My new chapter of sexual exploration starts with snoring. Steph is channeling such serious industrial machinery, I’m surprised the mirror hasn’t shattered. I ended up staying over, claiming the car services were surging. Truthfully, I didn’t want to face the start of what could be my last six months of IRL boobs alone. It’s 7:45 a.m. Not a time I knew existed on Saturdays because I’m usually sleeping off a hangover the size of South America. Welcome to the new me.
In the living room, abused pizza boxes yawn open like cardboard tongues. Red wine turns sticky in the bottom of wineglasses. And there’s my list. In the unforgiving light of day, I’m not sure I can go through with it. Or why it seemed like such an essential idea. Maybe it’s a sexy distraction from a very unsexy problem. Maybe I needed to make a firm decision about something that wasn’t as full-on as yes-I’m-having-a-mastectomy. Maybe it really will help me make that decision. Maybe I was just horny. I take a pic of it on my phone and glance around for something to destroy the evidence.
The toilet flushes.
Steph’s asleep.
Cooper.
I rocket to the whiteboard to wipe away the ink with my fingertips. Nothing’s coming off. I used a permanent marker. Footsteps in the hall. Panicked, I try to flip the board but it’s locked into position, and Cooper’s padding in with sleep-crazed hair, glasses askew, wearing nothing but Snoopy pajama bottoms, saying, “Oh. Hi.”
I stand like a starfish in front of the board, pretending to stretch. “Morning.”
“Big night, huh?” He scoops up a few empty wine bottles. His biceps bulge, briefly. For a nerd, they look surprisingly . . . round. A light dusting of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants. His stomach is flat, his collarbone as solid as the handle of a gun. Coop hits the gym. I’m almost leering, but his gaze is polite. “What did you decide?”
I pivot my body to follow with him as he crosses the room. “I’m going to think about getting a mastectomy.” I say it like I’m considering switching gyms.
He stops. The courteous host-like facade cracks. “Holy shit. That’s intense, right?”
“You could say that.”
He straightens his glasses, his face alive with curiosity. “How are you feeling about it?”
“Like I need to do some yoga on my own—”
“What’s that?” His eyes are on the board.
“Nothing.”
“What is that?” He’s coming toward me, squinting at the list. “Are you hiding something from me, former roommate?”
He pokes me in the ribs and I gasp, giggling, “No, don’t! Don’t look!”
I try to yank him into the kitchen, but he easily maneuvers me out of the way with those tight biceps of his. I can’t say I don’t enjoy this. “Boob Bucket List.” His face moves through a series of unusual contortions. “Okay. My morning just got a lot more interesting.”
I cross my arms; fine. “Matters of proximity have brought you into this. I will entrust you with this information if you promise to vault it.”
“I promise.” He zips his lips. “I’m very trustworthy.”
This is possibly true. “Sit.” I point to the couch. “You’re getting the director’s commentary so nothing is misconstrued.”
“Let me throw a shirt on—”
“Veto.” I shake my head. “I’m exposing myself to you. Metaphorically.”
“You can do it literally.” He settles into the couch, folding his arms. Again, biceps. “If it’ll help with your list.”
Is he flirting with me? Or is it just banter? Behind his glasses, his eyes are bright. They’re not quite green, not quite brown, but it’s not the color that’s the most striking. It’s the intelligence. The corners of his lips tick up in an almost mischievous smile. In high school, I bet he was voted most likely to own a podcast network.
A good comeback escapes me, so I turn to the board, feeling buzzy and a bit goofy, somewhere between successful presentation and day drinker. “Basically, this is to help me make my decision. Or just help me, period. Okay. Here we go.” I point. “Number one: sunbathe topless. Never done it, Steph assures me it’s the tits, pun intended. Number two: nude photo shoot.” I indicate my breasts. “To immortalize them forever. Number three: wear boobs-on-parade dress to fancy event.”
“What’s a boobs-on-parade dress?”
“Like the girls on The Bachelor wear.”
“I don’t watch The Bachelor.”
“Think Tinder meets The Hunger Games. With hot tubs.”
