“My cheeks get pink when you say that phrase because it’s crude and disgusting,” I say.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” she scoffs at me. “You really do need to get laid. Donkey might be the guy for the job.”
“Not nearly,” I say. “He’s about as far from my type as someone can get. He’s more your type.”
“I’m not sure whether or not to be offended by that. Are you saying that jackasses are my type?”
I cock my head to the side as I look at her. “Are we really having this conversation? You’re the Queen of dating jackasses.”
“I beg your pardon! I haven’t dated all jackasses.”
“Name a nice one,” I challenge.
Sable purses her lips and looks into the distance, tapping her finger on the side of the glass. “David –“
I raise my eyebrows. “The one who said he really preferred thinner girls than you?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh yeah,” she says, remembering. “He had that weird model fetish. I forgot that’s why I dumped him. Okay, then. Cooper. He wasn’t bad.”
“The drummer in the band?” I shake my head. “No. Just no.”
“He wasn’t a jackass,” she insists.
I roll my eyes. “He brought his band over to play in our living room until three in the morning. And they brought groupies.”
“The groupies are par for the course."
“He borrowed money from you so he didn’t have to get a job,” I remind her. “And his band sucked.”
“He was an artist!"
“Oh!” I point at her, recalling another one. “The artist. Remember him? The guy who thought he was French?”
“Okay, he was kind of horrible,” she agrees with a wince. “I’ll own that.”
I giggle, recalling him. “He was insufferable,” I say. “He thought everything was superior in France. And wasn’t he from Miami or something? He wasn’t even French.”
“His French was not good, either,” Sable points out. “Oh God, I’ve dated some terrible people.”
“Yet you keep trying to get me to get into the dating game!”
“No, no. I’m not trying to get you into the dating game. I’m trying to get you laid. There’s a huge difference between the two.”
“It’s basically the same thing."
“Hardly! Some of those guys were great in bed, despite being total jackasses. In fact, sometimes the sex is better with someone you can’t stand.”
“That is not true,” I protest. “I’m not going to have sex with someone I can’t stand just to have sex.”
“I just find it unbelievable that you’ve made it twenty-three years without losing it,” she says. “I mean, how many twenty-three-year-old virgins are there in the world? Do you think there’s anyone else on campus who hasn’t lost it at your age? You’re like a freaking unicorn.”
“Are you purposely trying to make me feel bad?” I ask. “And how am I a unicorn?”
“You know,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re like a rare, exotic, fictional creature. Unicorn and Donkey Dick. You're a perfect combination.”
I reach for her margarita. “You’re cut off.”
“Just because you don’t appreciate creative literary metaphors doesn’t mean that I’ve had too many margaritas.”
“Neither of those are creative metaphors,” I point out. “And Donkey Dick is more your type. He’s a jock and you were a high school cheerleader. In fact, you two should go out.”
As soon as I speak the words, I feel annoyed at the very prospect of Colton King and Sable Pierce hooking up. I shrug it off because I’m not stupid enough to think that someone like Colton King goes out with someone like me.
And besides, he's an undergrad. That makes him practically a high school student.
Of course, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be great in the sack.
I silently curse my increasing libido and it’s obviously poor taste in men.
Sable narrows her eyes at me. “Well, if you’re not going to take him, maybe I should go out with him,” she says.
“You should,” I say, my voice tight.
“Mmm-hmm.” She sips her margarita, still looking at me. “It wouldn’t bother you, though, because you totally can’t stand him.”
“Can’t stand him at all.”
“And you don’t have the hots for him, either."
“He’s completely repulsive,” I lie.
“You never told me about the tutoring session,” she notes.