U.”
Nicole shrugged. “I didn’t like her anyway. And her son’s a dweeb.”
Brendan opened his backpack. “By the way, c-close your eyes.”
“You’ve got a surprise for me?”
“Not that kind of surprise—I mean g-g-giftwise. Just keep your eyes closed, and inhale and tell me w-what comes to mind.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
She closed her eyes and faced him, and he placed the bottle under her nose. “Okay, inhale and tell me if the odor reminds you of anything.”
She sniffed and snapped her head back. “Smells like …” She opened her eyes and snatched at the small glass container. “Extract of almond.” She glared at him.
“Well? Does it remind you of anything?”
“No.”
“But you didn’t even try.”
“I smelled it,” she snapped.
“No associations, no recollections, no images come to mind?”
“No.”
“Think hard.” And he held it to her nose again.
She pushed it away. “I said
He stared at her for a moment then screwed the cap back on and stuffed it in his pocket. “How about Mr. Nisha?”
“I told you I never heard of Mr. Nisha.”
“Okay, forget it.” Something about her reaction bothered him. She was too quick to reject it. “I just get some really weird vibes from the odor. So what’s up?”
“Your turn. Close your eyes.”
“What?” Hesitantly he closed his eyes, then heard her leave the room.
“Keep them closed,” she said from the other room. A few moments later he heard her return.
“Okay, open them.”
Brendan opened his eyes. Nicole was stark naked.
“W-w-w-what are you
Her eyes were small, no dilation in her pupils. No affect in her manner. No warmth in her response. “See if you can figure it out.”
All he could think was:
“Why do you think?”
Brendan suddenly wished he were home, that he had not agreed to come over. That this was not turning out well. “I d-d-dunno.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
He scanned her body. “You’re very p-p-pretty,” he said, hoping that she’d put her clothes back on.
“P-p-pretty?”
“Okay, b-beautiful.”
“So,” she said, spreading her legs slightly and leaning on a hip. “Is Mr. LaMotte still a virgin?”
She was a thousand Internet images—a thousand pixel pixies.
“Well?”
It was not a question he wanted to answer. Nor did she wait for one, no doubt assuming he was. She undid his belt and unzipped his fly. He stood there as if he had been shot with a stun gun. He wanted to stop her, and he wanted her to continue—not because he was getting aroused, but because he wasn’t.
She slipped her hand into his pants and rubbed his genitals. He could feel himself stir slightly, but he did not sprout an erection. In fact, the only erections he ever had resulted from unconscious friction with his bedding, but never from sexual musings, or sex magazines or Web porn sites. Naked women, men, children: nothing. Nada. His mojo wasn’t working. He couldn’t even properly masturbate if he wanted to; and the only orgasms were those in his sleep, unattended by raucous adolescent dreams—pure and simple biology: the press of backed-up sperm.
Not getting any reaction, Nicole pressed herself against his groin. He drew back because it hurt. “W-w-why are you doing this? I didn’t c-come here for this.”
“Because I f-f-felt like it.” She made a mirthless laugh. “I remember how you looked at me the other night in my room.”
That was a phony response—one reserved for the legions of normal heterosexual males whose hopeful glances told them she was “hot.” That was not his look. He did not have the hunger. Nor could he imagine that she liked him. They weren’t friends, nor had she ever shown him any interest except to make fun of his stuttering. In fact, whenever she addressed him he felt as if he were being razor-gashed. Besides, being the looker she was, Nicole should be pursuing the alpha studs—those cool, smart jocky dudes everybody else looked up to. He was surely not one of those. Yes, he was smart and tall, but two hundred and sixty pounds of baby fat surmounted by a long shiny black ponytail, braces, facial blemishes, and enough tics to make the Top Ten Geek List. Nicole did not give herself away for nothing. No, it wasn’t how he had looked at her in the bedroom. It was what he had seen in there.
Suddenly she took his hand and put it on her crotch.
It was the first time he had ever touched female genitalia, but he felt nothing inside—not a bloody damn flicker. He could have been fondling her kneecap.
She planted her mouth on his and pushed her tongue through his teeth, moving in deliberate cadence with the grinding motion against his hand.
“Orange juice,” he said. “You t-taste of orange juice.”
“Because I just had a glass, asshole.”
“Did you know that orange juice contains over two hundred different chemical compounds?”
“No, and please don’t tell me,” she said, grinding her pubis against him.
He wished he had not mentioned the orange juice, because his mind was now ticking off a slew of hydrocarbons, alcohols, aldehydes, and esters.
He squeezed down to force the runoff into a rear-brain compartment, which he sealed off and bolted. Then he strained to get back to the moment. But that was the real problem, because although he could recite the most obscure facts, he did not know how to react to Nicole. He knew he was supposed to “feel” things, to enjoy a flood of emotions, but he could not react accordingly.
And, yet, he was fascinated by her performance. While she came on as sexually precocious, her moves
