Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... Read online

  So, as I sit here crying over Mrnotsosmall@all and his obvious disregard for our very first not date, date both Ashton and I know that in reality my crying has nothing to do with him not caring about our game/date and everything to do with the fact that I am stuck in my house alone, waiting for the breast cancer to find me next.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Who in the H. E. Double hockey sticks invited this lovely, feminine, British-accented women that I hear coming through my brand new Bluetooth gaming headset that’s been recently blinged-out in the coolest crystals ever? It should be noted that the last time I left the house, bedazzling was all the rage.

  “Um. I am? I mean, this is PrettyPanties. Who’s this?” At the same time I ask the question I see on my big screen that Mrnotsosmall@all has just signed in. Late. Oh please God… No.

  “Oh. What a cheeky name. You must be the girl that Christian plays with on his gaming thingy. Well, he’s here. I was told to pick up this microphone and to tell the person online not to panic, he’s getting, and I quote him here, “game ready”, whatever that means?” She so better not be making fun of gaming because if she is I should (if I could) go over there and kick her.

  Enter Ashton. “I’m back! Miss me? I totally scored free beer by giving the register-girl tickets to my next gig downtown. I love being a rock star. Seriously. It’s kick ass!”

  Ashton looks confused when he comes in and sees that my change of mood went from sad to angry in the short time it took him to go get the booze. I’m staring at him, arm outstretched, wearing my very serious give me a beer expression but believe me, no one’s as confused as me right now. Maybe Mrnotsosmall is the one who wants to have the orgy. Clearly he sees no problem bringing other girls on our date… I mean… tournament. I give Ash “the eyes” and he does his thing and obliges me. In a well practiced dance he quickly tears into the red beer box and spins off the metal disk that’s holding my Killian’s hostage before delivering it to me with a graceful bow to her Highness.

  “Thank you,” I huff. “Now, make yourself useful and turn on some music. Make it heavy. This shit is about to get real.” He starts laughing as I take a long, serious pull on my beer. And then before it can be muffled or squelched I belch into the headset, right as Mryouknowwho finally decides to show up. Great. Just. Freaking. Great!

  “Whoa. Easy, tiger. I know they say ‘it’s always better out than in’, but the headset makes that some serious in-your-face belching.” Now he’s laughing at me too. Thus, now I’m wishing for the death I usually fear to come and rescue me from myself and all of future me’s embarrassing gas-related incidences with hot-voiced males.

  “My bad. Beer,” is the extent of my response before I hear Ms-I-steal-fake-boyfriends giggling in the background and decide then and there that tonight, I’m getting drunk. And not the good kind.

  After my third beer, Ashton starts to take notice of my hostile attitude. Rage Against the Machine is rhythmically blowing up all around me while I blow it up on the screen. Ashton has to shout over the music to get my attention because I’m in the freakin’ zone.

  “Hey, babe? How’s about we finish up this beer, and then we get some food in you? And, since I didn’t have to pay for the beer, I’ll spot for some of that good pizza you like delivered from around the corner, plus a six pack of those awesome garlic rolls. You know? The ones shaped like little knots, all slathered in garlic butter and parmessiany goodness.” He had me at pizza, but I’m not turning down knotted garlic rolls. Especially since it’s been forever that I’ve eaten anything so blatantly bad for me.

  “Yes…yes…yes…” I moan out loud, forgetting to mute my new Bluetooth headset. And as you can imagine, my moans are getting some heavy attention. All I’m hearing in my headphones is a whole lot of hootin’ and hollerin’ about how PrettyPanties is getting her some! I want to die. I have forgotten that I’m playing in a tournament with a bunch of sex-starved geeky gamer dudes, and I’ve just given them the gamer’s version of a phone-sex call through this stupid headset.

  Before I have a chance to explain myself, Mrnotsosmall chimes in. “Now that sounds like a good plan, PrettyPanties. Since we’ve just about won this round, I’m out too. Boys… and… Panties… I’ve got some company to entertain.”

  He signs off after taking the final headshot that wins us the game. Unfortunately, my feelings about winning are completely overshadowed by the hurt I feel over knowing that Mrcrushesmysoul is about to go have mind-blowing, monkey-sex with some gorgeous sounding British babe.

  “Hey. Next time, he’s totally going to kiss you goodbye. I can feel it.” Ashton. I always forget he’s there, lurking, ready to torture me.

  “You. Are. Mean.” I’m face down on the couch again, this time lying flat on my stomach. Bad idea.

