Unbossly Manners

Chip Hanson’s head was in my crotch.

He’d been lost down there for ten minutes. I knew this because I’d been staring at the analog clock on the wall behind him almost the entire time. My roommate, Winona, found it last week on the curb with our neighbor’s trash. She cleaned it with bleach wipes, and now it was ticking away while her brother’s face was adrift below my navel.

He’d been working diligently but his efforts were doing nothing for me or my clit. Unless mild irritation counted as something.

I know what my best friend Selena would say. You’re too fucking polite, Peyton. If you don’t like it, get a vibrator and do it yourself.

She wasn’t wrong.

I shifted positions on the second-hand sofa, trying not to think about what the previous owners may have done on it. Almost everything in the apartment was second or third-hand. I couldn’t complain. None of it belonged to me. I was an interloper and Winona had been kind enough to let me stay in her spare room until I found a place.

“Eep!” My ass hit the pointy end of a pencil lodged between two cushions.

Chip glanced up with a smirk on his sweaty face, mistaking my yelp of pain for satisfaction. I smiled faintly and he dipped his face back under my skirt.

Oh God, when will this be over?

That was my first thought. The second, and more worrying one was:

What is wrong with me?

Sex and I were not friends. I’d go as far as to say, we were mortal enemies.

I’ve never had good sex. My high school boyfriend had been awkward and had no idea what he was doing. To be fair, neither did I. No shocker there. We were sixteen. It had been in his drafty basement on a bean bag chair, his French bulldog’s wet nose and sour breath an inch from my face.

That was eight years ago and things had not progressed.

In college, I fooled around with a few guys. I’d been drunk and curious; the guys, horny and eager. It never lasted long—the sex or the relationships.

In my junior year, I had a boyfriend. James O’Reilly. He was sweet. Shy. And less experienced than me. He had a funny thing against oral sex. He’d grown up Catholic, so I think that had something to do with it. I never dug too deep.

My senior year I dated a girl to see if my lack of enthusiasm was about dicks, and not the sex. The vag was even worse. I barely knew how to work my own lady bits. Bringing another one into the mix gave me a migraine.

Plus, I fantasized about guys, mainly hot actors with lots of muscles, more superheroes than real-life men. Safe men. Unattainable men.

In my last year of college, I met a Persian guy named Ari. He was sweet. But he could only have sex with the lights off. I don’t know if that was about him or me. When I asked him about it, he freaked out and pushed me off him in the middle of sex. I lost my balance, reached out, and grabbed the first hard thing—his penis. I broke it. He spent the night in the emergency room and weeks in rehab. Not sure how you rehab a broken penis.

I heard it got better, but he ghosted me after that—shocker—so I can only hope that’s true and I don’t have some weird karma thing out there and that’s why my vag is non-functioning.

Chip’s head popped up, his blond hair matted to his forehead. “Are you almost there?”

My cheeks burned hot. “Uh, yep.”

He rolled his eyes and tucked back between my legs.

Asshole.

My eyes scanned the small living room, falling on the peeling cream paint, the pipe that ran up the corner and provided heat in the winter, the dining table with the broken leg that I shoved books under to keep food from crashing to the floor. It was a far cry from the spacious house next to the Hudson in upstate New York I’d grown up in with my mom.

It was temporary and it was free and I was twenty-four and broke. It was good enough for the moment.

During our date, Chip had been funny and charming. We went rollerblading in Central Park. He thought it would be funny and retro. He’d clipped a small Bluetooth speaker to his backpack and put on a 90s playlist. He’d been patient and kind as I flailed on the road, desperate to avoid tourists on bikes, parents pushing strollers, joggers, and distracted pedestrians.

In hindsight, I wondered if he purposely suggested an activity where he would shine and I’d flounder. It certainly shifted the power dynamic toward him.

I glanced at the clock again.

Twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

It was time to put us out of our misery. I tossed my head back and began my quick crescendo. Over the years, I’d become a master at faking it.

He sat back and sighed, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Finally.”

My jaw tightened at his nerve. What a fucker.

He hopped onto the cushion next to me. My underwear was around my ankles and I shimmied them up. He smacked a kiss on my cheek, unzipped his jeans, and yanked them and his boxers off.

“This is gonna be good.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

His hand circled my cheek and he kissed me gently. The attraction I’d felt during the date stirred in my belly. The kiss deepened, and the desire I’d lost while he was going down on me, reignited. My hand drew down his stomach, and over his stiff cock.

“Fuck, yeah.” He broke the kiss.

I slid my hand upward, but my long pointy nail caught the edge of his tip and he yelped.

“Ouch. Watch it, Peyton.”

“Sorry.” My belly dropped, and my confidence waned.

I kissed him again. I liked the kissing. His hands wrapped around my head and heat swirled in my gut. He held tighter to my skull and pushed my head downward until I had no choice but to sink to my knees, his protruding dick pointed at my mouth.

I could stop right now, but that just felt rude. And I needed the experience. I think I’d had three dicks in my mouth in total.

