Don't Ever Love an Alpha

I stretched out on my back and he settled on top of me. As we fondled, I kissed his neck to keep from laughing. What sadly matched chests we had! Ribs rayed from his sternum. My breasts provided scant softness. But the contact made my nipples tingle, just enough to feel good. My vulva warmed. Well, you go, Benjy! Maybe this would be as big a thrill as we'd hoped when we talked ourselves into it. I remembered the taste of the hot fudge, the grip of our hands as we bowed to our roaring classmates. Yeah, why not good sex for once?

His hands holding my sides, his legs sliding along mine, felt strong and smooth. There was only brief awkwardness as he rolled a condom onto his upright shaft. Secretions fizzed into my pubic hair, mingling with lube. I grabbed his head with both hands and brought his mouth to mine, then gasped around my tongue as his glans pushed past my labia. He went in far enough to make my ring muscles notice, and approve. Then out, then in, pistoning steadily, and my torso was bathed in sweet heat. I whimpered happily while tonguing whatever I could find in his mouth. Had the body-suffering Virginia taken the night off? Or was improv comedy my key to sexual nirvana?

This didn't take very long, which was probably ideal for both of us. I remember howling, and I think my elbows somehow jabbed into his armpits, right about the time that he grunted several times while his pelvis jerked against mine. My heart tried to leap from my chest into his, amid trunk spasms that seemed to wobble my diaphragm. And I was all, Okay there, orgasm, go easy, I don't want anything dislocated. So maybe body-suffering Virginia was back, but really surprised.

Then muscles relaxed and lungs regained access to air. Our bodies had found a fine mutual lassitude, although I had a little headache, maybe from nerves taking so much message traffic.

At last I half-squealed, "I came from your prick!" I, who am not a hugger, hugged him hard. "That's my second time ever! You are a stud, Benjamin Hughes!" Even as I said that, and bounced up my butt in fun, and squeezed my walls on his softening prong, I could feel soreness spreading over everything. But I came! "That's why I need you to get out now. You wrecked my pussy."

He jerked back his trunk and ejected, eyes showing alarm even in the dim light. "What, you got hurt? I didn't—"

"Wrecked in a good way," I said rapidly, holding out my arms, hoping that another hug would shut him up. It did.

The wrecking wasn't all good. Experience told me that I could be sore for a day or two, and peeing might hurt a little. A total cost-benefit analysis of this sex might be negative, but if I'd skipped it, and never had the positive part, I would have become more impatient with myself. And obnoxious to others.

This self-impatience thing is one of my driving forces. To make high school gym less boring, I pushed at it hard enough to make the varsity field hockey team. I had some allergy episodes from exerting myself outdoors, but having acquired a skill, I insisted on using it. One whole season wore out my interest in the sport, and I could then walk away.

In time, Benjy slid off me. I saw what might have been a happy-sad look. "Thank you," he said softly.

I smirked. "You have to stop doing that. Were you paying attention? I really liked this."

"Thank you," he said, with a small hand gesture that might be one he uses in court, "for including me in your life for just this moment. Because of what will happen next."

"Which is what?" I said, giving him the question he'd begged, wondering if he'd reveal that he had an STI.

"You and Joe."

My head flopped onto the pillow. "What is it with everybody?"

"You have my blessing. I want you to be happy."

Now he had me thoroughly pissed off. "And you're so sure I'm not happy now, with a man who made fabulous love to me?"

"That's not at the level of happy with an Alpha." He said that with no emotional content. This was now a disinterested Socratic argument.

"I'm not there to salve his ego, remember?"

"So if he turns on the charm, will you say no?"

"I—" Suddenly, there was not a lie available to me.

"I really like you, Ginny," he went on, deciding that he had made his point. "I know I'd like you even more if we got closer. So I have to protect myself now. Emotionally."

I got up on an elbow and glared at him. "So you're using the possibility of another guy making a move as an excuse to ditch me? While we're still in bed naked?"

"You should protect yourself too. I mean, look at Naomi."

"Why don't you pledge undying devotion, and beg me not to get interested in Joe?"

"Is that what you want?"

