Chapter 12 Jamison
Jamison
Iwas still kicking myself over the events of last weekend.
First I invited myself over to Henry’s house and demanded he give me braiding lessons, then I practically yanked his pants off under false - well, sort of false - pretenses, and then I demanded sex, came, and ran out of there like my ass was on fire.
What the fuck, Jamie?
I mean, I was impulsive. I’d had spur-of-the-moment sex before.
I could be sexually demanding. But poor Hen was practically bulldozed by me and then, instead of apologizing, I escaped.
It was badly done. He probably didn’t ever want to speak to me again at this point, and we still had at least one HIV test to go before we could fully drop out of contact.
Way to make things awkward, self.
I was at my desk, trying to pretend I was concentrating on the new policy my team was developing that centered around how to implement online codes of conduct for our users, but really I just kept going in mental circles about last Saturday.
Me: The community should be given some level of opportunity to indicate their buy-in to the Code of Conduct before implementation.
Me in the next moment: …but he came hard and didn’t start yelling at me or hiding or anything, so surely he couldn’t have felt I treated him that badly?
Needless to say, this policy was going to come out very interesting if I couldn’t get my mind back on track.
I reached for my phone, not for the first time this week, and opened my text thread with Hen. Should I text him again? If so, what should I say? Apologize? Pretend everything was fine? Just say “hi” and see where it went from there?
As if it heard my thoughts, my phone buzzed, making me fumble and nearly drop it as I startled.
I looked down at the screen and was disappointed to see that no new messages had popped up in the me-Hen thread.
That meant the notification had been for something else.
I flipped back to my main text list and checked it. Ah, Charlie. I tapped her name.
Charlie: Are you ok?
Oh, here we went again. Charlie’s anxiety could be enough of a pain when nothing was wrong, it could be nothing short of agony when something was wrong, especially when I didn’t want to tell her about whatever it was. The girl had a sixth sense.
Me: Fine, why?
Keep it short. Keep it sweet. No hints.
Charlie: Uh-huh. Everything’s fine, which is why you’ve texted me exactly once this week when usually we talk every day. Either you’re sick and for some reason are not taking the opportunity to bitch to me about how awful you feel…or something’s going on.
Ok, so “short and sweet” hadn’t worked. I tried a new tack.
Me: I’m fine, I swear, Not sick, nothing’s wrong. Work has just been really busy this week. New policy in the works.
Charlie: Bullshit. Spill. Is this about the HIV test?
Oh shit, did you get bad results? I swear, Jamie, if you came back positive you can tell me and I won’t get upset.
Well I mean, I’ll get upset, but not at you.
Like you told me, things happen and HIV is a manageable condition these days.
You’ll be fine and I’ll help you find specialists.
Me: Breathe, Charlie. My test results were fine. Still negative. Same for Henry.
I winced inwardly at the mention of his name. He’d been so embarrassed by forgetting the condom that first night, but at least he hadn’t peer-pressured me into sex, unlike some of us.
Charlie: Then what’s the problem? And ‘nothing’ is not a valid answer.
I sighed. She wasn’t going to let this drop. It really was like she had a sixth sense for things to be anxious about, the way she could read me. I fumbled around my brain for something to tell her that would get her off my back without revealing too much.
Me: I had a…weird date.
Charlie: Weird how?
Me: Just weird. It got kind of uncomfortable at the end.
Charlie: Uncomfortable like I need to bust someone’s head open? Or uncomfortable like you forgot how to speak coherent English and made a fool of yourself?
Me: More like the second one, though not exactly. Look, I’d really rather not talk about it any more.
Charlie: Hah. Nice try. You’ve activated the worrywart, she won’t subside now until you talk it through with her.
Charlie: Wait, before you try to dodge me again, gotta ask: a DATE? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone!
Me: I’m not. I wasn’t. It wasn’t exactly a date.
Charlie: What even the fuck does any of that mean? Try again.
Sometimes I hated my sister and her perceptiveness. This was one of those times. How was I going to get out of this conversation without revealing too much?
Me: We hung out. It was fun. Then it got kinda weird.
Charlie: Nope. Uh-uh. Nice try, but you’re gonna have to give me more than that or I swear to god, I’m going to start catastrophizing in the most dramatic way possible.
It got weird…because he wasn’t actually interested in men, he just thought it was funny to tease you?
Because a plane crashed into the house? Because the sex was awkward as hell and you forgot where your dick went?
