"Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be."
~Rita Rudner
Chapter 8: Point Blank
In theory, I might as well be a wind-up sex toy. Put in the key, wind me up, and let me go and ding, dong, ding. Repeat as needed. Sex in a punctual, easy manner.
It's better than a blow-up doll anyway.
However, in reality, if you wanted to fuck me, you had better be wearing a crash helmet.
I was NOT a fan of missionary, nor was I fan of holding my legs at awkward angles and reciting my multiplication tables up through the thirteen's ( or the three's, depending on the guy's stamina) while waiting for him to finish thrusting like a lout into me.
I did my Pilates, and I ran my miles. My dad had been in the National Guard, I could do a push-up; not the girly ones on my knees either.
And speaking of knees, it's my personal opinion that it's a complete worthless endeavor for a sixteen-year-old boy to receive a blowjob.
Why do you ask?
Because they don't appreciate it, and it doesn't last. And once the guy has blown his load all over your face and is embarrassed, he's done for the night.
No poke-poke for the poor bitch who nearly choke-choked.
So when I started little charade of mine, I knew I was going to have to be very clear on what I expected from this bargain.
A hip-replacement wasn't it.
Before Edward had made his outrageous demand (fuck nugget extraordinaire) for a little girl on guy with tuna on the side (do you get it?) I had already decided Emmett would be an easier first conquest.
Before I found out Edward wanted me to take him down to the local Maco's Taco's, I had been inwardly crinkling my nose at the thought of having to sleep with Edward.
It was weird.
It's weird, right? You know somebody when they're in diapers, you spend time at their house during the annual 4th of July barbeque, you've seen them lose all their teeth and come to school with gap-toothed smiles and crisp ten dollar bill from the tooth fairy.
I did not need to add 'what Edward's penis looks like' to our little list of memories.
So Emmett it was, and Emmett was in for a surprise.
I set the date, set the time, and set the location. Home court advantage and all that jazz.
I surveyed my room and rolled my eyes, closing the door to my room and flopping down on Alice's bed.
Emmett McCarty definitely wasn't worth the mammoth effort it would take to unearth my bed, much less a pathway to it.
And what Alice didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.
I laid back and winced when I laid on something with a mildly uncomfortable edge.
I reached behind me and pulled out a yellowing copy of Paradise Lost. Alice wasn't much of a reader, but I did know she had a list of "must reads" before college.
Presumably this was one of them.
It was an intimidating looking book; the kind I would take along to the doctor's office if my doctor was hot, or when my father wanted to make a family appearance for some event.
What was that old saying by Twain? "A classic is something everyone wants to have read, but no one wants to read."
I raised an eyebrow at the book and looked down at my slightly wrinkled school uniform.
It's not there was anything even remotely attractive about having some clumsy frat-fucker tearing buttons.
So I got naked. Naked and on the tiny, little camp bed in the sitting room, sprawled out and reading a thick, impressive novel like I hadn't told Emmett I wanted to be on his cock two hours earlier.
The knock came, heavy and expectant at quarter to six.
"It's open."
Emmett didn't let the door swing open widely, he knew that if I didn't answer the door (like I had been raised to), then something was up.
Or about to be up, as he stared at me.
He stared and I raised an eyebrow at him, so comically standing there, jaw open, waiting to catch flies.
"What do you want?" He finally closed his mouth and attempted to sound cool.
He wound up sounding petulant that I wasn't allowing him to be the man and lead this little appointment.
"That, dumbass, should be patently obvious."
"But-"
"Stop talking. I can assure you I don't want to hear it. The only things I want to hear out of your mouth are 'fuck yes' and my name."
Let it never be said that Rosalie Hale did not live up to every egotistical, daddy's girl with a credit card, bad stereotype there was. It was a rough job to be this arrogant and domineering.
I tossed the book aside and stretched my arms above my head, back arching, and two perfectly tweaked tits (because let's be serious-it wasn't cold in that room, which meant I pinched them just for show) arched as well as I exhaled and sat up on my knees.
From there, things deteriorated rapidly.
Well, for Emmett's pride that is.
During my little experimentation with heroin (before I was so into it that I screwed my dealer because it generally resulted in the best stuff on the market) I had developed a pattern for sex.
If they wanted it, too bad for them. I was too good to be under them, much less doing my best "Debbie does Dallas" impression. I walked, no matter how much they fawned and adored and begged.
Even when I was high off my ass, I still had my pride.
But every once in a while I'd take a liking to a guy. And if I wanted them, I wanted to know, no chances taken, that I was going to get mine.
Those boys had all been more than content to let me do whatever the hell I wanted while they got their rocks off. It was all a matter of knowing how the system works when you're in your early teens. The probability of getting an orgasm was beyond low. It was practically nonexistent. And let's be clear; I wanted a fucking orgasm. I knew it, they knew it; it was just easier for the boy to pretend he was actually contributing more than a hard cock into the equation.
There was no skill involved at all; all the skill was mine.
I always like to think it's a rather ironic role-reversal of the standard "men do all the work while women lie on their backs" mentality.
Here's the truth, no bullshit.
