Bitch, I Love You - Sex Stories

Bitch, I Love You

... him, where I'd had to do practically all the work. And as far as Heather and I could tell, there wasn't much to him besides the wrestling. You got the sense that he woke up early, hit the gym twice daily, and practiced hard, not so much because he was driven, but because that's what his coach told him to do. Maybe we were being unfair. But that was the vibe.

Davin was also, super hot. He had that soft muscle. The kind where you missed it at first, until you sat next to him in class, and his t-shirt pulled tight when he reached into his bag, and then,bam! You realize he's fucking sculpted.

"He's got a bit of a baby face," I said.

Heather ignored me. "I bet he shaves, everywhere."

"You're thinking of swimmers. Swimmers shave everything."

"Wrestlers do too. And swimmers don't have to shave their junk. Rupert was a swimmer, remember?" Heather did not invoke Rupert with fondness. They'd dated for a good portion of freshmen year, before she'd properly embraced the hoe life with me. Every once and a while we'd run into him, and he'd make snide, slut shamey, comments. But it was mostly just funny now. We knew what we were about. And he didn't seem the crazy murdering ex type. We hoped.

"Why would wrestlers have to shave their junk if swimmers don't?"

"Probably so they don't get dragged around by their pubes. Have you seen those singlets? You know they're rummaging around in there."

I made a face. "I dunno."

"You'll see," said Heather, with ...

... confidence.

"You're team Davin then?"

"Are you not?"

I considered the little headshot on my computer screen. Davin stared straight back at me. He had blond hair, a little long in the bangs, but combed to the side. I could imagine a less muscled version of him on a boy band poster, hung in Heather's childhood room. Not my usual style. The bands on my posters had rocked more black and chrome. Still, it was hard to argue with those delts. And I was pretty sure he'd changed his hair since that picture. "Remember, we've just gotta fuck him, not date him," Heather prompted.

I drummed my fingers on top of the laptop screen. Then, I slapped it closed. "Alright, I'm in."

"Really?" Heather asked.

"Team Davin— Ew, please let's stop saying that."

Heather twirled to the middle of the room, both fists in the air. My cheap carpet slipped around under her, but she surfed it with practiced expertise, "Fuck yeah, bitch! Team Davin!"

-----

"That's why you wanted to come here." My friend Kristen scowled at me from across the round pub table. Her arms were folded, but her elbows carefully avoided the sticky wooden top. She'd just caught me staring at a table across the room, again.

At that table sat Davin, along with Rook, the yummy wrestling captain Heather and I had rated '9.5' the other day. The two of them were hunched over, forearms unbothered by the sticky bar residue. They were having an animated discussion which apparently required them to bang their fingers on the table when ...