And then 2002 takes over our bodies.
Seth knows exactly how to kiss me. Or perhaps he just invented the model, and now it’s the standard by which I judge all other kisses.
Either way, he pulls me into him, wraps his fists in my hair, and jerks my neck a little bit—which is the end for me.
For such a sensitive guy, he was always surprisingly dominant in “bed”—or more literally under piers, in the backseats of cars, and in empty guest bedrooms at friends’ house parties.
Manhandling works on me. It forces me to be, as my therapist says, “present.”
To this day I keep my hair long so guys can pull it the way Seth used to.
I go at him hungrily, and before long we collapse onto the sand. This is bone-white, fine-as-sugar barrier island sand, so it immediately makes a film over our bare skin and lodges into our clothes.
We don’t care. We are consuming each other.
“Wait,” I gasp, coming up for air. He instantly stops the pleasurable—extremely, intensely pleasurable—thing he is doing with his fingers, which are underneath my panties.
“This is literally illegal. You’re a lawyer. You could be disbarred.”
“It might be worth it,” he says hoarsely.
I sit up. “Hotel,” I say. “We need to go to the hotel.”
“Molly Marks”—I can hear the Flamingos in his voice—“are you inviting me to your room?”
“Use it or lose it, Rubes.”
He hops to his feet (impressive core strength) and reaches a hand down to help me up.
“Do I look like I just did hand stuff on the beach?” I ask, trying to brush sand out of my hair—which is now tousled into knots from all the delectable pulling.
“Yes,” he says. “But don’t worry. It’s late. Everyone will be too drunk to notice.”
We slip back to the tent and walk around the perimeter, in the shadows away from the bar, and call an Uber.
“Couldn’t take it anymore,” I text Dezzie and Alyssa as we pull away. And that’s kind of a lie, but kind of the truth.
I can’t take any more sexual tension.
We make out all the way back to town.
CHAPTER 8 Seth
It will come as no surprise to you that I enjoy making love.
Give me some tender eye gazing, some Sade in the background, some massage oils, and I am a happy and sexually aroused man. (Just kidding about the Sade part. Let’s be honest; I prefer the more intimate soundtrack of the breath.)
I’m sentimental, I know, but it’s also a taste borne of practicality. The ability to have slow, present sex with someone without bursting out laughing is a good litmus test for whether you might fall in love.
But I don’t want to make love with Molly Marks.
Tonight, I have more of a horny teenager energy.
I have two-virgins-desperate-to-finally-have-the-privacy-to-do-it energy.
Which is where we left off fifteen years ago, the night she broke up with me.
But let’s not think about that. Heartbreak isn’t great for virility.
So no.
I do not want to light candles.
I do not want to indulge in leisurely foreplay. My cock straining against my pants in that fucking endless Uber ride back to our hotel was the foreplay.
Now I want to fuck this girl fucking senseless.
I pull up her dress and pull down her panties. She’s so fucking wet.
“You okay?” I ask, because consent is sexy even when you are reliving your sixteen-year-old desperation lust.
“Get it in,” she replies, producing a condom.
Reader, I get it in.
And it is good.
More than good.