It's hard to get off without a vibrating something or other. When someone's bouncing you around on their cock, fingers sometimes won't even do the trick.
Getting yourself off on a teenage dick might as well be like running the four minute mile.
Only a certain number of people had the skill.
It's a whole 'nother ballgame for the guy I happen to be fucking. While my mind is on overload, conjuring up every movie star face and fantasy in a bid to finish before the guy comes, he's got one single thought floating around his testosterone poisoned head.
Thrust harder, deeper, faster, and come like one blissed out motherfucker.
Emmett McCarty is a male, and thus he suffers from this same affliction. He couldn't coordinate his thumb to find my clit if his life depended on it while he's inside, much less worry about a "myth" women like to call the G-spot.
One hundred percent of teenaged boys will find Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny smoking joints in a titty bar before they'll find a G-spot.
And because I've witnessed this male display of tunnel dick vision, I am spectacularly disinterested in foreplay. At least, the kind of foreplay that has him stuffing me like a Christmas goose without any prep.
I indulge in my favorite fantasy with my clit bullet massager beforehand, and make plans to hop on pop just as soon as I can get him naked.
In Emmett's case, this takes less than three minutes. Sport shorts and boxer briefs, easy.
Loose but alarmingly huge t-shirt.
Gone.
His smelly shoes and socks took the longest, and that's probably because I made him take them off.
I shove him on the small bed, wait for a second to see if it will collapse under his weight, and then settle astride him and tug on him until he's hard.
Condom it, and then I'm on him and riding him like a bronco.
My own personal goal is under five minutes.
I'd be fucking ecstatic if it happened under two.
But then the meathead does something nobody else ever does successfully.
He attempts to take control, trying to roll me over so I'm on my back.
This is the part when short nails make an excellent steering mechanism. I put my foot down on the bed and refuse to be rolled. Granted, he could probably squash my or pop my spleen, but I'm not budging. I look great on top.
And I don't let up either. I start squeezing him for all he's worth, slamming my hips onto him every time he thrusts, and I can't help the grin that spreads over my face when he let's out a a grunt that sounds suspiciously like "fuck yes."
I'm sure the thought of being fucked by a girl is unbearable to his macho-self.
And then suddenly I'm under him on the fucking floor, because apparently Emmett McCarty is just too stupid to lie back and enjoy the fucking.
I shriek some naughty words and slap at him until he rolls off of me, not even caring that he's swearing like a sailor as the head of his dick get lubed up even more by my wet cunt.
I finally get us situated once more and this time I'm pissed.
What a fucking idiot.
Most guys wouldn't be fighting me.
Most guys wouldn't be able to look their mother's in the eye after I got done with them.
I roll my hips, arching sharply when he's as deep as he can go, bouncing a little, trying to get him where I want him.
Penises need to be more like the vibrators that move in circles.
Why didn't God think of that?
Emmett's finally given up the good fight of trying to top me (ha). He's biting a hole through his lip as he struggles not to come before I do.
Thank you. I appreciated it. You probably don't know how much.
And then I'm arching and inhaling sharply, her nails digging into his pecs for all I'm worth if I don't want to arch myself right off his dick. I come and Emmett doesn't last five seconds.
He lets out an unholy, mildly terrifying groan of release and I worry he'll flood the condom.
Hey-oh, now there's something no one on this planet needs to see.
Rosalie Hale, teenaged mother.
Even I'd feel bad for that kid.
I roll off immediately. Surprisingly, I'm a little bit shaky on my legs, the sure sign of a decent orgasm.
Good for me.
I bend over at the waist on purpose, pick Alice's book off the floor, and disappear into my room, shutting the door with a soft but definite click.
I leave Emmett there, shorts around his fucking ankles like the stupid-fucker he is, and trust that he'll be out in another few minutes, a little bit shaky in the knees himself.
I toss aside Alice's copy of Paradise Lost and shrugged into my robe, sliding onto my bed and clicking open the browser on my laptop.
The page was still up and I began taking notes furiously as I carefully studied the pictures and corresponding text on the website. I tilted my head and tried to ignore the thrumming I felt in my veins. I'd been staring at this since I ditched seventh hour, and combined with the recent sex-acrobatics McCarty felt the need to pull while attempting (not well I might add) to prove his male dominance, I was feeling a bit dizzy from the overabundance of sex.
I shook myself out of that little memory and focused on the webpage in front of me.
One down, one to go.
And make no mistake; I was going to be the best goddamn dyke Edward Cullen had ever seen.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Alice...fuck! I didn't even remember her last name. Alice whoever the hell she is, will be the death of me."
My head snapped around as Jackson Whitlock, slut of the senior class himself, plopped his very fine ass down at my library table.
"What the fuck are you doing in the library anyway Hale? And in the basement, I might add?"
Both valid questions. My reputation was balanced on a complete non-geek appeal, and so the time I spent doing my homework (and believe me I did it) was done secretly, on the dingy lower levels of the library where the archives were. Thus, I got good grades per my father's expectations, and no one was usually ever any the wiser.
"I could ask you that same question Whitlock. There aren't old copies of Playboy or National Geographic down here if you're looking for nudie pics."
