It was easy enough not to be irritated with my girlfriend when her lips were smothering mine. Not that I really had a choice when she was straddling me on the couch.

Deeper and deeper into the cushions I went as she pressed her clothed body eagerly against mine. She ran one hand through my hair, searched the contents of the underside of my shirt with the other. She began to nibble at my lower lip and so I parted my lips to let her roam, because I knew that was what she wanted. She wanted complete control; she wanted my submission; which, for the most part, I gave to her. Myra felt too good to my senses to be stopped.

I kissed her back, as I always did. I wrapped my arms around her body; let my hands wander across her bronze, smooth skin. She liked it that way—to show as much skin as possible. She liked the fact that it was accessible, visible, and thus sensually arousing to others. Even I have to say that I fall victim to her body's image time after time, no matter how trashy the apparel may be.

I'm a guy. Guys are supposed to do that.

However, although I was attracted to her, there was very little desire in me to actually fuck her. And that is why when she let a hand slip down to my belt buckle, I immediately swiped it away. That single action stopped her motions entirely.

"What do you think you're doing?" I asked her with a raspy voice.

Instead of answering, she breathed heavily and stared at me. Her gaze had no effect on me. I could all too clearly see the lust still embedded in her eyes.

"We've talked about this," I pressed on.

Myra grunted a little.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you don't want to have sex with me? With your girlfriend?" She said tiredly. She knew those were rhetorical questions.

"Technically speaking, you're the one that wanted to stay my girlfriend in the first place. No one is forcing you to be with me anymore," I reminded her, looking past her to stare at the TV on mute in the background.

It was the truth—the pregnancy scare was over. She didn't have to pretend to be with me to satisfy her outrageously self-righteous parents anymore. It was all a fluke, anyhow: the very definition of a one-night stand. I had never tried E before, and she had never looked my way. So imagine how I must have felt to wake up with my arm around the waist of a naked Myra, and couldn't remember how it happened or where the hell I was.

Being the awkward species of male that I am, I left without saying a word. I'm not one to pull any of that kind of shit—all I was really guilty of was having too many shots and then deciding to get high on top of it. Having unprotected sex with the school's hottest, easiest whore was not part of the agenda. So I ignored that it happened.

And to think that I had friends that would brag about such occurrences.

That wasn't my style. I liked my life to be kept private, intimate, and known mainly by me and no one else. That's probably why I nearly flipped out when Myra approached me two weeks later claiming that she was pregnant, and I was the father.

"I used a condom with everyone else," she had reasoned, "it has to be yours."

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to be associated with a girl that referred to her own flesh and blood as "it".

She rolled over to sit next to me on the couch. She laid her head on my shoulder. "You are no fun. You know that, right?"

"You're 'fun' enough for the both of us," I told her. I didn't have to tear my eyes away from the screen to know that she was smirking at my statement. I'm almost sure I could feel the sly movement of her lips through my shirt, anyway.

Why don't you want to fuck her again?

Because she probably has more STDs than a stripper.

Oh, right.

Myra began to play with the hem of my shirt. She was trying to taunt me, to seduce me. It was her game where she reigned supreme. But I would never let her win.

She slipped her hand under my shirt again and started to trace letters onto the side of my stomach. I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it. Myra's touch always got to me. She knew it, too. She traced an "I", a "w", an "a", an "n", a "t", and lastly, a "u". My mind didn't make much of the letters at first because all I could think about were the goosebumps on my arms.

"I want you," she whispered thickly into my ear, her hand resting on my stomach.

In that moment, that dumb, meaningless moment, I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe she wanted me for maybe something more than sex, something more than lonely make out sessions and hormonal outrages. I also wanted to believe that maybe I wanted more than that from her, too.

I think I wanted to believe that there was a real relationship between Myra and me. But there wasn't one. We were just two kids that were at the wrong place at the right time. That's all.

Coming back to the present, I stood up and walked away from her. "What—are all your other boytoys MIA or something?"

"Ouch," she feigned a blow to the chest.

"Really Myra, what the hell are you trying to prove by being with me? Are you trying to rehabilitate your image, is that it? Because you're chances are just about shot in that department."

She stood up and walked slowly over toward me, her eyes lingering on my lips with an eventual slant down.

Those goosebumps were coming back.

With her body now fully pressed against mine, and with one of her hands slipping under my shirt again, she told me, "There's something so damn sexy about a guy who doesn't want me."

Then we made out for the next two hours.

I'm a guy. It's what we're supposed to do.

Skip to later that night when I'm at a kickback with the only three people I consider friends. We're taking our usual shots of vodka and drinking beer in between. I find myself wondering why I'm there, just like I often find myself wondering what I'm still doing messing around with Myra. But the thing is, there is no reason, which makes everything just a little bit worse.

And I'm not even sober.

"I'm tellin' ya, she had these huge-ass tits and this plunging neckline—she was just beggin' for me to bang her. There's no other explanation," Gavin rambled about his latest conquest.

"Dude, you fucked your step-aunt. That's just wrong," Trent told him, shaking his head. They both had these drunken grins smeared on their faces, though.

"Right or wrong is irrelevant, the real question is was she any good?" Felix butt in.

Gavin raises his eyebrows, bit his lower lip, and slowly nodded his head.

Everyone's grins grew wider.

"Shit man, Ash, tell him he's sick!" Trent nudged me with his elbow.

I really couldn't have cared less.