He shrugs, affecting cluelessness. “Can you describe one to me? Maybe try on something of Steph’s?”
“Steph only wears T-shirts.”
“There’s scissors in the kitchen.” He mimes cutting a very deep neckline. He is definitely flirting with me.
I threaten him with a pizza crust. “Don’t be cheeky,” I say, but another part of me is thinking, Why shouldn’t he be cheeky? We’re talking about my boobs. I spin back to the board. My skin feels warm. “Number four: threesome. Classic for a reason. Number five: role-play. Not sure what that’ll entail, but I can do a pretty good French accent: oui, oui, bonjour Monsieur! Number six: sex with a woman. That was Steph’s idea,” I add, turning back.
Cooper has one of the throw pillows in his lap. He has an erection. Obviously. Why else would he do that? The possibility of sex doesn’t just enter the room, it barges in with maracas and a flag. The light blush I’m feeling turns into a forest fire, fanning alarm, not lust. My nipples are erect, painfully sensitive. We stare at each other, him “coolly,” me “openly panicked.” Sex doesn’t belong here, in the living room, at 8:00 a.m., between a random roommate and me. This whole performance is entirely inappropriate.
Yet I can’t stop myself from finishing.
“Number seven: sex in a white limousine. One too many hip-hop videos when I was a teenager, I suppose.” I bet he can see my ass hanging out of these boxer shorts. Is he staring at it? “And number eight: sex in a public place.” Why am I reading all of these out to him like a perverted schoolteacher? Why did I think this was a reasonable activity to suggest? “Again, something I have . . . not . . . done.”
The living room is so quiet I can hear the upstairs neighbors using inside voices. I briefly consider exiting this situation by torpedoing through the front window, Jason Bourne–style.
“So, that’s my list.” Surely, I’m the color of a stop sign. “I know it’s pretty sexcentric, but I figure boobs are related to pleasure, which is related to sex and I’m sort of . . .” Stop talking, stop talking, stop the words coming out of your mouth. “I mean, I figured a list would help, y’know . . . git ’er done.”
Cooper folds his hands calmly over the throw pillow as if we’re both not hyperaware of its function. “I think it’s great. Everyone should have a list.”
“What’s on yours?”
He half laughs, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. He can’t leave, not with the huge freaking boner he’s hiding under that cushion. He’s my prisoner. And that’s . . . kind of hot. I sink onto the other end of the couch. “Just tell me one. You know eight of mine.”
He exhales noisily, but he’s smiling. “Wow. Okay. Let’s see.” His fingers drum the cushion. “All right. I got one. Promise you’ll vault it, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, which is not how I usually address guys my own age.
“Sometimes when I’m romancing the stone”—he indicates his crotch, which makes me giggle—“I think about this waitress who used to work at a diner my friends and I went to in high school.”
“Oooh,” I tease. “Blond and buxom?” I do my best Marilyn Monroe purr. “Little more cream in your coffee, boys?”
“No.” Cooper shakes his head, amused. “She was not sexy. Not in the traditional sense. She was older, like an aunt. Solid. She was actually kind of mean.”
“And that turns you on?”
He shrugs, in an adorably helpless sort of way. “I felt like if we did it, she’d . . . take care of me.”
“Take care of you?” I’m laughing. “That is terrifying.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” he says. “Emily Dickinson said it first.”
“Well, she’s been dead for a hundred years,” I say. “Maybe she’d do it for you too.”
“Oh, burn,” he says, thwacking me with the boner pillow.
“Ew!” I cry, and we’re both grappling like little kids when Steph drags herself in and we spring apart.
“What is going on? I’m so hungover.” She plops down between us. She smells like a winery.
“Nothing,” we say in unison, which sounds far more incriminating than it should.
“I need food,” Steph groans, cuddling into me. “I need the home fries at Freddies or I’ll die.”
Cooper’s on his feet, heading for the kitchen. I think about asking him to come with us, but second-guess the best “casual” way to do it, and he’s gone. Which is probably for the best.
Steph said he was off-limits, after all.