Well, Actually

by Mazey Eddings

I’ve always been the type of person to poke a bruise, press my tongue to a cavity, just to see how much I can make it hurt, and obsessively watching his videos over and over again when they pop up is no different, the rage growing hotter with each caress of his deep voice.

“To fuck around is human, to find out is divine,

Cooper didn’t wear glasses back then, and I was hit by the full force of his looks, nothing softening the blow. There was a lazy mischievousness in his slouch, hands loosely resting on the back of the seat next to me, forearms coated in a fine dusting of hair and a map of veins and lean muscle.

The more he pulled away, the faster I fell head over heels for him in that way that feels as natural as breathing when you’re twenty-one and untaught and it’s the first time anyone shows interest in you, then snatches it away.

It wasn’t until Cooper talked to me in that lecture of my junior year that I’d ever felt any type of attention, and some greedy part of me became an instant addict to the warmth of another person’s interest.

Hot Girl isn’t a look or a style, it’s a commitment to doing whatever makes you feel unstoppable in the face of life’s fuckery.

He’s wearing dark jeans that are clearly infatuated with his ass and thighs, which have developed defined muscles over the years, and a navy crewneck sweatshirt that reads YALE GRANDMA. The hem of it lifts as he raises a hand to his hair—raking his fingers through the perfectly mussed locks—revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband, a faint line of hair centered between the ridges of his hip bones.

He walks toward me with the confidence of a man who … Honestly, a metaphor is kind of superfluous.

“Did you just call me princess?” Cooper asks, his grin lazy and dangerous. “Yes. Does that offend you?” I ask, a hopeful lift to my voice. “Or would you prefer baby girl?”

“A chance for me to prove I’m not the asshole you remember. Give me six dates to make it up to you.” “Fuck yourself.” The words burst out of me in a laugh so sudden and violent I clamp a hand to my throat. Cooper’s eyes twinkle. “Stop being so charming or I might fall in love with you.”

He says it like a vow, and my heart kicks in response. “So use me, Eva. Make an example of me. Help me show people what it’s like to work for it.”

I’ll bring this man to his goddamn knees. It’s a long game for revenge, but I can be as brutally patient as it takes.

I love that she looks like she’s gonna strangle him and he’s just like

I know this is probably breaking friend code but I gotta know … was it really that bad? I feel like he’s packing. I roll my eyes so hard I feel the force of it in the center of my brain. Another message from Ray immediately follows. I also feel like he’s curved to the left for some reason. Just gut instinct. He has that energy.

You really want me to know about the antichrist’s dick. A third message pings. Is all of this info firsthand? Did you fuck the antichrist? When did you fuck the antichrist? I switch to defense. You would know, you were there, I type like each tap of my fingers is going directly for his pretty gray eyes. He goes low, I go lower. Three taunting dots bounce in the bottom-left corner for a breath, then his reply pops up: Glad you think my dick is huge

Pokes at that hidden, festering wound that the problem in relationships is me, I’m the reason I can’t get off with another person. No one can figure my body out because I’m too damn difficult.

Your right hand doesn’t count as a partner, I text, shooing the self-doubt far from my head. I’m left-handed

Shame I wasn’t one of the chosen ones to worship at the Cooper cock of fame Again, I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I truly do mean that and regret how things ended. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Eva. Lick my butthole, Cooper I will if you ask nicely;)

He’s an asshole, I tell myself as I drag my palms over my stiff nipples, the sharp lines of his jaw flashing in my head. A total fucking prick, I scream internally as I fumble through my bedside drawer, then shove my vibrator below the elastic of my pajama bottoms, picturing those heavy-lidded eyes looking up at me as his mouth dips between my legs.

“I won’t bite,” he murmurs. “Unless you say please.” The fucker winks.

“Auguste Rodin is considered by many to be the father of modern sculpture.” “I’d certainly call him daddy.” Cooper and I speak in unison.

“I’m going to make it up to you, Eva. I promise.” With a deep breath, I smooth my frazzled features into an icy stare. “You keep saying that, but the bar’s been on the ground, and you keep showing up with a shovel.”

“I just didn’t know you could read,” I reply sweetly. “Lea Michele is shaking.”