"It's not about what I want," I said, hurrying past the fact that, no, I didn't want that from Benjy. I was barely lukewarm about us becoming fuck buddies. (I mean, was it ever going to be this good again? What were the odds?) "It's that you don't seem willing to take that kind of risk."

He took a breath. "No, I'm not. Because I watched you two." He seemed to make an effort to look me in the eyes. "You said exactly what you wanted to say, and got the result you wanted. But I could read your body language. Poised, but on high alert. You were thrilled that he was paying this kind of attention to you. You threw shade, but also told him how to approach you again."

"You think I was playing a game?" I still didn't know what exactly I had done then, but it wasn't that. Then it struck me: As Benjy was doing now, I was protecting myself emotionally.

"No, you were telling the truth and standing up for yourself. But you were also really interested. Or am I wrong?"

I saw Benjy's face, but in my inner ear I heard Joe's voice. Which gave me a flicker of Joe.

I think the look on my face had me uglied up in helplessness, so no answer was necessary.

He eased out of bed. "Tomorrow's a work day. I didn't bring anything for overnight." He crouched to gather his clothes. "I wish you well, Ginny."

***

Thursday I was still ticked off at Benjy, and trying to create a context for what I was thinking about Joe. This was impeded by the fact that what I was doing didn't seem like thinking. At no point in my life, before then, had The Crush-Getter been in charge—but now it made up for lost time. I started thinking about whether a fling with Joe could be harmless fun.

Friday, the thinking got nastier. Despite fine sex two days earlier, I was jumpy through the workday. That night I was overtaken by ridiculous fantasies. I rubbed out, reeeeallly carefully, and still had trouble sleeping.

Early Saturday had me in a frenzy. Even after I chose the outfit I'd wear, and was certain it wouldn't look bad or wrong, I fretted over anything that could ruin everything. In my case, that went beyond hair to some sudden allergy outbreak, like a face full of hives. (My health insurance was fattening the college fund for my allergist's kids.) A deeper dread was that, regardless of how I looked, I'd see that Joe was already squiring around someone else.

And all this time, my rational mind really wanted nothing to do with Joe. I came close to despising those parts of me that would soar to him as soon as he electrified the magnets.

There were three parties that Saturday, with Venn diagram circles that overlapped. People might hop to all three. This gave me a self-respect bastion to which I could cling: I'd go to one party only, and accept whatever outcome. The party I chose just happened to be the one I thought would have the biggest overall attendance.

This set up the perfect anticlimax: Joe never showed.

Naomi did.

I wondered if this had been negotiated behind the scenes.

Later unsolicited messages asserted that Joe skipped all of the parties.

Benjy wasn't there either, but two other people from the improv class were. They were not only thrilled to see me (and chat me up), but told others about what Benjy and I had done. For a while I was returned to my mood in the ice cream parlor, lofted by my classmates' praise and ego-stroking. Despite my swelling head, I found good things to say about their performances. They didn't seem to care about that, returning to our Switch: "Never seen anything like that in a class." "You made Arthur into a character!" "If you started a group, I'd pay to see you."

I didn't crave validation for what I did in improv. I was satisfied at having done something well. What I enjoyed about this chat was that it took some of my mind away from Joe, and that something attached to me, in the public mind of this party, wasn't Joe-related.

For one person, though, the new data on me had only joined the old, not replaced it. Sandra, one of Joe's exes from before I was in this crowd, approached me after my well-wishers had dispersed. She said, "So you do comedy?"

I tried to wave this away. "I take a class," I said, in a voice tone that likened it to 'classes' some people take in moviegoing and flirting.

Sandra was a brassy blonde who, I suspect, wanted to be seen as nobody's fool. "So after months of lurking around, you turn on your comic genius and make a fool out of him."

I couldn't tell if she was envious, dubious, or defending the honor of a man who had dumped her. And I didn't care. "That's not what happened."

"This club used to be exclusive," she said, now with some slurring fueled by the open bar. "The standards are getting lower." She then moved on, taking along her inability to Move On.

I couldn't help but be aware of the newest inductee into Sandra's club. Naomi was as totally at home in her body as I wasn't in mine. She was perfectly proportioned, with legs that went on forever. Her every movement seemed effortless. Black hair cascaded past her shoulders in lush waves. Her features were strong, yet feminine. She had an air of mild amusement that didn't seem forced.

