“Your junk is touching me!” he squeals. We’re wrestling on the ground now, the button of his jeans scraping against my arm. I grab at his belt buckle to pull his pants up.
“That’s what she said,” Shannon mumbles.
Andrew stops cold.
“No. Just....no. Can we put that joke to bed?”
“We need to put you to bed,” I growl.
“That’s not some kinky offer for a threesome, is it? Because, dude, I’m not into that—”
I jump off him and go into the kitchen for a beer or a cyanide tablet. Whichever I find first.
“Of all the times not to have a spray bottle,” she says. “You two are being ridiculous.”
“Andrew’s being drunk,” I declare, pouring myself a double shot of pisco and giving it a quick death down my throat.
“I’m not drunk,” Andrew shouts as he grabs the television remote and tries to swipe the buttons. “Hey! What happened to my phone? It’s broken. I need to get a ride home.”
Shannon stands and pulls a phone out of her boobs. It’s like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, because she’s naked and wearing only a trenchcoat.
“Which driver is it tonight?” She knows how our limo service works.
“Gerald.”
“Calling now. He needs to leave.” She holds up a finger as the call goes through and within twenty seconds Gerald’s on his way. “And,” she adds, “So do I.” She reaches into her trenchcoat and grasps her car keys.
No.
NO.
“If we’re riding in the same limo,” Andrew says as he struggles to button up, “do you mind if we stop at that twenty-four hour Greek place? I’m starving. And my head feels like someone dropped a forklift on it.”
He slumps down on the couch and is snoring in seconds.
Shannon looks at him with a pained expression as she clutches her coat closed. Her phone has magically disappeared. Her eyes turn to me, slowly cataloguing the landscape of my body. I don’t mind. This is the first chance we’ve had to talk since Andrew so rudely interrupted us, and as she looks at me, taking in my legs, then hips, then the part that reacts to all this attention (that would be my heart, you gutter-minded naughty beast...), I remember that she started this second act of our night with the phrase “Let’s make up.”
“You came over to—” I almost say “apologize” but realize that would be a catastrophic mistake.
“To try to mend things,” she replies in a quiet voice. Distracted. She’s really watching me. I have no self-confidence issues, no self-consciousness being naked around her. Around anyone, really. You play enough sports at a prep school and in college and you get used to being nude around other people. It’s a kind of armor. Being shy gives people the impression that you have something to hide. Something to be ashamed of. Something to pick on.
I look down at my own body, eyes crawling over the same flesh she’s observing.
Nothing to be ashamed of here.
From the look on Shannon’s face, she seems to agree.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a slow sigh, realizing I’m the one who has to cross the gap. After all, she snuck into my apartment in the dead of night wearing nothing but a coat and high heels.
That’s the male equivalent of the best apology ever. She doesn’t need words.
Her eyes don’t meet mine. They’re stuck somewhere on my hips, looking at my ass.
I tighten it.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating.
Hold on.
I thought women weren’t aroused sexually from visual cues. Has Men’s Health been lying to me all these years? Esquire, too? All those magazines I’ve been stuck reading in doctor’s offices or international business lounges with crappy Wifi say the same thing: women are slower to warm up. Women aren’t aroused by images and videos. Men are programmed to be turned on by what they see, women by what they feel emotionally.
A lovely red flush covers Shannon’s face and chest as she finally drags her eyes to meet mine.
I’m about to marry an outlier.
Attagirl.
Then: Bzzzzz.
Shannon’s breasts vibrate. She reaches in and grabs her phone, holding up the screen.
“Gerald’s here.”
“Please stay,” I beg as Gerald knocks on the door.
Panic fills her face. “Shouldn’t you put on a robe?” She reaches into her coat and buttons something, then tightens the sash around her waist.
Now she looks like any other business woman on the street in the Financial district. Except for the sexy shoes.
I look down at my body. “Why? Gerald’s seen it.” To prove a point, I go to the front door and open it. Gerald’s standing there, face impassive.
“Evening, Mr. McCormick,” he says, looking past me. “Is your brother ready?”
Gerald doesn’t even twitch at my nakedness.
Shannon, however, grabs my arm and drags me into my bedroom.
“You can’t do that to people!” she hisses, rifling through my bathroom and coming out with a blue robe she gave me for Christmas.
“Do what?”
“Be naked in front of them.”
“You don’t like it when I’m naked in front of you?”
“Not me. Andrew. Gerald.”
“Andrew came over last night, ate period food, got drunk and cried about Amanda half the night, passed out on my couch and suggested a threesome. I can do whatever the hell I want to do in front of Andrew, Shannon.”
“But poor Gerald!” Her eyes narrow. “Wait. Period food? Cried about Amanda?”