“You’re the human equivalent of Comic Sans,” I respond, working to check my own twitching lips as they try to mirror his. Cooper’s grin only grows. “I’m so glad you’ve picked up that words of affirmation are my love language. You make me feel so good about myself.”

“But I do try to avoid language and conversations on here that place value or judgment on genital sizes and shapes, if you know what I mean. Lilith has really drawn my attention to how common that ends up being when discussing sex and intimacy and just like, gender in general, and I’m trying to be more aware of it. I don’t ever want to make a listener feel, you know, badly for something I flippantly say about dick size or vulva types or whatever. I’m, uh, yeah, just trying to be more intentional about harm avoidance.

Finally, Cooper lets out a deep breath, pretending to be winded. “… Which brings us…” “Here,” I say, a snarky curl to my smile as I gesture around. “I’m tempted to imitate the Paul-Rudd-on-Hot-Ones meme,” Cooper says, grinning at me. “How original.” His smile doesn’t waver. “That’s what I love about you, Eva, you’re just so easy to please.”

“And a helicopter, dude? Really? Don’t you think that’s a bit Fifty Shades–level extreme for a first date?” “Huh…” He drums his fingers against the tabletop. “Are you saying I can’t pull off love bombing as successfully as Jamie Dornan?”

“You think my glasses are slutty?” he says, smile huge and voice hopeful. “We both know your glasses are slutty,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Men don’t pick tortoiseshell frames like that without being a little bit of a ho.”

The way he says it scrapes the bone, the sincerity seeming so raw and real. I hate my stupid, overeager heart for leaping at the idea. Someone wanting to know me. Someone seeing my sharp, prickly edges and gleefully asking for more. But that’s not how it works, not for people like me. It’s fun and games and an exercise in sparring until it becomes too much work, too many minefields to navigate the second things get a little bit real.

I shake my head, offering a cruel smile. “No. I’m not going to tell you what I’m thinking. You want a gold star for remembering a region of food I like and a color that I wear all the time? Good for you, I’m sure your fans will be weeping at how goddamn sentimental and caring you are. But none of this is real. You don’t get to know me. You don’t get to back me into a corner and demand I tell you things about myself so you can feel better about being a fuckup in college, then use it against me in a stupid podcast recording to prove you’re some sort of nice guy and deserve the frenzy of adoration you’ve somehow tricked people into. Now move your fucking hand.” Cooper’s face is ashen, lips parted as he stares at me. His palm slides from the door, landing with a heavy slap at his side. “Wow, you are a good listener,” I say with a sneer, then walk out the door.

Every planet must be out of order with Neptune double-penetrating Uranus because something unbelievable is happening: I’m actually having a good time at work.

“But the table over your right shoulder”—he nods toward Cooper—“is about two minutes away from full screaming breakdown.” With the subtlety of a wrecking ball, Cooper whips around to look right as a broken sob from the table in question echoes toward us. On instinct, I reach across the table, grabbing his face between my hands and pivoting his head to look back at me. “Be chill for one minute, I’m begging you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his. Cooper’s pupils dilate, nearly eclipsing the silver of his irises, his glasses falling down the bridge of his nose. I try not to notice his swallow or the weighted breath he lets out that tickles the sensitive skin of my wrists. I ignore the gentle shift of his cheeks under my palms as his mouth curls up in an inevitable smile. I have absolutely zero awareness of the trace of his tongue across his bottom lip, his low, nearly laughing voice as he says, “You better talk me through it, then.”

He scoffs. “Yes, Eva. You’re right. I’ve planned every moment of my week around filling up this restaurant so you’d be forced to sit with me for brunch while our friends gawk at us. Couldn’t think of better circumstances to win you over.” I let out a tinkly laugh, digging through my purse and pulling out my compact and red lipstick, my knuckles brushing his chest as I lift the makeup to eye-level. “It’s cute that you said that sarcastically. Some self-awareness would do you good.” I open my mirror and twist the tube, painting my lips with a practiced stroke. I pout, then stretch my mouth into my most alluring smile. “We’ll debrief this weekend, yeah? Your place again?” I think Cooper tries to speak, but all that comes out is a sort of choked sound. My reflection glints back at me with deep satisfaction that I’ve regained the upper hand. I snap my compact shut, shooting him a wink followed by a swift pat to his cheek. “You’re a trooper, Cooper. Try not to miss me too much in the meantime.” I float away, radiating satisfaction that I got in the last word. I’m almost out of the hall when his voice reaches me, both earnest and amused as he calls, “Too late. Miss you already.”

