Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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Like many people, I have a love-hate relationship with the holiday season.
Things I love: gingerbread lattes from Starbucks (yes, I have occasionally cheated on my iced true love), wonderfully-smelling candles from Bath and Body Works. Which, although I'm too scared of lighting a match, or accidently starting a fire, hence why I never light one, I still buy a couple every year, just to partake in the holiday tradition. And Christmas movies on Netflix - here only from now until December 31st.
Things I don't love about the holiday season? Debt, spending a lot of money - far more than I make in a month. Like most people, I overspend - and seeing as this year is the first in many where I actually have someone to buy stuff for, I've spent even more. Long line ups at the mall, people aggressively gesturing because you've decided to stop for a pedestrian rather than just run them over, and cheesy Christmas family photos.
You know the ones, where a white Caucasian family huddles together. Dawning the same variation of a very ugly print - which no doubt the mother bought with good intentions, but horrible taste. I mean, why does everyone have to wear the same one? Why can't they just wear nice clothes? But that's besides the point.
The point being that it's 6:02am and I can't sleep. Why can't I sleep? That's a great question, random voice inside my head that, despite not belonging to myself, doesn't mean I'm schizophrenic and following in my mother's footsteps.
The reason for my lack of being able to snooze is due to having to go to the bathroom. And, unlike the story my 10th grade International Business teacher told about having to go through the master bedroom of his host family at 2am to use the bathroom, my reason for not being able to urinate, is being tied up by my boyfriend.
Not literally, we're not kinky. I mean, would I? I don't know, honestly. I can't even imagine Erik trying to tie me up; he'd probably be too worried about giving me rope burn and I would keep pretending that I was a fish out of water. It would be the least sexy thing produced since that two girls one cup video. Also, if someone could tell me what that video was actually about, because I've never seen it but from what I've heard it's scarring for life.
Now, I, having grown up with a circus of a family, would usually welcome some more trauma (not), but having no interest in watching two girls do, well, anything together, I haven't been able to force myself to watch it. Also, I haven't watched porn in like almost a year, I think? And I'm really enjoying life without having to see creepy old men hold cameras in front of the faces of teenage girls.
Also, Pornhub's home page always made me lose faith in humanity, just a little bit more, each time I saw it. Like, what the fuck is with this whole stepsister, stepbrother thing? I just don't understand. Why? Why? And, oh yeah, why?
Anyway, now that we've established that my boyfriend doesn't have me tied up and rotating on some weird dungeon contraption like a pig, I can explain. Erik's arms are wrapped around me, lodged, securing me to him kind of like Kuzco and Kronk in Emperor's New Groove. You know, that scene where they almost die.
I usually like when Erik has his arms around me, all over me, really. But right now, I wish he would let go and let me defecate. Instead, every time I try to make a move, he grumbles in his sleep and pulls me closer to him. I've thought about waking him up, but he hasn't slept much and I would feel bad waking him.
So, here I am: laying in bed and waiting for his alarm to go off. I know he set it, I just don't know for what time. Unlike me, he's crazy and usually only uses one alarm. He had to create a new one for the strange wake up time called, have to open presents with my family after being inside my girlfriend.
I hope his parents didn't get me anything; because I didn't get them anything to give back. Not because I'm a shitty houseguest, but I don't know them and other than a box of chocolate that I got them as a welcome/thanks for letting me fornicate with your son, gift, I can't really afford anything else.
I know that makes me sound like a stereotypical Cinderella, tapping her fingers against some piece of wood while waiting for a man to come in and pay all her bills, but I have a plan. That plan being, transferring all my credit card debt to another credit card and then using the new one I applied for and was approved for, last night.
It's not the best strategy, combining debt on debt on debt, but it's all I have right now. Given my lack of job, high monthly expenditures, and lack of parents to mooch off of. Even with Erik covering rent and household bills and most of our food, I still end up spending a lot on other things. Like clothes, and Starbucks, and self-tanner. So, you know, the important things.
Things will get easier. When I graduate, I'll start my job with the Portland Pirates (my paid one that they haven't offered me yet, but I'm praying they will) and be able to pay off all my debt and live happily ever after. As my favorite dysfunctional therapist on Married at First Sight once said, this is just a blip. This, is just a blip.
"Can't sleep?" Erik's voice comes from behind me, his arms lightly loosening their grip slightly but bringing me closer against him at the same time. My buttocks makes contact with his parcel which is both oversized and not something you want to drop on your foot. Get it? Because it's hard? Sorry, my jokes get bad when I haven't slept much. Not that I care, seeing how I am talking to myself.
I try to concentrate on stringing a sentence together, the feeling of his throbbing pulsator, being a little attention-grabbing. "No." I answer, not even registering when I answer his question; thus, having me answer it twice. "No, I can't." Ah, yes, Rosie. Words. Do they make sense? No?
Dear lord, I really need to get some sleep. Or, an iced latte. Or, - seeing as it is minus thirty outside, a gingerbread latte. Maybe a piece of gingerbread loaf and a gingerbread latte; why not go all the way if I'm going rogue? Or just stick to the cliff bar that I packed for the airplane ride yesterday and then was too anxious to eat.
"Merry Christmas, by the way." Erik - not the cliff bar, says, kissing the same shoulder he was a couple of hours ago. This, of course, is a little bit of a different kind of kissing. As in, he's not inside me as he was a few hours ago. Still, I somehow find myself remembering the way it felt to have him inside me, having him fill me up - quite fondly, if I may add.
Clearly lack of sleep doesn't impact my ability to self-lubricate. "Yeah. Merry Christmas." I return, feeling weird saying that to someone that I call my boyfriend. Feeling weird that I have someone I call my boyfriend, this year; someone that I can actually be myself around. Someone that cares about me and likes me - arguably, more than I like myself, sometimes.
I'm kind of like a painting that somehow went viral for how brilliant it is - I'm not really sure what anyone else is looking at, but all I see is a lump of clay. In my case, a boney ass with cellulite and subpar tits. Sometimes when I want to make myself laugh, I imagine myself having a standoff with a preteen girl for the last training bra. Then, I remember that actually happened once.
"I think I already got my gift from Santa, though." Erik muses, laughing at himself with such an ease you would think he's a comedian doing standup. At first, I think he's talking about a blowjob; then, I remember I haven't had his dick in my mouth in at least a few weeks. Which leads me to the next most sexually gratifying thing I've done, which is bump his falafel in the bathroom earlier.
Still, seeing as how I'm hoping to get him talking so that I can escape to the bathroom, I glance over my shoulder to look at him. That fucker. Why does he have to look so cute in the morning? And how? Even a panda doesn't look that adorable. Otters holding hands look like an ogre compared to his face right now.
"What's the gift?" I ask, my voice cracking and my throat turning slightly dry - unlike my downstairs storage unit, when I smell his being. I don't know what it is, but I remember reading one time that when you like someone that you can smell them distinctly and actually start to like their smell. I guess seeing as how his smell is probably rubbed all over me; and probably in my mouth in some regard, I must say, I've come to enjoy his cologne.
