“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 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 for both her creative brilliance, and amazing sex life. Not to mention she didn’t show any sort of annoyance when I went on sad, drunken rants about not getting any.
“Wearing bandanas around my neck like some sorta hipster-cowgirl is a phase,” I retorted with a sigh. ”This is a fucking curse.”
“How long has it been, anyway?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me—”
“How long, Megh?” Her voice came out firm and clear.
I took a deep breath. “Well, Neal and I didn’t exactly...”
“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 who I meant.
No, not Voldemort.
Someone else who—just by the sound of his name—would leave me drowning in a giant vat of tears and regret.
“Holy shit!” Her head popped up from its resting place. “That was—”
“Two years ago?!”
“Two years and three months.” I frowned.
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 until self-loathing and disappointment appeared.
An unruly jungle of curls sat atop my head, just above thick, easily-mistaken-for-caterpillars eyebrows. 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. The yellowish-hue made it impossible to find a foundation. Grimacing at the thought of the shapelessness of my torso, I looked down at my chest, my less-than-average-sized boobs starting to sag, thanks to being closer to thirty than twenty.
I felt 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.
Tears welled in my lower lids. Thank God for waterproof eyeliner and mascara. Otherwise, I’d look like The Cure’s Robert Smith at the end of an intense performance.
“Oh, hon.” Coco hugged me sideways and rubbed my back. “You’re beautiful—”
I so want that to be true.
“It’s hard to believe that, Coco,” I choked back, “when literally no one wants me. Not even the uggos and creeps.”
Rationally, I knew my so-called beauty didn’t depend on whether men appreciated it or not, but I’m a person with insecurities just like anyone else. Confident in my talents and abilities, hell, I can be a boss ass bitch, but when it comes to my looks or men—not so much.
I admitted to protecting myself after the painful endings of my last two relationships. But I still wanted to feel wanted—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. At that point, I’d settle for an asswipe if he’d just make me come.
“It was just a bad night,” Courtney affirmed.
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 sais quoi. They know you could make ’em drop to their knees and then rip ’em apart. They’re afraid of you. They go for the 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 pints of Jeni’s to 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 wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown in her absence.
I lay in bed, unable to sleep, despite the tequila wearing off and my eyelids drooping. 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 had broken, 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 blew out an exasperated breath, continuing to ruminate, scouring through all the men I’ve fucked, or almost, before.