“No one tell Freud but I’d call him Daddy.” His eyes light up and he looks straight at me. “Did you know that ‘Spank me, Daddy’ in Dutch is ‘Geef me een klap, Papa’? Can you imagine whipping that out in bed?”

“Why do you put up with me?” I ask suddenly. I want to snatch back the vulnerable question, force the words back down my throat and slap my hand over my mouth for good measure. Cooper swallows, and I trace the bob of his Adam’s apple. He adjusts his glasses, drags a hand down his jaw. “Because I like you, Eva.” I suck in a breath. “You—” “I like listening to you. I like never knowing what out-of-pocket thing you’re going to say next. I like hearing about your ideas and your thoughts and then reading how you piece them together. I like that you’re a little bit feral and that sometimes you let me get away with teasing you.”

“Yeah, well, in the name of unconditional honesty you should probably cover your skanky forearms before we start the session.” He’s traded his tacky crewnecks for an olive-green linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows to accommodate the unseasonably warm fall day, the sun through the open window burnishing the fine dusting of hair along his arms. “Jesus, Eva, put that female gaze away and stop undressing me with your eyes.” He grips his open collar like he’s clutching at pearls.

“I mean this with all the love, light, and peace in my heart: What the hell is wrong with you?” “Today or generally speaking?”

Someone’s experience or lack thereof with relationships and sex shouldn’t be some metric to determine how shitty you can be to them.”

It doesn’t make you a bad person to admit that you were hurt by the actions of someone also hurting.”

I am tough. And I’m sick of having to be. I’m sick of having to choke down my feelings, fend for myself. I’m sick of stepping into glass armor every day, waiting for whatever stones people on the internet chuck my way, whatever fractures the powers that be at my job chisel onto my surface. I’m sick of having to scrape my way to aloofness just so I’m not a nuisance to my friends. My family. I deserve softness, goddammit. I deserve tender moments and gentle caresses and whispered sweet nothings. I deserve someone, somewhere, wanting to like me for me and not the hardened veneer I gloss my vulnerability with.

“Just because you can take it doesn’t mean you should have to. You shouldn’t always have to be bouncing back.”

Why was I so easy to leave? What is it about me that’s so simple to forget?

With a roughness that shocks and excites me, Rylie pushes me onto the bed, staring at me for a heartbeat. I watch a small tremble move through him, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe I’m actually there. With a swift movement, he rips off his glasses, tossing them to the side, then plants one knee on the mattress in the space between my legs, making my weight slide toward the dip. Instinctually, I move, seeking friction against his thigh, but then I lock my muscles, forcing myself to be calm. “Uh-uh,” Rylie says, a dark wickedness to his voice. He leans over me, palms on either side of my head, caging me. My heart hammers as I take in the wild flush of his cheeks, his heated focus, the way he licks his lower lip like he’s so hungry for me he can’t stand it. I’ve never been so excited to be trapped. “Don’t you dare stop yourself, Eva. Fucking use me.”

“I want you to fuck me like you’re sorry for letting me down the first time.” He grunts, his mouth going to the column of my throat, sucking until I arch into him, then he bites the spot, making me gasp. “That was a given.” Rylie’s hands trail down my torso, cupping my hips and notching me firmer against him. He moves me up and down, my pussy dragging against the hard ridge of his erection. “Tell me how you like it,” he demands. Pleads.

“I will fuck you any way you want. Any speed, any position. I will go down on you all fucking night if that’s what it takes to make you come, and I will do it with a goddamn smile on my face the entire time. Do you understand me?”

