Chapter 25 Orgasm Equity and Other Feminist Lectures
AMANDA
Chad pulls up outside my apartment, killing the engine with dramatic flair.
I could get off the bike, thank him for the beautifully devastating day I just had, and pretend it was a normal exchange where we got to know each other, instead of him knowing every single intimate detail about me, whereas I still wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup.
But mostly? I just want to strangle him.
Because today was amazing. Not just the date, though the stupidly romantic, borderline-legal effort he put into making sure my favorite movie played on a projector that I’m pretty sure he didn’t have permission to use was incredible.
But also? The mind-blowing, reality-altering, spine-melting orgasm that left me questioning my own name and possibly my entire existence.
Which was subsequently ruined by the fact that the second I pulled off my blindfold, he had his stupid helmet back on like some emotionally unavailable Batman wannabe.
And worse? He wouldn’t let me reciprocate. At all.
I huffed about it. Crossed my arms like a petulant child. Muttered something about “sexual equality” and “this isn’t how partnerships work,” to which he simply tilted his head like he was deeply amused by my feminist lecture on orgasm equity.
And then, as always, my phone pinged.
CHAD
I got you, baby doll. You can make it up to me later.
And honestly? That just pissed me off more.
Because who the hell does he think he is? Just playing with me like that, teasing me, destroying every defense mechanism I’ve spent years building, then telling me to wait.
I glared at him through the visor of his stupid mirrored helmet. “What are you hiding? Are you really that ugly? Do you have, like, a face tattoo? Missing teeth? Are you actually three raccoons in a leather jacket one stacked on top of the other?”
He didn’t respond. Just sat there, still as ever, letting me spiral into increasingly ridiculous theories about his appearance.
Which only made my assumptions worse. Because no, he’s definitely not ugly.
I can feel it. I can feel it in the way he moves, in the shape of his jaw when my fingers brushed against it, in the way his body pressed against mine like it was built specifically for me, like he knew how to touch me without hesitation or uncertainty.
Fuck. Everything about him felt good. Everything about him felt right. Everything about him felt real. And that’s what’s really messing me up.
I finally swing myself off the bike, standing on legs that are still embarrassingly shaky, crossing my arms as I turn to face him.
“So this is the part where you just drive off mysteriously into the night, right? A brooding hero who must protect the damsel from his dark secrets?”
You know me so well, baby doll.
I snort. “I hate you.”
You love it.
“Debatable.”
I step back toward the entrance of my building, but I hesitate because part of me doesn’t want this to end. Doesn’t want to go back to my empty apartment and pretend this was just another normal Sunday.
And he doesn’t move. Just sits there, watching me through that damn visor like he’s waiting for something. Like he wants me to figure something out.
I should go inside. I should turn around. I should not be standing here on an Upper East Side sidewalk at night, questioning my own reality while a man in a motorcycle helmet stares at me.
So I stand my ground. Because I can’t shake it.
The feeling. The way he moves. The way he touches me. The way his body feels against mine, like it’s a memory just out of my grasp. Like muscle memory I didn’t know I had.
I tilt my head, studying him, my stomach doing weird flips.
“Do I know you?”
Of course you do, baby doll.
I narrow my eyes. “No. I mean from before. Like, before all this.”
In a past life?
I exhale so sharply I feel breathless. “No, not in a past life, you jerk. Like earlier in our actual lives. Don’t play dumb with me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even react. Just sits there, as still as ever, letting me spiral into self-doubt about my own intuition.
You’re smart, baby doll. You’ll figure it out.
I scowl. “You are so annoying.”
And yet here you are, still talking to me.
I grit my teeth, fully prepared to turn around and storm into my building.
Think you’re gonna want a bedtime story tonight?
“No. Not from you. I’m officially cutting you off from my sexual entertainment needs.”
Are you throwing a temper tantrum?
“No!” I shout, which definitely sounds like someone throwing a temper tantrum.
You sure?
Because it was pretty hot when I made you come in front of all these people the other day.
I freeze completely. Then, very stupidly, very loudly, I shout back at him, “I DIDN’T COME IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE!”