"Psh, we all know Ashton's got my back on this one," Gavin said, "right?"

I took another shot, felt the liquid burn my throat and numb me. It felt good to not have to always properly feel.

"If Gavin wants to get knee-deep in cougar pussy, who are we to stop him from pursuing his bliss?" I smirked.

Trent and Felix laughed so hard I could've sworn I saw tears.

Gavin gave me this incredulous look—the one he always gave me whenever I surprisingly showed him up—and I just raised my hands and shrugged. He shook his head before grabbing another beer lying around.

"Well sorry, Mr. Hot Shit, but not all of us can score mega hot, slut girlfriends."

Oh, did I forget to mention that Gavin, Trent, and Felix would all give their left nut to fuck Myra? I don't know if that's relevant information or not.

Because, you know, I couldn't have cared less.

"You can have her," was always my response.

"If only," Trent sighed.

"For real," Felix seconded.

Gavin took a swig from his bottle, used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. "For some fucked-up reason, Ashton, you are the chosen one. The least you could do is fucking appreciate it."

I laid down on the floor to stare at the ceiling. I was so drunk I had tornado vision: you know, when everything in sight swirls around you even though you're not moving.

I wanted to tell them the truth: that being with Myra wasn't what it was cracked up to be. That we hadn't had sex since the first time when we initially met because I didn't want to. That it was an accident, a universal fluke. Some screwed up part of my mind, though, liked feeling superior to them. Even if it was for all of the wrong reasons. So I kept my mouth shut, and watched the ceiling spin.

Monday came sooner than expected. Before I knew it I was walking down the halls of Lincoln High with Myra semi-permanently attached to my arm. People looked, as they always had whenever Myra was around. They looked at her with me, made their snide comments, but made sure to remember my name. It wasn't like people suddenly wanted to get to know me, but rather they randomly knew of my existence in correlation to Myra's.

Three years of being invisible, then I accidentally hook-up with a girl who's virtually slept with every high profile guy in our year, and suddenly my senior year is made. At least, according to everyone else that's how the story goes.

I would beg to differ.

"Hey, don't wait for me at lunch, okay? I'm gonna help Brad with his anatomy homework," Myra told me before second period.

Whether she was actually going to help him with the homework—she really was taking anatomy—or if that was code for I'm gonna fuck him, I wasn't sure. Nor did I care. It had long been established that, despite being called boyfriend and girlfriend, we weren't exclusive. The only difference was that I wasn't into just randomly fucking people while she was. So though it could be argued that this non-exclusivity only applied to her, it was true on both parts—I just didn't care to see other people. I barely cared to see her.

She has a way of forcing herself on you, if you hadn't noticed.

Anyway, so there I was at lunch, sitting by my lonesome; a book in one hand, plastic fork in the other. Gavin, Trent, and Felix were nowhere to be found due to the fact that they had all graduated the year before. Not that I minded being by myself; it's just a different atmosphere. I think too much. It's a tad problematic.

I was just beginning to think about how I think too much when someone abruptly sat down next to me.

"Hey, I have this assignment for bio, would you mind if I surveyed you real quick?

I turned to look at the guy beside me, recognized his shoulder-length gold hair and thin frame, and nodded that I wouldn't mind. He was in one of my classes, and for some reason, I could specifically remember his face. I couldn't remember why, though.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver. Alright—name: Ashton, right? We have English together, so if you're wondering how I know your name it's not because I'm a creeper or anything."

"That's reassuring."

"What's your last name?"

"Uh, Dauer. D, a, u, e, r."

The guy smiled widely. "Spelling it out for me before I even ask you to. You've definitely gained some points there!"

I didn't say anything, just looked at him strangely.

"Er, sorry, I've been interviewing too many people. Moving on! Okay, hair color," he looked up from his paper to stare at me, then promptly returned to writing. "Light brown. Eyes: what color are your eyes? They're really light."

"Hazel," I told him.

"Those aren't colored contacts, are they? I need to know your natural eye color—this is a survey thing for this genetics assignment in bio, so yeah."

Only fags wear colored contacts, I thought. What was he trying to imply?

"No, hazel is my natural eye color."

"Oh—how cool is that! You're my first hazel-eyed surveyor."

He sure was enthusiastic, this guy.

"Right," I said.

"Haha, sorry, I'm just trying to make this as entertaining as possible 'cause otherwise I'm pretty sure I'd be annoyed as hell about having to waste my time doing this."

"I understand. I guess I'm just surprised you're not going to make up the surveys answers yourself like most people do," I told him.

"…that honestly had not occurred to me. Wow, shit, I'm a dumbass," he shook his head, ironically chuckling at his ignorance.

I couldn't help but find it amusing, too.

"Well, since you're already here you might as well finish this survey," I said. "What else do you need to know about me?"

"Alright: age, height, weight, and that should be it."

"18, 5'7", and 122."
"Sweet! Alright I'll leave you alone now, thanks again," he said in that upbeat tone of his, and he was off.

I probably wouldn't have thought twice about him ever again if it weren't for the fact that, just then, I remembered why he was so easy for me to recognize. He was in my English class—he was the guy that I'd caught staring at me a few times whenever I had turned back to look at the time on the clock.

I was used to people randomly staring at me since I was with Myra, but I was not used to aforementioned people making contact with me for any reason. Suddenly, I couldn't tell whether I felt duped or just straight-up uncomfortable. It was a strange mixture of both.