When I’d moved to the city three months ago, I carried a list of goals with me. One of them was to master sex. Or at least get a B+. My other goals—in no particular order—were to be promoted in twelve months, avoid anyone finding out who my mother was, find my own apartment, and say yes to shit that scared me.

And sex stuff scared me.

I’d hoped going out with Chip would nail two goals—mastering sex and doing something that scares me. I’d been so busy at my new job, Chip was the first guy I’d hooked up with in the city. I couldn’t just grab some rando off the street—I could but that wasn’t my style—so when my roommate’s cute brother came to stay with us for a week and asked me out, I knew exactly what I wanted from the date.

Practice.

I thought it would be fun. Gossip Girl sure made sex look amazing. I know it’s a show, but Selena acted like sex was better than piña coladas on a tropical island.

So here I was. And here I went…

His cock was on the smaller side, which was a relief—less real estate to work with. I took him in my mouth and moved back and forth swiftly.

“Whoa. Slow down.” His palm pressed against my forehead and forced me backward.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and slowed my pace.

He flicked his hips forward, shoving his dick deeper into my mouth. I jerked back and my teeth scraped his shaft.

“Watch your fucking teeth,” he yelped.

“Sorry,” I said.

My confidence plummeted to the basement, but I soldiered on because we were already in the middle of it and it would be awkward AF to stop.

I slid down his short length, and when I got to the base he bucked his hips upward again, and his tip hit my throat. I gagged on my spit, and buckled over, a coughing fit wracking my body.

When I recovered, I took a shaky breath and tried to find a way to salvage this night. I was flailing in the middle of the ocean without a life raft.

Then an idea hit me.

“Why don’t you tell me what you like,” I said. Tit-for-tat. I may not like him that much, but if this jerk taught me how to give good head, I’d be able to pleasure the next guy. A guy I actually liked.

“I’m not a fucking tutor. Now come on. I’m getting blue balls.”

I flinched, slapped by his words.

That was it. A girl could only handle so much dick in one night. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t fucking want to… #metoo and all that. It was clear the only reason he’d slobbered all over me for a half-hour was to get to this point.

“Forget it.” I stood.

“You can’t just stop,” he whined.

“I can stop whenever the hell I want,” I snapped. “I’m not going down on a guy who’s yelling at me and treating me like shit.”

I went to the front door, but then I remembered I lived here. I didn’t have to leave.

But he was staying here, too.

“I took care of you, Peyton.” His eyes slid down to my skirt.

I swallowed a bitter laugh. “That was the worst head I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t lie because you’re mad. I know you liked it.”

“Why? Because I came? I faked it so you’d stop slobbering all over me.”

His eyes widened and he ground his jaw, assessing if I was telling the truth.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Real mature, Chip.” I snatched my shoes from the floor where I’d kicked them off when we’d come in from our date, hot and heavy, with what seemed like a completely different person. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Let’s just forget it,” I said. “I’m tired.”

I headed to my bedroom, but he blocked my path. He wore only his graphic tee, his flaccid penis flopping between his legs.

“You’re not staying here,” he scoffed, hands on his hips, penis waving hello.

“This is my apartment,” I said, my voice shaking.

“It’s my sister’s apartment,” he corrected. “She was going to tell you tomorrow; she’s kicking you out.”

“Bullshit. I’m tired.” The weight of the evening and the two glasses of wine drained my energy. All I wanted was to crawl into bed.

“I’m not lying. I’m gonna stay in the city for a while and she said she was tired of you freeloading.”

I barely knew Winona. She was a friend of my roommate from my freshman year in college. I hadn’t met her until I moved in. I was only meant to stay a month until I found something permanent. I’d had no idea that rent in the city was more than one months’ pay at my new job. My mom had offered to help, but I’d refused. I wanted to do this on my own.

Winona had been generous to let me stay two extra months, only paying utilities. I’d been expecting this day to come, I just didn’t know it would happen this minute.

Chip’s shoulders tensed, his eyes shadowed with anger. I shook, furious, and a little scared. Even if I got inside my room and locked the door, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not with him out here.

I snatched my purse, but when I reached inside, my phone wasn’t there. Crap. I’d left it at work in my excitement to meet Chip for the date.

“Don’t be a creep, Chip. Come on. I’m sorry.”

He crossed his arms and glared.

I had two choices.

One: Lock myself in my room and pray he wasn’t violent.

Two: Tuck my tail and leave.

I only knew one other person in the city—Selena. But she was out of the country this week, photographing a wedding in London.

“You’re the worst girl I’ve ever been with,” Chip snarled. “You should come with a warning label.”

He lay back on the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes, a smirk on his stupid face.

Rage rushed through my head so fast it overtook all thoughts. I walked to the small kitchen and turned on the tap until the water burned. My hand wrapped around a tall glass from the drying rack, and I filled it to the brim.

The glass was so hot it hurt my fingers but I didn’t care. I raised it and poured it on his exposed crotch.

“Ah!” Chip crunched over his groin. “My little man!”

I covered my mouth, resisting a laugh. There’d be no permanent damage, but I could still hear him cursing as I walked down the stairs and out of the building.

Karma be damned. I’d already wrecked one dick. What was one more?