Pedestrians on the sidewalk quicken their steps, reluctant to be dragged into an awkward street performance. A woman walking a golden retriever turns her head so fast she nearly topples over. Someone’s grandmother gasps audibly and clutches her pearls.
I blink, realizing what I just announced to half the city.
Chad’s shoulders shake. Because he’s laughing. The bastard is actually laughing at my public humiliation.
“I hate you so much,” I growl, spinning on my heel to complete my dramatic exit toward my building with all the dignity I can muster, which is approximately zero.
Love the view, baby doll.
I don’t look back. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
But my cheeks are burning like someone set my face on fire.
I burst into my apartment, slam the door behind me with enough force to probably alert my neighbors that I’m having some kind of episode, but, let’s be honest, they’re used to that, and throw my bag onto the counter like it personally wronged me.
Then, for good measure, I grab a pillow from the couch, bury my face in it, and scream. Like full-body, muffled, frustrated screaming. I don’t stop until I’m completely out of breath, lying half sprawled on my couch, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to all of life’s mysteries.
This is beyond frustrating. It’s one thing to be teased, to be taunted and played with like I’m some kind of entertainment. But it’s a whole different level of insanity to be seduced, completely wrecked, and then left questioning if I know the person responsible for turning my brain into mush.
And I do. I know I do.
Somewhere, deep in the parts of my soul I don’t want to access because they’re probably full of emotional baggage and regret, I recognize him. I feel it in the way he touches me, the way he moves, the way my body responds like it remembers something my mind doesn’t.
Maybe I should take Cal up on his offer to track Chad down.
One call, one favor pulled, and I could have all his personal information laid out in front of me like a classified government file.
I could know his real name, his history, his address, his credit score, probably his elementary school attendance record.
I could figure out what the hell he’s hiding behind that stupid helmet.
But even as I think it, I shake my head. Because that would be a violation of his trust, right? And if this is something real—
My phone buzzes, interrupting my spiral into true-crime paranoia.
I snatch it up, desperate for a distraction from my own thoughts.
But of course, it’s just some random notification and not the person I want it to be.
Izzy is currently suffering through Sunday Mandatory Family Dinner?, which means she’s probably getting interrogated about when she and Cal are going to give her mother grandchildren while eating pasta and dodging her brothers’ relentless teasing about literally everything because that’s what big brothers do.
So no luck there.
I flop back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling again. Frustrated. Annoyed. And, most inconveniently, lonely. My social circle has somehow shrunk down to Izzy and my sister who lives in her own world. And as much as I love them, sometimes I want more.
Someone else. Someone I can talk to without filtering every thought through three layers of sarcasm and deflection. Someone who gets me. Someone I can text and say anything to without worrying about being judged.
And I hate it, but the truth settles over me with all the subtlety of a neon sign flashing: “You’re screwed.”
Because the person I want to talk to most is Chad.
And that realization terrifies me more than anything else that’s happened today.
I wish I could talk to him the way I used to.
Before I started wondering who the hell he really was.
Before everything got complicated, and weird, and emotionally loaded. My phone buzzes again.
I glance at it, and sure enough, it’s him.
Chad. Like he has some kind of supernatural ability to sense when I’m thinking about him.
I stare at the screen, annoyed at how fast my heart jumps.
Annoyed at the fact that I was literally just wishing I could talk to him, and now here he is, materializing like some kind of smug, all-knowing genie.
Annoyed that, against all better judgment and basic common sense, I want to text him back.
I shouldn’t. I absolutely should not. I should delete the message, throw my phone across the room, and go to sleep.
But he took something from me tonight. He stole it.
Left me wrecked and shaking and completely undone and then had the audacity to just sit there on his bike, watching me, making it clear I was going upstairs alone when I was two seconds from asking him to come with me.
And now I’m stuck in my apartment with my thoughts in a tangled mess and no way to unravel them.
And I hate that. I hate that he did that.
My fingers hover over the screen, trembling slightly.
Then, before I can stop myself, before rational thought can kick in and save me from myself, I text him back.
Because in order for him to be real, someone has to believe in him.
Might as well be me.