I know what he’s asking, and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.
For a very long time, Mike is all that I’ve had.
Then Dane came along, but I can’t even think about that right now.
He’s off somewhere with that skank with the ridiculous name.
That’s all right. He doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
“You know I’d do it for you,” he says.
“That’s because you’re a freak, Mike,” I laugh, and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep it in your pants, will you?”
“I never said I was going to take anything out of my pants, although I see where your mind is.”
He can be such a child sometimes.
“All right,” I tell him. “If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not going to start some weird sex clinic—”
“Easy there, girl,” he says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—one kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better, and we won’t even talk about it again.”
“No tongue,” I tell him.
“Oh, bull,” he says. “How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a little tongue?”
“Eww…” my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a sewage pipe.
“Gee, thanks,” he says.
“You’re like my brother, Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”
“Aw, come on,” he whines.
He’s not only whining, but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be cute if it weren’t so stupid.
“No!” I tell him.
“But Mom,” he whines again.
“Yeah, like that makes it better.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, 30 seconds—”
“Thirty seconds? Are you insane?”
“What the hell am I going to learn from a peck?”
“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end of the world.”
“How do you know I’m a bad kisser?” he asks.
“Because of the way you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a bitch fest.”
“I’m not bitching,” he says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date goodnight and getting that look that just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, 30 seconds or less and a little bit of tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Whatever. I’m talking just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to convince you with my mouth that your every problem can be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”