TUCKER
If there’s one thing that gets me through the week, it’s the chance to party.
No one likes work or being talked to like you’re a five-year-old by your siblings or having to pretend to be a fully functioning adult.
But when the music hits, and people start vibing, that’s when the week before washes away and we can truly let loose.
I’m not a dude who follows the rules. Rules are for schmucks, suits, and people who don’t like fun. I do have one… Well, it’s not a rule, more of a life lesson I’ve picked up: No seconds.
Seconds make things complicated. I take a girl to bed; I say goodbye the next morning. Maybe I’ll see her around town and awkwardly nod or smile at each other, other times I’ll never see her again and forget about her until someone mentions them. ‘Oh yeah, I think I hit that.’
Seconds give them an unrealistic expectation. You do the thing twice and you’re gonna have to call them. Maybe they’ll want to go for dinner or a movie. Then what? Before you know it, you’ll be wearing slippers and talking about lawn mowers.
Rules are for schmucks, and yet here I am, in bed waking up next to a girl I took for seconds. Who’s the schmuck now? Spoiler: It’s me.
No, that’s not right. I ain’t no schmuck.
I’m just a guy with a fantastic bod and a penchant for hot girls with balloon tits.
Yeah, not a schmuck, just a red-blooded male.
Anyone given the chance would do the same thing as me.
She’s hot, her body is pure fire, and when she talks, I feel warmth spread through me.
Fuck. Not a schmuck, not a schmuck, not a schmuck.
I awake the next morning with far too many thoughts swirling around my head.
Drugs, man. The thing school doesn’t tell you about drugs is how great they are.
And yeah, I get it. You can’t teach impressionable kids that drugs make you feel alive.
Hell, drugs make you feel. When the music kicks in and I’m washing down some Molly, you know you’re on the path to a higher plane of living.
Sure, there’s every chance I’ll wake up in a puddle of my own puke, but when the buzz hits and the worries of real-life fade away, that’s when I’m most at peace.
Trying to quell my thoughts, I reach for the glass of water I left on the nightstand and chug down a Xanny.
Hangovers suck but come downs are a special kind of hell.
That’s why downers are just as important as uppers.
Ain’t no one got the time to be dealing with come downs, especially when my mind is this busy.
As I smack the glass back down on the nightstand with an unusually loud thud -- I am massively out of it, admittedly -- I can’t help but think about Amber and my time with her. Both times.
Amber isn’t someone I’d forget. Most girls love it when guys take the reins.
Most want to be dominated or for us guys to do all the work.
I go down, I stick it in, then thrust hard enough that the bed moves.
It’s a fairly straightforward routine, and after a lot of practice -- and I mean A LOT -- I’ve got sex down to science.
That’s why the seconds rule came in. I’m sorry your new guy isn’t as good as me, but I don’t do relationships and I definitely don’t do the L word.
L. Lo. Lov. Ack. I can’t even think of it!
So why Amber? What’s special about her? Why is it I can remember our first time and I’m excited to roll over and see her face?
Because she fucks like a animal? The first time wasn’t about me doing my thing and pleasuring her while I thought of excuses as to why I needed to go the next morning.
We fucked like we were never going to fuck again.
We fucked together, in sync, rather than me taking the lead.
It almost felt natural. That and I really, really wanna stick my dick between her breasts. What? I’m a guy of simple tastes.
The last time we hooked up was amazing, and the second time was even better. But, there was always something in the back of my mind I wanted to ask her but couldn’t find the courage to ask her about: Why did she ghost me? Why, last time when I woke up the next morning, was she gone?
Men don’t talk about feelings, and we sure as shit don’t ask girls why they ghost. Was it because she didn’t enjoy herself? I’ve never had any complaints, but I guess some people are incompatible. But then if that were true, seconds wouldn’t have happened?
Was I just a rich dick to her and that put her off? Was I just a rich guy with a great dick and nothing more?
I also wondered if maybe she was me. Not literally, obviously, but maybe she enjoyed partying and getting laid.
But then she doesn’t seem the type to do that.
I’ve never heard about any of the boys nailing her.
Plus, she didn’t do drugs. She wasn’t straight edge, thank God, but she wasn’t a mess like me either.
I remember something my dad said before, you know.
He left us alone. “Women are complicated creatures, son.” I struggle to remember a lot of what Dad told us, I was the youngest when he passed, but that stuck with me.
Women are complicated creatures. Trying to work out what women want is harder than trying to pass math.
Which brings us back to Amber. Am-ber. Am-berrrrr.
A mystery shrouded in an enigma wrapped in a freaking amazing body.
She didn’t come after me. In all the time after we hooked up the first time, she didn’t chase.
If I’m being honest, when I saw her again, it was me who did the chasing.
Me! The guy who doesn’t do seconds. The guy who only has one life rule.
I did the chasing, and the worst part of all this is I kind of enjoyed it.
Actually, there’s no ‘kind of’ about it, I enjoyed the hunt.
She perplexes me in a way no other woman has.
She’s my equal in the bedroom and I can’t help but be curious about her and what makes her tick.
Being with her is the same rush I get from surfing.
When the water beneath me shakes and a wave threatens to throw me off course and submerge me, that’s her.
She’s the shaking wave that’s threatening to throw me from this path I’m on and question everything I thought I knew.
The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m just gonna have to have a conversation with her.
I hate the idea of sounding needy. ‘Why did you run off?’ Ah.
It’s pathetic, almost. But I need answers.
I can play it cool and ask ‘So, how come you stuck around this time?’ I don’t need to go full-on Oprah or nothing. Just. Be. Cool. I’m a Braddock.
With my mind made up, I take a deep breath and turn to face Amber.
“So, Amber. I gotta ask…”
She’s not there. The bed is empty, I repeat, the bed is empty. Fuck. She’s ghosted me again. Ahhhh.
I stay seated upright for the next five minutes contemplating what just happened.
What just happened, again. Am I wrong about her and maybe she is a hooker who likes banging drugged up surfer rich guys?
No, that doesn’t add up. Hos are known in my circle.
Me and the guys know who the quick hook-ups are, and Amber’s name has never come up.
It can’t be because of the way I look because, c’mon. I may be on a come down but I’m a 10 and she’s a 10.
Then it hits me like a wave. Duh, she’s probably just downstairs getting some food.
This? This is why I don’t do seconds. It messes with your head and makes you do and think the dumbest of things.
I grab my boxers from the floor and quickly pull them up. It’s warm enough and as she’s seen me naked, I assume she won’t mind that I’m only half-dressed.
I dart across the room, swing the door nearly off its hinges, and step into the hall.
“Amber?” I call. “Yo, Amber? Where are you?”
I check each room upstairs. She’s not here. Which makes sense given all the food is downstairs. She must have made some breakfast to soak up the alcohol in her system.
I head downstairs, running my hand along the banister. The house looks like a pig rolled in, called up its pig friends, and had a pig party. Oh well. That’s what cleaners are for, I guess.
“Oh Amberrrrrrrr? Where are you? Did you make bacon? Fatty meats are great for my diet.”
She’s not in the living area, nor the backroom. Kitchen it is.
As I head into the kitchen, the cold tiled floor sends a chill throughout me. A chill only topped by the chill I get from the fact that Amber isn’t in the kitchen, meaning, she isn’t in the house.
She ghosted me. Again. And all I can think about is when I’m going to see her next. Schmuck.