The Rebound

"Babe...! Baby...?" She says, pining and asking, pawing at his shirt and leaning in.

He's big. Big. BIG. Muscles for days, muscles and muscles and muscles. His pecks are bigger than her tits, and that's not a joke. She loves it... she hates it.

She hates him. She doesn't know why, she just does somehow.

Is it serious? Are they in love? Why do the questions feel bad... it's seeped in, underneath it all. He's been fucking other girls, he has, she knows it, she knows it inside. Whispers from some bitches her girlfriends and her have been gossiping about all night. She didn't know everyone knew, but heard them mentioning it.

She's alone.

"Baby... baby... babe?" She's sniffing, close to crying, but he doesn't like her crying. He rolls his eyes, sighing like he's the one who's hurt, saying not this shit again. Muttering worse. She's so far away from him, so far...

And she says it. She shouts it. She beats his big chest and wants to get slapped in the face.

And he hears it. Some guy. Some other guy, far off, awkward, awkward, bored, hurt, anxious, alone.

He perks up with the rest of the meerkats and they pretend not to notice, walking around talking their chat outside of the club, out by the ATM, down the street, hearing them around the corner, shouting and her shouting all the things she's been bottling up.

Her boyfriend shouts back. It's something that makes them all go silent.

If the other girls didn't love her so much, they'd be wet from the shout, a shout like that would make any girl listen, obey, kneel down...

He's listening, conflicted. What can he do? Is this what he's meant to do? Is this the moment? He's meant to run in, stand between them, get hit in the face for some girl he's not talked to, just seen the whole night?

He was feeling bad about her being with someone, the twinge of her being hot and another girl he'll never be with. Them happy, in love. He's just seeing a friend-

But that guy fucked off hours ago... some girl's place, so much better with girls, is why he's now surrounded by them, reaping the 'benefits' of being friends with a playboy. He's been wandering around with girls talking and talking and arms linked in his and petting him and giggling about him all night.

He's not good looking. He can't be. Sure, he's been working out, but they don't know him.

That makes it so much hotter... if he could give in and admit that he likes it, between the frustration and self hate. it's so so so much hotter that he doesn't know any of them and they're touching him... but it's a joke, it must be. He's cute, maybe... kinda cute, skinny cute, 'Maybe I would if he wasn't so...', cute.

But he's not... cute. Not hot. And the hot guy's hurting the hot girl. And he shouldn't be here.

Where the fuck is he.

And when he shouts, when the boyfriend shouts there's a moment of silence. And he walks off. And no-one does anything.

And the girlfriend cries. She wails. She bawls and stands there shaking like a kid, like a kid who's just been broken up with for the first time.

And her girlfriends are holding her shoulders and crowding around her like animals grooming, licking her wounds, and she's shaking her head and trying not to cry but it keeps coming and she keeps sniffing. A couple go to shout at her boyfriend, but they're hollow, he's already gone.

He looks at her... and feels perverse. Horrible. Horrible for ever thinking about her that way. She's a person. She shouldn't be 'Fucked' 'Lusted after', what the fuck is he doing? She should be hugged, held, looked after and talked to. Asked about herself so she can talk.

But if you've ever grown up as he has, you've been told at least once by every member of the opposite sex in no uncertain terms that you're not that guy. Not that person.

Him but not you. Maybe if it's not you. If only it was someone... 'like' you.

He's angry. ANGRY. She at least had a love of her life and she's crying like a fucking baby. He wants to cry every day and doesn't, he keeps it in because girls don't like boys who cry. He's closed off, it's gone, that kid. And he's clenching his fist and hating her.

And when he hears her cry... something stirs.

You know what he wants to do? He wants to turn and push all the stupid girls away rubbing her back who don't know what they're fucking doing and he wants to hug her hard and kiss her cheeks and rub his face into hers, and whisper to her how pretty she is and how it's gonna pass, she could fuck anyone she wants and she's gonna find a guy if she wants, if she wants a guy she could just wait out front of that club and fucking walk up to the next guy she saw, and say and say and say and lean up and he'd kiss her, be her boyfriend, and she wouldn't be lonely anymore.

He hates her. He hates it. He hates himself. He hates every girl who told him what he was.

But it's not enough. He can't. He doesn't. He stands, listening to her sniff.

No hero.