Me: What the fuck, Char?
Me: I have never once forgotten where my dick goes, thank you very much.
Charlie: I notice you failed to deny the plane crash theory.
Me: There was no plane crash! And no surprise straight dudes, either, before you ask that, too!
Charlie: So then what was the weird part? If you don’t spill it, I’m going to start coming up with increasingly unhinged theories, and you know neither of us wants that.
Me: I am not having this conversation with you, Charlie.
Charlie: Ah, so it involved sex.
Me: What? No!
Me: I mean yes, but I’m not telling you about it. You’re my sister.
Charlie: Would it make you feel better if I remind you that growing up, you thought I was your brother, and I have a dick too?
Me: Ewww, Charlie. Ix-nay on the enis-pay. I don’t want to think about your dick.
Charlie: Then spill it before I start going into further detail.
Me: Ugh I hate you.
Charlie: You love me, which is why you’re about to tell me what’s wrong.
Me: We were just gonna hang out…
Was I really going to tell my sister about that whole afternoon? Apparently I was. I took a moment to lament the fact that I didn’t have many close friends who I could unload to and started typing.
Me: And we did hang out, and it was fun. But then he had a hole in his pants…
Charlie: Of course he did.
Me: Char. No smartass comments. As I was saying, he had a hole in his pants and I pointed out that he could patch it and he said he didn’t know how to sew so of course I offered to do the fix for him, which meant him taking his pants off.
Charlie: Bow-chicka-bow-wow.
Me: Fuck off.
Me: And then once I got his pants off one thing sorta led to another and next thing I knew we were banging it out on his couch.
Charlie: I fail to see the problem here.
Of course she wouldn’t see the problem; she didn’t know Hen and his reserved nature and how my excitement had a habit of running roughshod over people who weren’t up to fighting back.
She wouldn’t realize that I’d basically forced the poor guy into it, and even if I tried to explain, I wasn’t sure I could adequately get the point across. But I was gonna try.
Me: The problem is, I basically forced his pants off and then jumped him.
Charlie: Was he gagged?
Me: What? No, Charlie, he wasn’t fucking gagged.
Charlie: So he could have said ‘no’. Or pushed you away.
Me: I mean technically yes, and it did seem like he was enjoying himself, but he’s a total sweetheart and he might’ve just not wanted me to feel rejected.
There were a few minutes of ominous silence before the “typing” dots began dancing on my screen. Uh-oh.
Charlie: Are you really that pathetic a fuck?
Me: What??
Charlie: Are you really that pathetic a fuck that some guy who was attractive and nice enough to catch your attention would pity-fuck you?
Me: I didn’t say it was a pity-fuck, just that he might not have been comfortable saying no.
Charlie: Oh, so you’re a rapist.
I jerked, regarding my phone in horror. No one had ever even come close to applying that word to me, and I would happily have gone through life with that remaining the case. How dare she?
Me: What the FUCK, Charlie.
Charlie: Well, what you’re telling me is you had sex with someone who wasn’t enthusiastically consenting, right? Sounds pretty rapey.
Me: He was enthusiastic as hell, thank you very much.
So enthusiastic. I took a moment to reminisce about his little breathy gasps and whimpers in my ear, and the deep groan he’d made as he came. My dick, completely failing to understand that I was in the middle of an important conversation, stirred at the memories.
Charlie: So then why do you think he didn’t want it?
Me: I…
Me: It’s not that he didn’t want it. I mean, I’m pretty sure he wanted it at the time. But he wouldn’t have started anything if I hadn’t practically stolen his pants. I feel like I pressured him.
Charlie: Did he look upset afterward? Like he resented you? Like he regretted what happened?
I thought about that. I’d run out of his house so quickly that there hadn’t really been any time to register how it looked like he felt.
Yet another way I’d wronged him. Whether he’d been upset post-sex or not, it can’t have been pleasant to have your partner hotfoot it out the door the second he could get his pants on.
I bit my lip. What could I have learned if I hadn’t freaked out?
What could I have had? Cuddles, maybe? A slow come-down of endorphins, at the least.
I was a moron.
Charlie: Jamie? Hellooo, Jamison. Did you forget you were talking to me?
Oops. I’d left her hanging too long, and she was so going to read into that.
Me: No, I don’t think he looked upset or resentful. But I bugged out really quickly so maybe he just didn’t have time to have those reactions.