“I-I think I’d like it a little bit rough,” I manage to say, staring at the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. His fingers flex into my thighs, breathing frayed. “Rough how?” he asks in a low rumble before placing a quick, sharp bite to my breast. “Like that,” I gasp out. “How else?” When I don’t immediately speak, he bites me again, then soothes the area with a decadent lick of his tongue, ripping another gasp from me. “I … I don’t … I mean … This isn’t … I haven’t…” He drags his teeth to my nipple, gently nipping at the peak before sucking it deep into his mouth. My vision blurs. “You haven’t what, Kitten?” he whispers. I groan in response, wriggling closer, holding his head to my chest and silently begging him to do it again. Rylie pulls back instead, color flagging his cheeks, his mouth slack and wet. “Use your words or I’m stopping.”

In my teens and early twenties I devoured every glossy magazine article I could find about what moves I could do to make a man feel good. My desperation to please someone enough to get them to stick around was my only tangible desire.

“I want you to keep touching me,” I choke out. Rylie laughs again. “That’s a given, sweetheart. You feel too good to stop.” A broken groan falls out of me, my body bucking beneath him, and I bite my lip. Rylie pulls back, eyes roving over me until they glint with knowing, his dimple popping out as he smiles. “Do you like that, Eva? Do you like me telling you how fucking perfect you are?” Another gasp betrays me, every cell in my body sparking to life under the coarse rumble of his words. Rylie’s grin is downright sinful, and my heart pounds in my chest as he leans to my ear, lips ghosting across my cheeks along the way. “You do. You like it. Now keep being a good girl and tell me how rough you want me to be with this beautiful fucking body of yours. I’ll give you anything you want, you just have to ask.” He bites the lobe and my back bows. “Jesus fucking Christ, please just touch me,” I nearly scream, grabbing his gentle, roving hand and thrusting it between my legs. The pressure soothes me for a second, but only one, because Rylie snatches his touch away, gripping my hip instead. Quick like a bullet he’s up on his knees, using them to force my legs wider as his other hand grabs my inner thigh then hooks behind my knee, spreading me for him. He stares for a moment, then licks his lips, eyes tracing up my torso to lock with mine. “I’m starving, baby. Let me taste you instead.” I garble out something close to please, my head falling back. Rylie reaches past me, snatching a p...

Before the thought can gain purchase, his mouth is on me, tongue making a dirty, desperate swipe up to my clit. I shudder, whimpering at the shockwave it sends through me, a sensation so intense my thighs try to close around him. My desperation doesn’t faze him. He makes another leisurely swipe. Then another. Taking his time, tracing every inch of me, circling my entrance then dipping in, lavishing his way up to my clit. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he says against me, more vibrations than voice. His breathing is almost violent, the vault of his rib cage expanding against my thighs with every inhale. He focuses on my clit, eyes meeting mine over the planes of my body as he catalogs every reaction. What pressure makes me writhe and claw at the sheets, the suction that makes me cry out as my thighs tremble against his face, the merciless rhythm of his tongue that has me babbling out his name in desperate pleas, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes as sharp pleasure builds in my pelvis. Rylie pulls back for air, curling his fingers inside me in a way that makes me whimper. “That’s it. Look how fucking good you’re taking it. So perfect.” His words are muffled, my pussy grinding against him in my wrecked desperation. “Let me hear how badly you want it.” He puts his mouth back to me, dragging his head side to side so his stubble scratches along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, and incoherent words pour out of me, voice a shout as need turns me inside out, ...

Rylie wraps an arm around my waist, sliding me closer against him, our sweaty chests rubbing together. I’m dismayed to realize his sweatpants are still on, and my greedy hands dive to the waistband, trying to tug them off. Rylie laughs again, stilling my eager fingers. “Not sure what could possibly be funny right now,” I growl against his mouth, batting at his hands. He playfully swats back, then grips my wrists, turning me so my back is on the bed, hands held up near my ears as he looms over me. “I’m not a piece of meat, Eva,” he says, smile smug. I can’t believe I actually like seeing this man so happy. “I want you to tell me what you want.” “I want to come with you inside me,” I say, abandoning any self-consciousness about demanding too much. If Rylie wants to hear it, I’ll fucking tell him. “I want you to fuck me hard and deep and tell me again how pretty I look while you do it. I want you to make me come again, and I’ll do whatever you tell me to make it happen.” He pauses for a moment, lips parted and eyes electric. “God, you’re so fucking lovely when you beg.”