“Well, that’s it.” I dropped my purse onto the leather sofa before slumping down into it. “I’m never getting laid again.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t say that!” my friend Courtney drunkenly whined out, as she collapsed onto the opposite couch. “That guy was—”
“Totally fuckable and wanted nothing to do with me,” I finished her sentence for her.
I had, once again, struck out. It was probably the thousandth time since I moved across the country.
“Start writing my pussy’s obituary, Coco: ‘Here lies the neglected vagina of Meghranjani Mehta. She left us too young and is survived by nobody.’”
I groaned and hid my face in my hands. “Los Angeles is literally the worst place to be single. Even those pricks in New York threw me a bone every once in a while.”
“It’s not that bad.” She yawned and stretched out on the couch like a cat.
“Not for you! You’ve got dick waiting for you at home.”
God, Megh. You sound like a jealous, hateful bitch.
Coco giggled. “That I do. And it’s big.”
“Ugh, don’t rub it in my face.”
My drunk ass went to thoughts of a dick against my lips.
Jesus, take the wheel.
I’ve got to be the horniest shit west of the Mississippi and dry as the damn Palm Desert just east of here.
I groaned again, the lingering tequila in my belly quickly spiraling me into self-pity. “I’m so pathetic.”
“You’re not, Megh.” She walked over and cuddled me, the soft, fine hairs of her platinum blonde pixie cut resting against my neck. “It’s just a dry spell...a phase!”
I envied Coco. Not only was she a brilliant writer, loyal friend, and excellent Drew Barrymore impersonator, she was cute as a button, successful, and had an amazing sex life to boot.
And despite her claim that, as a crabby Cancer, she didn’t mother anyone except her cats, she was actually very maternal.
Especially to me during my sad, drunken rants about not getting any.
I sighed. “Wearing bandanas around my neck like some hipster-cowgirl is a phase,” I retorted. ”This is a fucking curse.”
“How long has it been, anyway?” She mumbled sleepily.
“Ugh, don’t remind me—”
“How long, Megh?” Her voice came out firm and clear.
Guess you’re not as sleepy or drunk as I thought.
I took a deep breath. “Well, Neal and I didn’t exactly...” I trailed off.
“Mmhmm.” She nodded and snuggled further into my shoulder.
“And before that it was—” I cut myself off, not wanting to allow the name of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named to fall from my mouth. “At Julie and Alex’s wedding.”
Coco knew full-well who I was talking about. There was no need to actually say it.
No, not Voldemort.
Someone else who, just by the sound of his name, would leave me drowning in a giant vat of tears in regret.
“Holy shit!” Her head popped up from its resting place. “That was—”
“Two years ago?” Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline in shock.
“Two years and three months.” I sighed.
But who’s counting?
I let my head fall back onto the couch cushions, and felt the negativity creep into my chest, spreading like a cancer.
The self-loathing appeared. Okay, so not exactly self-loathing. I didn’t hate my body, but everything about my features was just so...disappointing.
There was the unruly jungle of curls atop my head, the easily-mistaken-for-caterpillars eyebrows if I let them go after a couple of weeks, and the strange tone of my skin, not dark enough to be considered caramel, not light enough to be considered creamy, and not olive, nor peach.
I had been a fair-skinned child but puberty had been a bitch, and left behind a yellowish-hue that made it impossible to find a foundation that matched.
I frowned at the thought of the shapelessness of my torso and looked down at my chest, my less-than-average-sized boobs starting to sag, thanks to being closer to thirty than twenty.
I was the opposite of feminine.
No hourglass shape to be found here, unless I faked it by wearing a padded push-up bra and giant poodle skirt...
...which I did last Halloween and it still didn’t get me any dick.
I’m disgusting. No wonder I repel men. They can’t stand the sight of me.
I couldn’t hold back the tears welling in my lower lids.
Thank God for waterproof eyeliner and mascara, or else I was soon gonna look like The Cure’s Robert Smith at the end of an intense performance.
“Oh, hon...” Coco hugged me sideways and rubbed my back a little. She sensed stewing; she knew all the dark thoughts that swirled about in my pitiful brain. “You’re beautiful—”
I so want that to be true.
“It’s hard to believe that, Coco...” I choked, “when literally no one wants me. Not even the uggos and creeps.”
I wasn’t so desperate to pursue anyone that fit into one or both of those categories, but they never sought me out either.
Rationally, I knew my so-called beauty wasn’t dependent on whether guys appreciated it or not, but I’m a person, with insecurities just like anyone else. I’m confident in my talents, my abilities, hell, I can be a boss ass bitch, but when it comes to my looks or men...not so much.
I had protected myself a bit after the painful endings of my last two relationships. I wanted to feel wanted again. Just one fuck to hold me over. Or to forget what I had lost. He didn’t even have to be nice to me, as long as he sucked, fucked, and ducked. I’d settle for an asswipe if he’d just make me come.
“It was just a bad night,” Courtney sighed.
It’s always a bad night.
“I honestly don’t know why there aren’t men tearing at you. You’re charming as all hell, your eyes are a-mazing and I would kill for those lips—”
“Are you hitting on me?” I let out a small smile and wiped the stupid tears from the corners of my eyes.
“If I ever realize I’m lesbian, I’d go for you first.” She laughed. “Seriously, though. Men are insecure shits. You have an air about you, a je ne se quoi. They know you could make ’em drop to their knees and then rip ’em apart. They’re afraid of you. They much prefer low-hanging vag that they can toss in the trash when their dicks go limp.”
“You’re a fucking poet, Court.” I scoffed. I knew she was just trying to make me feel better...and it was kind of working.
“A-thank you.” She bowed her head. “Now—you got any ice cream?”
“Only always." I smirked, and stood up to get us two spoons and the pints of Jeni’s ice cream that would help me forget all my troubles.
We watched some bad late-night television, licked the spoons clean and she eventually went home, making sure I wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown when she left.
I lied in bed, unable to sleep, despite the tequila wearing off and my eyelids drooping. I kept my eyes shut and my mind wandered to how the hell I got to this place.
I used to get dicked on the regular. Or at least every once in a while, at the worst. Maybe it’s karma.
But didn’t I pay my dues? I’ve been heartbroken. I only broke a heart when mine was breaking, too. I’ve been cheated on enough that I didn’t return the favor. I didn’t always make the nicest decisions when flings caught feelings, but I wasn’t a complete asshole.
I let out an exasperated breath, continuing to ruminate, my mind scouring through all the men I’ve fucked, or almost, before.