Naomi spent the evening on her own version of the Bechdel test. When I heard her, she was in conversation about things other than men: Economic development in Central America. Polar bear habitat loss. Photo editing shareware.

Now and then, I stood at her periphery and listened. I didn't stick an oar in, and nobody tried to bring me into the discussion. By this time, me doing improv was old news at this party. I mingled elsewhere.

Just once, the curtain slid aside. I was getting a club soda and fishing some money out of my purse to drop in the jar labeled 'Thanks for supporting!' On my right I heard Naomi's voice, quiet but not secretive: "You did the right thing."

I looked at her, which also meant up. She's about 5' 10". "I really didn't know what else to do."

"I just hope," she went on, "that the right thing won't make things worse."

As noted, I barely knew Naomi, and she might not have even known my name. I asked, "Are you okay?"

She smiled, while shaking her head. "No," she said.

***

One thing I've learned about myself, during this whole wretched episode in my life, is that while I'm not very imaginative, I am creative. In improv, once a scene is created (by me or someone else), I need only follow the scene's internal logic, and don't have to imagine anything external. Just keep track of Arthur and squeegees and whatnot.

This creativity allowed me to overthink myself into what seemed like an acceptable situation with Joe.

Point One: Any woman who catches Joe's fancy never has it for long. He appeared to go beyond one-night stands, but I wasn't aware of a stand that went past six months.

What that meant for me: I must accept in advance that this won't last.

Related overthought: Hey, no prob, I've never had a long-term relationship. I should be able to have fun while it lasts, then walk away.

Ignored data: I seldom have fun with men. Thoughts of Joe made me anxious, not happy.

Point Two: I'm not the kind of stunner Joe usually hooks up with.

What that meant for me: His eye will wander. A lot. So I might get shown the door really soon.

Related overthought: Well, the shorter this is, the less likely it is to hurt when it ends, right?

Ignored data: None of my 'flickers' about Joe carried a context of development in a relationship, or what each person learns about the other, or how feelings can change.

Point Three: Wild, exciting excursions don't happen with me, and my allergies and such would interfere with them anyway.

What that meant to me: Basically the text of Point Three itself.

Related overthought: I'm only 25, people my age are supposedly still maturing. Maybe I still have a shot at wild and exciting, and this could be my best chance.

Ignored data: Point Three itself, and my life experience, and skepticism over this whole notion of still maturing until 27.

So, with more time to overthink because of Joe's absence on Saturday, I created a house of cards without imagining its collapse. The overthinking seemed like calm reasoning, not Crush fascination.

The chance that I might see the flaws in this went to zero on Monday night, when Joe called me.

"Hi, Ginny, thanks for picking up. How are you?"

I don't think I had an accurate answer to that. I might have been thrilled, terrified, stunned, awkward, giddy, moist, or all of the above. What I said was:

"Uh...yeah, hi. Yeah, um, not bad. You?"

"I'm good, thanks. Just wanted to say you did me a favor I never knew I needed. Can I thank you for that? With dinner?"

I was already sitting, having gone wobbly-kneed when I saw who was calling. His voice almost made me slide to the floor. I only had 4G, but the baritone made my heart race. 5G? I might have fainted.

When the voice stopped I jolted to the realization that the voice had given me a string of words, and I should send some words back. "Dinner? Me, you? Uh, yeah, great."

"I'd like to know if your allergies would be a problem. Are there any foods you can't eat?"

I answered smoothly, and quickly enough, but I don't recall exactly what I said. That's because I got this little warm feeling from what he'd said. An awareness that he knew about my allergies, and hoped I wouldn't suffer from them, took over a batch of my brain cells and refused to let them go.

I had never had that little warm feeling about anyone, or anything, at any time in my life.

Listen up, Average Woman. An overture like this from an Alpha male may mean that he's thoughtful and caring. It may also mean that he's softening you up.

In the case of Joe, I think it was both.

We settled on northern Italian cuisine as unlikely to cause me harm. I'm not a big fan, but then my attitude towards food in general is mostly indifferent. Joe suggested Wednesday, and the 'yes' was halfway out of my mouth when I remembered improv class. "No, uh, I can't," I burbled. "Not then. Some other day?"

