“Was it your first time seeing a man’s penis in real life?”
“Uh…” My voice fades.
“No!” Rose cries, slapping the armrest of the sofa. “You’re kidding, girl!”
“I’m not.”
“So you’re still…?”
“Yes.” I frown, and close my eyes, placing my finger and thumb on my eyelids. “Is that weird?”
“No!” she says, quickly rubbing my leg. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I groan.
“But I just find it hard to believe.”
“Why?” I say, my voice raising. This indignation is a convenient outlet for my embarrassment.
“Because of your tattoos and stuff.”
“Well, that’s a stereotype.”
Rose sucks in a breath of air. I can see she’s thinking about how to word her next sentence.
“I don’t mean that all girls with tattoos—”
“Yes you do.”
“No, I really don’t! I mean, you just got one pretty early, you were hanging out with all those older kids before I came here to Australia. You know, I just assumed you would have dated an older guy. One of the guys from that tattoo parlor you always hung out at.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I say. “I cared about the art. And, again, we don’t like calling it a parlor. It’s a shop, or studio.”
“Okay,” Rose says, putting her hands up. “It’s not like I meant anything by it. What is it with you and this shop-parlor business?”
“Ever heard of a massage parlor?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“What’s the first thing you think?”
“Prostitution,” she says flatly.
“There we go. It’s about connotation. No tattoo artist calls their shop a parlor. It’s either a shop, or studio, okay?”
“Okay,” Rose says with a sigh.
“Please try and remember.”
“I will, I will. So,” she says, drawing out the word. “What was he like?”
“Who?”
“Pierce!”
“What do you mean?”
She drops her voice to a very low whisper. “Was he big?”
I swallow, and nod. There’s a twinkle in Rose’s eye, as if she’s thinking: Unsurprising.
“Did he shave?”
I shake my head.
“Trimmed?”
“Yeah.”
“What about his balls?”
I blink. “I didn’t notice,” I say slowly, staring hard at her.
“Has he got lots of tattoos?”
“You saw him fight.”
“I mean, under his shorts.”
“No, not really. He had this jellyfish, and the tentacles wrapped around his thigh.”
We both turn to look at the television. The narrator, in a posh and sticky British accent, is talking about the Portuguese Man of War – one of the deadliest jellyfish in the world.
What are the chances?
“You should go,” she says.
“Why? I don’t want to.”
“You don’t think he’s hot?”
“He’s a dick. He’s so full of himself. He’s probably got, like, three STDs. So what if he’s hot?”
“He’s a fighter, but he’s not stupid.”
“How would you know?”
“You can always tell when somebody is a dumb-dumb.”
“What do I want with a rude man-slut, anyway?”
“I know you’re attracted to him. I saw how awkward you were when you met him. Not to mention that whole driving-you-home scene after the club. I’m still pissed off at you, by the way. We never got into Juice. You just left us waiting in the line outside.”
I sigh. “I was awkward because he was being a dick.”
“Yeah, he was, but you were also awkward because you liked him. Which is why you hit the sauce hard.”
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
“Okay, babe.” She says it in this really condescending way, and it pricks my temper.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to bed.”
“Okay,” she says, flicking her head to the side. She watches me out of amused eyes.
“Stop that, Rose.”
“Stop what?”
“Just stop it!”
I go into my bedroom, cheeks feeling warm, and flop down on my bed and stare at the screen of my phone.
Maybe fifteen minutes pass by, before I finally tap out a reply:
Only if you’re not an asshole tomorrow during your appointment.
I put the phone on my bedside table, and turn out the light, but moments later I hear it vibrate.
I thought girls liked assholes.
Chapter Fourteen