friends-with-benefits’ dorm, and he refuses to fuck you at a semi-consistent pace.

And that’s how I felt, lying on my back and contemplating a large purchase of dildos and vibrators. Keith had his dick in me all right, thrusting like there was no tomorrow and drooling over my bare tits, but he wasn’t fucking me, you know?

No, he was screwing me.

They call it that for a reason.

I stared at the ceiling, tracing the hideous water stains in my mind. I started our little agreement, to be fair, on the condition that he made me come.

Six months later, I was no closer to the big O than I was in high school with Evan. Or Jack. Or Landon.

Why did I bother anymore? Because I was sick of feeling broken—stunted even. Every time sex came up with my friends, I lied and said that I practically came from a man breathing on me.

I overcompensated a little. Sue me.

But now, I was a junior in college, and no man had gotten me there—or anywhere close.

On top of all that, I deserved an Oscar—or maybe two—for my dedicated performances over the years. But did I demand recognition? No.

It had gotten so bad that even in my dreams, orgasms eluded me. Have you ever had your own brain turn against you like that? It’s sickening.

So, by the time Keith grunted and pulled out, spewing his hot cum onto my stomach, I wasn’t even mad. At least one of us could get off. Then came the usual half-question, “Did you—”

I shook my head, putting a stop to my humiliation. No, I didn’t cum. No, I probably never will. Oh, I was humming the Looney Tunes theme song? My bad.

“Sorry,” he sighed before collapsing beside me on the bed. “We can try something new next time.”

I shut my eyes before saying, “Yeah.” Before I could nod off, I turned to my phone resting beside my head and checked the time. Shit. I jumped out of Keith’s bed and hurried around the room while he watched.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced up. “I have an appointment in five minutes, remember?”

“What’s the big deal?” he laughed. “It’s just tutoring.”

I stared at him, wondering if I had the time to argue, then I continued searching for my bra. God, why is it so hard to find things here? I scanned the floor—messy was a considerable understatement. The piles of unwashed clothes paled in comparison to the chip bags and candy wrappers pushed under the bed.

I made a mental note to raise my standards, effective immediately. At least as soon as I found all my clothes. I sighed, ready to give up, when I spotted the lilac lace cups hanging over his gaming chair.

Keith chuckled at me while I tugged on my favorite dress. The floral print made me feel like less of a loser for some indecipherable reason.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked with humor in his voice.

I furrowed my eyebrows, unwilling to play into his game, but then paused. My panties. My attention shot back down to the floor, but after two crucial minutes of searching, I donated them to the dumpster pile.

“It’s fine,” I said before wading to the door.

“Hot,” was all I heard as I left room 2283 and hurried down the musty hall.

****

As if my self-loathing couldn’t get any higher, I arrived at the Arcadia House ten minutes late. My fuck-me pumps could only move so fast under duress.

Before I could devolve into a puddle on the front steps, I knocked. I knew the Arcadia for its infamous wild parties and, often, drug busts, but money had been tight since my parents refused to help pay my tuition.

If I caught mono by breathing the air, so be it. Just when I settled on booking my yearly checkup with a licensed doctor, unlike in the tenth grade, the scratched door opened.

“What’s up?” A guy in green—and I mean lime green—loafers asked. His blonde hair was pushed to the side, and a bowl of soggy oatmeal waited in his hands.

I shook off the disgust creeping up my spine. “I’m the calculus tutor.” He blinked, unimpressed. I continued, “For Jonathan.”

“Oh,” he laughed. “Johnny’s upstairs. You can go up.” He stepped aside, revealing a tidy entryway.

“You sure?” I asked, not loving the idea of walking in on an orgy.

“Yeah, he’s been waiting for a bit.”

Fuck. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I remembered just how late I was.

The guy watched my face redden, with the sunlight reflecting off his hazel eyes. “My name is Sam, by the way.”

“Janie,” I said before shuffling past his tall figure and starting up the stairs. I made it halfway before he told me to make sure I knocked, for obvious reasons.

I snickered in return and wandered down the empty hallway.

It seemed as if the house stretched on forever, daring me to get lost in the maze of rooms and walls. I had almost lost hope of finding my way when I spotted a suspiciously authentic-looking stop sign with the name "Jonathan" spray-painted across the front and “come in” scrawled at the bottom.

Mixed signals, much?

I knocked, throwing caution to the wind.

“I don’t have time to watch Star Wars right now, Sam!”

I frowned. “You must be fun at parties.”

The typing on the other side of the door stopped, and then I was standing face to face with a six-foot-tall, sandy-brown-haired, so-hot-it-was-cruel man.

Naturally, I spat out whatever string of words came to mind, resulting in, “I’m your Janie, tutor.” My eyes widened as the humiliation set in.

“I’m Jonathan,” he chuckled, ignoring my inability to speak. “Want to come in?”

“Yeah, yes. Sorry, I swear I’m not usually so—”

“Cute?”

A strained noise fell off my lips. How was I supposed to respond to that? Luckily, Jonathan didn’t wait to see me combust. Instead, he retreated into his room and pulled a wooden chair out of the corner.

“You can have the office chair,” he motioned toward the desk before setting down the furniture in his arms. I opened my mouth to protest, but he waved me off. “If I’m too comfortable, I won’t focus.”

“Right,” I laughed and then entered his bedroom.

I half-expected a garbage heap or at least an empty keg as a nightstand, but there was nothing of the sort. Other than a few spare pieces of clothing resting around the hamper in the corner, Jonathan kept a clean room.

Impressive. I cleared my throat. “So, calculus?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, following my gaze to the open textbook on the desk. “It’s kicking my ass right now.”