Girls, I’m gonna tell you something that I could probably get my ass kicked for copping to, but what the hell, here it goes: Waiting to have sex with someone until they say they love you is a trick, a device, a deception...a game, if you will.
Now, before you lose your shit or something, listen to me. I’m not saying that it’s not possible for you to have sex with someone you’re dating who loves you, but I am saying if they loved you like they said they did, they wouldn’t put you in the predicament to begin with. I won’t lie, I’ve had plenty of sex with plenty of girls, and it rocked. Well, it rocked until the next day, anyway. Hell, I’ve even lied to a couple and told them I felt more than I did. Shocking, but, baby, we all do it because guys love sex more than they love you, trust me.
There are two things I’ve found with the act. One, guys love sex because they love the feeling. Nothing more. Two, girls love sex because it feels good as well but, whether or not they want it, there’s also an emotional tie. I can’t imagine a girl having sex with a dude she didn’t really know and not feeling almost psychotic afterward because she will forever be tied to this guy she barely knows.
Damn, I just realized why so many chicks I’ve slept with lost their shit afterward, why they become a little desperate to call and connect and search for something that will never be. Almost makes me feel bad—almost.
I started the shower and leaned against the marble at the sink until the water began to steam. I scrubbed my face with my hands, frantic to sober up, noting the stubble that’d grown and trying to decide whether I wanted to shave. Screw it, I thought.
I closed my eyes.
Piper moved closer to me, pressing her body closely to mine as the beat of the music permeated our skin and vibrated against every sense we possessed. Her mouth moved on mine. I could feel the corners of her smile lift against my lips. Her eyes lit with amusement like she’d won something but I didn’t care as long as she let me touch her more. I realized briefly I didn’t know where I was, but I was too happy, too sloshed to give a shit.
“Want some?” she asked, extending the palm of her hand. A tiny pink heart sat in the center.
“What is it?”
“Ecstasy, of course,” she said, popping the pill in her mouth.
“Can’t,” I told her, shaking my head. “I have drug tests at school,” I slurred.
“Who cares,” Piper offered, swinging her body tightly against mine, making me forget about school altogether. She brought her face in close to mine. “Come on, all the cool kids are doing it,” she taunted.
I smiled at her and that was all the answer she needed. She kissed me and I realized she’d placed another pill on her tongue. I swallowed, uncaring...for the moment.
“Stupid fool,” I told the mirror, disgusted with the memory.
I shook my head, hoping to evade the flashback and began to undress. When I lifted my shirt over my head, my ribs felt sore as shit. I inspected my reflection, wiping the steam off the mirror first. On my lower left side, my ribcage felt like it was shattered. It was a dark black and blue. I lifted my left arm over my head and tentatively traced the massive bruise with the fingers on my right hand, wincing at a particularly sensitive spot.
“Have you ever felt free?” she asked.
“Never,” I answered truthfully. I could barely keep my eyes open. “I live in a cage,” I embellished.
“Poor baby,” Piper cooed, swiping her crimson lacquered nails down my face. She wasn’t sincere, not even in the slightest. Anger briefly flashed across her face.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I rumbled through a thick tongue, “but you’d be wrong.”
“No I wouldn’t,” she whispered. “You live a life of privilege.”
“It’s not half what it’s cracked up to be. Do you know how hard it is to be a good person with money?”
“Do you know how hard it is to be a good person without it?”
We were quiet, watching the fountains below my twenty-story villa.
“Do you want to feel free?” she asked.
“Of course,” I admitted.
She grabbed my hand and we stood. She dragged a chaise to the edge of the concrete balustrade and perched on top, almost toppling over she was so inebriated. She giggled then braced a hand on my shoulder before balancing one high-heeled foot on the balcony edge.
“You’re crazy,” I told her.
“I know.”
But I followed her. For some reason, I followed her. My mom’s voice of reason popped into my head, something about friends and bridges and jumping, but I ignored it. I anchored my dress shoes from Church’s in London on the cushion of the chaise. I stared down on the foot, seemingly unable to move another inch. Fear crept into my stomach, securing me where I stood.
“Come on,” she whispered in my ear.
I steeled my stomach and lifted onto the chaise. I turned toward the world around us and breathed deeply of the cool air that can only be found at the height we stood. I let the wind rush through my hair and took one more step onto the edge of the balustrade before lifting my entire body.
I stood on the precipice of twenty stories, of exhilaration, of adrenaline, of stupidity, but most importantly, I stood on the precipice of death. I turned to Piper, her eyes were wild as the wind whipped her hair around her face and plastered her gown to her body.
She grabbed my hand to steady herself and turned toward me.
“Do you feel it?” she asked.