----------------

He feels warm. His shirt clings to him, it's not so close, but every shirt he has clings to him now. Months of working out, months to get no looks, to be as buff as every guy at the club and still fucking invisible. Life is shit. Life is awful. Unfair.

He isn't sexist, he wants to be with someone, to hold someone, he doesn't care about theories about girls, doesn't feel good when he feels bad about them- but that hot bitch is still fucking crying!

This isn't a party. Not a night out. It's a fucking nightmare. Where the fuck is he gonna sleep? Who the fuck is he gonna ask? He's not gonna text his friend who's getting laid, he's not a fucking baby. Not a mooch.

Where the fuck is he gonna sleep? He got led here by a group of fucking girls he doesn't know. If it was the other way round he'd be scared for his life. He's not. He's fucking ANGRY.

What the fuck is going on?!

He sighs, flicking looks to her. She's getting her back rubbed, trying to talk, mumbling and sniffing. Tears run mascara, her hands shake, he was so fucking big she probably never even fucking looked at a guy like him. He doesn't exist to her. She's a fucking Size Queen. Yeah. That's it. She's hot and she knows it.

Fuck when did he get so jaded...?

He thinks about it, really tries to think about it. Imagine being with someone. Imagine loving them imagine them tearing your heart out and hating you. Calling you... things that make you both strangers.

He feels bad. God fucking dammit this fucking BITCH is making him feel bad. He understands the boyfriend. Just at one glance, she's one of those party girls who fucks and loves her boyfriend and cries easy and needs help from her girlfriends. She probably has a fucking 'Live Love Laugh' sign framed around here. At a glance he sees it.

But when she's trying to talk... she sounds... like... she's... normal. Like... she's just trying to explain, apologise for what's happening. Did she love him that much? Can these girls love someone that much? To get so so hurt and try to be a good person, through it all?

They're back at theirs, the apartment he thinks of the hot girl, and the talkative girl closest to her talking loudest who's, let's be honest, not as hot. But every girl here is a party girl he'd kiss and make out with and be fucking happy to call a girlfriend. They're still hot, pretty, cute-hot, beautiful. The last being just the one.

But he's heard about guys reeking of desperation, and he's been working out, he's been working hard, getting money, trying to go out, trying to have fun... what else is there? Sure he could ask a girl, but asking a girl to be with him? It's not a fucking transaction he wants... he wants... heart-aching romance. And now he's watching the evidence of it tearing apart.

What the fuck is he doing?

He should say something about the fucking situation, I mean, he's hurting too. But there's been no time to ask. No time to ask about where he'll be staying, if it's okay to crash, if they have blankets, his sleeping bag's at his fucking friend's goddammit.

They're talking her up, the flock, laughing. Her laughing through sniffs. She's talking now, about how bad he is... how bad he was... she remembers and they keep it up, the fun, saying all the horrible things about the big him and agreeing with each other. How much they always hated him.

There were other guys earlier on, a couple of these girls have boyfriends, but one got pushed outta the room the moment they got back here, not wanting to be reminded of boyfriends for now, it was a girl thing.

And he's certain he's there because he's inoffensive, a nothing, non-sexual, they see him as a girl, a non-threat. He feels like a fucking creep and he should excuse himself and go. But he doesn't wanna move in case they've forgotten about him.

And honestly, he'd eat out every single one of them to stay in this apartment for the night.

She's sniffing and crying, talking a little about how bad the big bad boyfriend was, but she doesn't feel it, she starts crying again, in the same grief of her heart and pussy all saying she needs a man and he wasn't wrong. The other girls laugh and support it, encourage it, saying how bad he was, how he only cared about his body, he was probably gay too, fucking guys at the gym, they all suspected he was fucking people behind her back. She's worth more than him. She deserves...

Then one of them mentions it. Mentions the only guy in the room.

He perks up like a deer who's been seen by lions... a pack of lionesses who intend to kill, to hurt... but they don't. The talkative girl just rubs her back and says;

"Maybe you could use a good rebound huh? Hey, he'd be up for that, wouldn't you?"

And there's a moment. And if there are Gods of love they are kind. And the girls nod and laugh a little, but it's not hurtful. Not disgust. Not 'No way not even joking'. Not to get somebody else. One girl even 'Mm-mm!'s.

It's him. They're talking about him.

And he thinks... how can he be having such a good night... when she's having such a bad one?