Jax merely smiled that honey-pot smile of his. He was such a fucking hot bitch. Too bad he's one of the few guys my sexual routine wouldn't work on.
The man had control issues.
"She digs me. I can see it. Her little virgin eyes and fuck! Those lips—she fucking has cock-sucking lips and they are nowhere near my cock. What the shit Hale? Were you spreading some nasty shit about me or something? What's the deal?"
I looked up from my math book.
"She's not available, that's what's up. And as for me spreading rumors, I don't need to. You've burnt the toast off of so many girls' crust that I'm surprised no one's hauled off and kicked you in the junk yet."
This had no apparent effect on Jax. He toyed with his sleeves rolling them up and down those toned forearms, and cracked his knuckles.
"McCarty's cool, but admit it Hale. He's certainly not the better choice between the two of us. No offense, I've been hearing all over the place that you're both on McCarty and Cullen's cocks. Goddamn, that's hot. I'm down with the mix and match option."
I stood up.
"Ok-ay. And now you're officially a stalker pervert. See ya."
He caught the hem of my skirt and got a good look up it as he turned me back around.
His apologetic grin was spiced with a little lust this time around.
"Niiice Hale. Look, I know I'm an ass, but I've never been an ass to you. That should count for something."
I rolled my eyes and waited.
"Tell her…tell her I'm a nice guy."
"You aren't."
"I am. I'm not a particularly monogamous or moral guy, but I am nice."
"Jax, go fuck a freshman if you're so wound up. Leave Alice alone. She's not going to cave. Why are you beating your dick to death over one girl who's not available to you?"
And to be honest, I wanted an answer.
Jax was rejected and screamed at quite often. Older women, mothes, wives, students, he hit on them equally. He was an equal opportunity slut when it came to getting some. So naturally he got balled out a lot for being so…outgoing.
It had never phased him before.
Never caused a reaction like this.
Jackson Whitlock was sitting in the basement of the library, asking me to help him so he could have sex with my friend, before presumably cheating on her with the Japanese girl who took the carry-out orders at the House of China.
What the hell was so special about Alice?
"I want to see how much she can take…. fuck! It's hot because she's a little fighter. Not a ball-buster or a pistol like you Rosie, but she's all tiny and smart-mouthed…. ugh that mouth. How much can that little throat take? How much dick she can sit on, how much solid headboard banging can she take? I need to know."
I stared, my nose turned up.
"You. Are a Sick. Puppy. Jackson Whitlock."
"Come on Hale! So, I have a thing for tiny chicks. You can toss them around, bend them over, your cock looked twice as big enclosed in tiny little hands. Tiny chicks are made for some seriously kinky shit. If I wanted to wrestle while I was trying to have sex, I'd either go out for the sport or tap the infield of the girls' softball team."
Further proof for why Jax and I never had sex.
"Come on Hale. Tell her what she's missing."
"I will. I will tell her exactly what's she missing." I held my thumb and my forefinger out, a bare inch apart. Smiling smugly, I grabbed my calc book and sashayed away.
"Fuck you Hale." Came the laughing reply.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I eyed the shadowy footage with interest. Where had Lucas gotten a hold of such damning footage...and who the hell allowed themselves to be videotaped ranting against the majority of the social princesses and princes of the school?
A stoned person, that's who.
And as for how he managed to videotape such epic failure at life, well he is my brother.
Do the math.
Oh wait, this is my favorite part.
"Sadie Vialpando once told Liz Opelt's mom that Liz was a frequent shoplifter, just so Sadie could get Liz's boyfriend alone at one of those lame-ass closet parties where everyone gets paired off to fool around. Course Sadie slept with Jeremiah and gave him a severely unfortunate case of VD, which Jeremiah later gave to Liz. Liz still doesn't know that it was Sadie who he cheated with and gave her the clap. Stupid cow can't see anything beyond her new nose."
The glossy-eyed girl swayed in her seat on the camera, giggling and inhaling on the roach that was barely big enough not to burn her fingers.
A familiar male voice in the background grumbled something unintelligible and the girl almost felt over she was laughing so hard. Tears were leaking down her cheeks as she smiled beautifully into the camera.
"That's right. My mother is a former Miss America. That's how she met my dad. He was one of the judges. She found out a week after the pageant that she was knocked up. Had to have a secret abortion, but not before she blackmailed my father into putting a rock on her finger the size of Somali."
Then came the hysterical laughter again and I shook my head in wonder at the completely cabbaged girl who was willingly giving up every secret, family or otherwise, she could think of.
And that was a ton; thirteen minutes of footage. Thirteen minutes of sexual encounters, including calling 's star cellist a "small-weinered non-fuck," tales of boob and nose jobs, piercings not seen under normal circumstances, embarrassing menstrual stories, and other insults that dated back to the first grade when Samantha DeLane insisted on being the first person to use the purple crayon (wax-eating whore). All from the golden girl of St. Olaf's very own mouth.
No one was going to believe what they saw when they received a video attachment tomorrow morning instead of the usual quarterly report from our esteemed student body president and almost definite ivy league graduate, Tanya Denali.
My fingers twitched once and then pressed send.
