The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)

by Sara Ney

“How the hell am I better with girls?” I haven’t been on a date in over a year, which means I haven’t had sex in over a year, which means I haven’t seen an actual pair of tits in a year. My dating life is fucking pathetic.

I’m looking for someone real. Just haven’t found her yet.

I tap on the app, pretending to be bored by the entire process. The truth is that I am interested in finding a girlfriend myself. But I sure as shit am not going to find her on some stupid app.

Nope. I’m not doing a dating app. The only guys online are desperate or want an easy hook-up, and I’m not looking for either of those things. I want a long-term relationship. Something real. I’m not going to find that swiping my finger on stupid profiles.

And therein lies the problem; I’m beginning to think my type doesn’t exist in the real world. He only lives on paper and in my imagination, neither of which are convenient.

My type is tall. Not crazy, Big Foot tall, but at least six feet—minimum—would be amazing. An Adonis. Someone who will make me feel petite and small, and feminine. Dark hair—God I love dark hair—and I wouldn’t mind if some of it was on his chest, either. No facial hair—that’s gross, and makes me think of my father, who has a beard and always has food stuck in it. My boyfriend will be strong. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who thinks before he speaks, so when he does it means something. Handsome, but not pretty. He needn’t be perfect, or in great shape. Lord knows I’m certainly not. Nice hands. Big hands. Maybe he likes to read in his free time, like I do? That would be nice. A dimple would make me melt, but it’s hardly required.

Did I come on too strong with the optimism? Shit, I really need to learn to be more pessimistic.

I feel like a buzzkill when I’m the only one drinking an iced tea, or water, or something else that’s not alcoholic, though I know no one is actually judging me for it. It’s a fact: drunk people absolutely do not give a shit if you’re drunk or not, as long as they are. They’re too busy being drunk to care.

“Skylar, you still here?” Hannah’s knuckles rap on my bedroom door, her knee slowly pushing it open. “Oh good, you’re not in here diddling yourself. I’d hate to walk in on that.” I roll my eyes and set my cell phone down. “When have I ever done that?” “You should. Not that I want to see it, I’m just saying—you should.”

Sex appeal has never been my thing; there’s no telling if I’ll ever master the art.

“When it comes to dating, I’m like Yoda—I just know stuff.”

“And now you know for next time. No more midweek dates. You are a weekend date kind of girl.”

“Where are you going for this Wednesday date of yours?” God, I don’t even want to tell her. She’s going to judge JB for his choice, and then she’s going to judge me for agreeing to it. “I don’t want to say,” I admit. Her brows go up and her mouth falls open. “Why?” “You’re going to get judgy.” “Oh honey, I’m judging you anyway. Because I’m your friend and that’s what friends do.”

“What about a black turtleneck? That sends the message that you’re not willing to fool around on the first date.” “Ah, a modern-day chastity belt?” “Exactly!”

“He’s going to fall madly in love with you.” Hannah leans toward me, wrapping her free arm around my shoulders. “He’s gonna love you like I love you, only he’s going to want to sex you, too.” Long pause. “Not that I don’t want to sex you sometimes.” “Shut up, Hannah!” She shrugs. “What can I say? You’re adorable.” Adorable. Great.

“Funny,” he repeats, unimpressed. Bored with the conversation. “Next you’ll be telling me she has a great personality. Honestly, Gramps, all I give a shit about right now—this very second—is how great her tits are.”

The place smells like grease, spilled beer, and bad decisions, and I know as soon as I walk in the door tonight after this date is over, I’ll beeline for the shower. Guaranteed.

Now, I might not know jack shit about women or relationships, but I know this for a fact: it’s never a good sign when a girl starts agreeing with everything you say. Never.

The problem is, Skylar isn’t my girlfriend, or my friend. The problem is I like her—but because we’re not in a relationship yet, she’s going to walk out that front door and never speak to me again, and she has no obligation to hear me out.

I do so much shit for people, it’s borderline stupid. I do shit for people when I don’t have the time, or the money, or the inclination—but I do it anyway.