"Sure," he returned smoothly. "Is tomorrow too soon?"

"No, that's good. Tuesday, yeah." Which settled that point and left us to work out logistical stuff.

As frazzled as I was, I actually held my ground, only realizing after the call ended that this was what I'd done. Joe offered to pick me up, but I opted for us arriving separately. Ruling out Wednesday had been a reflex, and at other times I might chide myself for mindless adherence to a routine. Yet the class had become a part of my life, and I didn't want to blow it off if I could coax Joe to a different day. Fortunately, Crush never said why she couldn't do Wednesday, thanks to my firm belief that Joe wouldn't care about some silly improv thing.

By the time I was breathing normally, I thought that I'd done pretty well, despite nonstop anxiety. I then overthought that I'd surely never be this frazzled with Joe again. So this fling, or affair, or whatever, would be something I could endure.

My overthinking somehow skipped past the little warm feeling.

***

I was trying to find street parking near the restaurant when my phone chirped for an incoming text. I had to pull in to an alley to read it. It was from the restaurant.

<<Ms. Stipanovic, please drive to our entrance. Mr. Calderone will cover your valet charge and tip.>>

Superficially I was relieved, with one less thing to worry about. Joe was again being thoughtful. He'll actually spend more this way, I realized, than if he picked me up.

His forethought. His preparation. His deployment of resources. I had an odd sense that I was something like a goal in a military campaign.

I should have pursued that line of thought, but when Joe met me inside, and took my hands in his, and smiled, it was all my rational mind could do to muzzle The Crush-Getter. This was complicated by my first clear awareness that in a few hours Joe Calderone and I would fuck.

Dinner was nice, in an overpriced, overblown sort of way. Most of our conversation was about work, an understandable decompression from having just left our jobs. Joe's has to do with working city-required retail spaces into the ground floors of new high-density residential properties. He apologized for how boring that sounds. I think he, maybe two years older than I, makes about three times what I earn.

There was, however, some talk relevant to our earlier meeting.

"I want you to know," he said, "that I haven't salved my ego. You showed me that it deserved what was happening to it."

I couldn't stop myself from smiling. "A man's ego is pretty substantial," I bantered. "I think it'll be fine."

"Do you think there's a possibility," he said, and he was definitely working me over with the voice now, "that we could be in each other's lives?"

I was so damn hooked. He could have railed me right there. The fact that he didn't means that he hadn't planned on putting the cleanup expense on the tip. So Benjy and Naomi and Sandra and all the senders of unrequested messages knew this was going to happen, and I couldn't even claim that I was the last to know. But the tug of the maelstrom still came as a shock.

Yet I think I was calm when I said, "Maybe we could find out."

When the valet brought my car, the directions to Joe's place were on the GPS.

***

He apologized for the apartment, saying that moving in was what kept him away from the parties. "I still haven't brought in everything," he said as he led me through the place. "Please forgive the boxes." I was silently agog at the vast three-bedroom with a great view of the city. This distracted me a little from the way that nerves were making muscles tense up.

He indicated a sofa facing the view and said, "Can I get you something?"

"I'm driving myself home," I reminded him. Mind and body were disconnecting, because while I said that, I took hold of one of those steady hands. I started kissing the knuckles. A rush tightened my abdomen.

His other hand went behind my back and drew me close. I felt like a tiny doll, even without thinking of the tall, substantial women his hands usually claimed.

He said a single word: "Drapes." Then his mouth descended to mine as a whirring motor took away the city view.

He probably expected to go slowly, treat me like a fragile figurine, and I'd given him every reason to think he should. I undermined that by quickly unbuttoning his shirt and bite-kissing parts of his torso as they were exposed. I was hotter and jumpier than I had ever been with a man. Crush was in full control. I had Joe's body to play with! Woo hoo!

For all that, I was still my contact-indifferent self. I didn't embrace him. My hands prioritized getting all that annoying fabric out of the way. This wafted his cologne towards me. I didn't like the scent, but no allergies were triggered. I unzipped my skirt while I dragged up his shirt tails.

I heard chuckling as I undid his belt. "Can I do this?" I asked, gasping.