Is there a way I can give it to her? Just take the disgust and have her be happy and not crying? But it's horrible, painful, terrible.

He likes her crying. He just discovered it half an hour ago. He never liked thinking about himself as a guy who had a type, who had things he liked about girls, but there he is. Liking girls who cry.

It makes him twitch. And if he didn't have the self-control of a young man who grew up teased and tortured, and learned to stay quiet and say exactly enough not to get hurt... if he didn't have all that protecting him... yes. He would be hard. He would be hard as a fucking rock, and he can feel the fizz slipping down to his balls like the last three shots of Jager but he can't fucking do it, he's so so full of cum and so so ready to fucking jump her in front of them and kiss her and rip her fucking dress off-

But he's being a good good boy... no. He never would. It's the fear of being a creep, as always. And he's tensing his legs so fucking hard and clenching his fists on the chair and not being seen and tensing and losing any hard on. His body's evil. It's horrible.

It wants to fuck the crying girl until she doesn't cry anymore.

Until she cries harder.

------------------

The door shuts. There's a quiet. He went outside to the hallway to text his friend, trying to be funny, trying to ask. The thought is a puzzle, he's a little drunk, but tipsy, the kind of tipsy that would make him fun has passed... but he's not sad drunk. He's... just sad. Just a little drunk. He's feeling awful stealing someone's beer but fuck it these girls aren't gonna drink it. Well... it was probably theirs so... fuck when did he get so jaded...

The door shuts and he tilts his head, dropping it.

He sees her.

And there's a moment of him looking at her, her on her bare heels, carrying her heels, tipping back against the doorframe... and she tips, hitting against it.

She lies back and sighs. But it's a fucking- light sexy tired... MOAN... and his blood rushes. It's just them two in the hallway. Some dorm. He's looking at her and holding his phone and there's no text. He puts it back and looks at her.

She falls back to her ass. She hiccups.

He laughs. He can't hold it. She's so so so fucking cute and she just fucking fell back and hiccuped PERFECTLY like a little fucking actress and she's lying there all slumped and depressed... but she looks like a fucking model and her hair's blonde and curled on the edges and her eyes are all black and sexy, and he's been exactly where she is like every month for the past year.

She looks up. She hiccups again. He laughs. And she whines... pining... like a dog... like- 'Stop laughing at me... stop teasing me...'

He tries to stifle it but it's coming out now, he giggles under his hands and shakes his head, laughing and shaking his head walking around. He turns to her, seeing her. He waves. She shoos him. He shakes his head.

He realises she's really in trouble, a drunk girl in a place like this. Fuck what's he gonna do! There's no-one else there... and if she falls asleep... he knocks on the door. There's no answer. He knocks on the door and calls, mentioning her, saying she's drunk. They giggle.

He frowns. What the fuck is going on?

A boyfriend of one of the girls walks past and opens the door, shutting it behind and walking in without a single glance. He just walked past! He knocks again, but the door locks, and he hears shushing. What the fuck...

He shakes his head and goes down to her, kneeling down gently and keeping a slight distance. She's murmuring. He asks what she means, but she shakes her head and keeps going. He leans in... listening to her murmur. She murmurs... like a stream... like a beautiful stream... her lips are so so pink and just lightly glossed... her face is freckled and flushed. He helps her stand, them slipping up...

And she keeps holding on. He moves his arm away, and she tugs him, giggling and tugging on his arm. She presses her fingers into his forearm.

He freezes. What the fuck is going on? She clings to him, harder than he can move away and how is she so strong all of a sudden? He steps back, and she just comes with him. She starts giggling, it's a game, messing with him, teasing him this fucking bitch. What's her game? Seriously? Where does she get off with... this...?

He turns- she trips, and he hits the wall, her clinging to his arm, leaning in. He breathes... breathes... breathes... every breath breathes her in... what the fuck is that perfume? It smells pink, water... rose... too much... too much... he can't breathe. He looks at her. She looks back...

Her eyes are going from his one to the other, just looking at him, asking something. He doesn't know what, but he's answering no.

She asks harder, looking down to somewhere on his body. Looking back up. He looks back no again, tearing up.

She leans in. He shakes his head, slipping away. She bumps into his chest, slinking up her forehead on his chest.

She sniffs, hiccuping.

And he stops.