“Is this about some woman? Did some chick get into your fucking head? Spit it out, we’re losing daylight.”

“Kindly remove your head from your own ass so we don’t have to do it surgically, take your fucking warm-up pants off, and pound out your goddamn stretches like you’re supposed to be doing.” He claps my back. “Got it?” “Got it.” “I’ll circle back around.”

“You know what chicks love? Kids. If you found yourself a kid, you’d have this in the bag.”

“You’re like a car wreck,” the bastard is saying. “I can’t peel my eyes away—I have to know what happens.” He leans against the metal lockers, crossing his ankles and arms. Cocky. “I’m invested.” Invested? Jesus Christ with this guy. “I have it handled.” “Ehhhh…” Zeke isn’t convinced.

“I guess start with Hannah. If that doesn’t work, give up, because dude—don’t be a stalker.”

I fucking love her. One swipe. One date. Sweet. Salty. Bratty. Kind—and all mine.

“Know what you should do, Hannah?” “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.” “Take some of your own advice. Download the stupid LoveU app and find someone to…” I search for a metaphor. “Fill your tank.” Her lip curls. “Seriously, Skylar? My tank? There’s a visual I could have done without.” Pfft. “This is a conversation I could have done without, but you left me no choice.”

“Giant penis.” The magazine gets tossed to the carpet as Hannah flies off the couch. “I knew it! I knew he had a huge penis!” “All I said was giant penis. You need to calm down and rein in the vocal stylings.”

“Why are you staring off into the goddamn crowd?” I’m silent, working on the laces of my other shoe. “Ohhh, I get it,” Daniels sing-songs. “She’s coming today, isn’t she?” I don’t reply, so he keeps talking. “Are you ready to throw up? Is it making you nervous?” “Would you shut up?” “I can’t. I’m basically your matchmaker now.” “No you’re not.” “Yes I am. Without me, she wouldn’t have gone out with you again.”

He prattles on, “Oh! They see us!” Zeke’s arm goes up to wave. “How nice, the little blonde one is pointing over here and your girlfriend keeps slapping at her hand like you’re doing to me.” He grabs my limp arm by the wrist, creating a floppy salute. “Wave and say hello, shithead.”

“Uncover your eyes, you chicken. You’re missing it.” Hannah removes the arm I’m using as a shield to block out the match now in progress down on the mats and forces my hand back into my lap. “You’re the worst girlfriend ever.”

“Whatever. I’m going to ask him to lift me above his head. I have to know what it’s like.” “Blah blah blah, I’m Skylar and my boyfriend is stronger than Hercules.”

“How do I look?” “Great, actually. Real cute.” Hmm. A suspiciously sweet thing for her to say. I raise my brows. That’s it? That’s all she’s got? “I’d bang you.” There it is.

Is there such a thing as a bad blowjob? I really should start watching porn to score some pro tips.

I make a mental note to tell him he doesn’t have to be such a damn gentleman all the time. It’s okay to be dirty with me. I like it. I want it. Maybe not all the time, but occasionally would be sexy.

Then I feel it. I feel his balls tighten in my hand, a small pulsing in the base of his cock and his murmured, “Shit, Skylar, I’m gonna…I’m gonna…” He taps on my shoulder, the universal sign for Stop blowing me, I’m gonna come. But I don’t stop because I’m going to swallow that semen if it’s the last thing I do. I’m not a spitter; I refuse to be a quitter.

I’ve never had anyone go down on me while I was standing up; Abe is full of firsts for me. First orgasm. First boyfriend. First love.

“I can’t even look at you right now,” he mumbles. “Why?” I laugh, planting a kiss on the side of his neck. I take a whiff of him; he smells so, so good and tastes salty. “Because he came in one minute and forty-seven seconds!” Hannah shouts from her bedroom. “I timed it. Sorry folks—I am what I am!” “Jesus Christ, why is she like that?” Abe moans, mouth grimacing. “I don’t know, babe. She just is.”