There are approximately fifty-five million reasons not to do what she wants him to do. Most of them that she's too drunk. Some that he's too ugly. A lot that they don't know each other. The rest that she's too drunk. He won't. He fucking won't, he isn't this guy. He won't. This is what happens, this is what happens when you go out to a party. But he isn't drunk, he's aware enough to know it's a problem, to say no, to know she doesn't want to do this and she would N-E-V-E-R do this sober.

But isn't that why he wants to do it the most...? The fact that she might never do this again? No girl might ever do this again? Just a kiss, and then she'll be gone forever, the most beautiful woman he's ever seen?

Isn't it so... romantic? It makes your heart ache?

He breathes her in, every breath, almost panicking now. He's not- he's not- he's not- he's not- he won't he won't- he won't- he won't-

Her head tips in, knocking into his lips. She rubs her nose against his chest.

He WON'T he WON'T he WON'T he WON'T he WON'T he WON'T he WON'T he WON'T- It's unfair. It's cruel. It sucks. Every TV show, every moment of his life, a hero. Nope. Nope. No. He won't do it. No. Nope. Never. Never. Taking advantage. Taking advantage. She tilts her head up.

And her eyes are so so fucking big he wants to die. She's looking at him with tears and asking, pleading with him if it's okay.

She's okay she must be fucking okay she's asking, she's sober enough to ask God-fucking-dammit... why won't he? Why won't you? Why won't you do it? Don't you want to do it? Aren't I just so so so pretty? Are my eyes not big enough? Here... I'll add my lips to it... watch them part...

He breathes, and she sighs into his mouth. He can't smell the alcohol, not really. Maybe she's just a lightweight. Maybe he misread, and she's not that drunk. Maybe she's really fucking drunk and he's looking for reasons to kiss her. Goddammit.

He leans up, his head away... she kisses his chin, every moment after kiss hesitating and tilting her mouth up just a little too high... to his mouth... then back down... each pause is 'Kiss me... kiss me... kiss me...' He's gonna have fucking lipstick marks tomorrow. Little pink lip marks from the girl he'll never meet...

He leans down, her kissing a trail up his chin, to under his lip. He breathes, into her nose. It must be disgusting. She must hate it-

She SIGHS. Her eyes are shut, she's somewhere else, she nods, she needs it, she needs him, needs someone...

He breathes, and he tilts his head down. He swears it's to talk it is! To ask if she's okay, if she needs him to get someone-

And he opens his mouth.

And she kisses him. And he kisses back. Right away. Yes Ma'am. They kiss perfectly. They both push in and they both know what they're doing, classic making out, up and down, pushing lips and opening just a little for tongues, just a little taste... just tasting and kissing full pushing and falling and letting go, pushing again, tongue out and getting sucked on, lips in and getting teased out...

She's moaning. She's literally moaning. What the fuck... he breathes and kisses very very well, she's so so pushy, so so into it... she leans in and pushes her hands against his chest they're so so small... she's like a fucking pixie, he holds them and rubs them and kisses and his brow goes up and he's in love. He's actually in love and dying- and kissing a girl who's too drunk.

He pulls away, shaking his head. And she speaks, the first word she's said to him all night... in all their lives...

"Don't..."

And he sighs, looking down. He breathes and leans in, holding her hands and leaning in. He sinks down and kisses her, not wanting her to strain herself being so hurt, so so frail and fragile... she needs it she needs it she needs it... and he's giving it to her. And he makes out, her feeling and being taken for a soft soft tongue who needs a big big big boy tongue to take over for once.

Her brain turns off, just kissing and moaning gently. And her legs turn off.

If she could talk, she'd say he made her knees weak. But she doesn't care if he knows. He did. She giggles and hiccups. He leans down, hands out, concerned. She shakes her head and leans into his arm, cuddling up. He sits back, taken for a ride and taken for a fool and nowhere he's meant to be.

She breathes and sighs, a collegiate little girl who needs a boy's touch. He's so so hard his arms are so so hard. She looks down and giggles, gently running her fingers to touch his chest, his big big chest... it's a different chest from her boyfriend's... she frowns and touches it more... feeling it all over and coiling her fingers in his shirt.

He gasps, shaking his head and looking down. Who the fuck is this girl? Where did she come from? Does she know he can't do what she wants? Can't give her what she needs? And she's touching him anyway?