  “What did you just call me?” He attacks too quick for me to move and I’m pretty sure that if he doesn’t stop tickling me I’m going to pee on my couch. Aaaannd there it is. I’ve peed. Awesome.

  two

  The next morning can be described most appropriately in just one, singular, smallish, word: shameful. Normally, the quiet melody of Ashton strumming away while sitting in the window seat of my very cozy, extremely Zen room would make me feel serene and comforted. And though I’m positive that was his intention, I consumed a man-sized portion of beers last night and as we learned in high school, my stomach does not take well to that kind of abuse.

  I fall out of bed, eyelids barely open, and bolt to the bathroom with Master Chief and a fumbling Ashton hot on my heals. I make it just in time to have an exciting exploration of the inside of my toilet… WITH MY FACE! I heave and then heave some more as my insides dry themselves out, but my poor gagging reflex has yet to receive the memo that my stomach is emptied. Tears spill from my cake-encrusted eyes and I beg the porcelain gods to please have mercy on my very sorry and extremely remorseful soul. Normally this kind of scene would have me crying ‘NO! It’s not my time!’ to the always lurking Cancer gods but today I am quite aware that this bout of ‘horror’ is all self-imposed and not from the horrid cell destroyer I’m so fearful of.

  The sink turns on and off in quick succession beside me and then I feel a cool, wet washcloth being softly applied to the ivory skin of my newly-exposed neck. Ashton is holding my long unruly hair off of my damp skin in a fingertip-to-thumb impromptu pony-tail holder and whispering to me ever so softly that everything is going to be alright. He gives me the motherly love he knows I yearn for even when I’m disgusting and facedown in my own gross. I hear him explaining to Master Chief that mommy is going to be fine, he’ll take good care of me, and his kindness makes me want to cry for a million reasons; the first being that I can’t stop throwing up, followed closely by that dreaded shame that’s currently circling the toilet in front of my face.

  “Ash?”

  “Yes Hot Pants?” he sounds worried. As he should, especially now that I’m coming to and am suddenly aware of the full state I’m in or - more appropriately - lack of a full state.

  “I love you. I do. But could you please get me some clothes? I appear to be naked.” He laughs as I try and cover my most feminine assets from those mischievous whiskey-colored eyes that I know so well.

  “Do I have to? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re doing aaallllright!” Alright comes out as one long drawn-out syllable making Ash sound like the skeeze he’s currently posing as. I try really hard to muster the titanic-like strength it will take me to get mad, but after you’ve gagged and barfed to within an inch of your life, naked and in front of someone you care about, you just lack the ability to feel anything other than the shame-pool you’ve made for yourself.

  “Fine.”

  That one tiny word is all I’m capable of. It’s all I’ve got in me. My disgrace wins out, I cut my losses and just lay my naked body out on the tile floor in front of the toilet, thankful for the freshly-laundered, cream-colored bath mat that’s cradling the worn out and sweaty skin that encases me.

>   “Oh alright then, you win. This is pathetic. I’ll get you your damned robe, but if this happens again? No clothes for you. That’s the only way that this,” he points around the room as if I need reminding of our situation, “is in any way, on any planet, fair to me. Understand, Porcelain Goddess? Just nod yes.” Grrr…

  I think I garble out a ‘gotcha’ as a response because a moment later I am covered in my most favoritist (I know this is bad grammar, but it really is my favoritist), most fluffiest (yep, I see it) pink bathrobe in all the land. Then I’m lifted from my resting place on the cool floor and lovingly carried and deposited onto the sanctuary that is my king-sized bed. My girly comforter is lifted up and over me, my face is washed off with a baby-soft, lavender-scented wipey and my curtains are drawn shut. I hear the distinct sound of my trash pail being deposited next to the bed where my head lies and then I feel Ashton climb up cuddle in next to me, sharing his beautiful body heat with my currently chilled and shivering bones. And, this I hope, will be the last thing I remember of this entire, dreadful, day.

  ***

  Licking. That word sounds foul unless it’s used to describe something a very yummy man is aiming your way in the midnight hours of your dreams. Then, it’s anything but gross… then it’s downright wicked… good wicked. Unfortunately, that is not the pleasurable midnight foray of licking that is currently happening. Master Chief has cleverly shimmied his way between an almost naked version of my BFF and a very naked (under a robe) version of myself, and is doing a tennis match version of lick the face between Ashton and myself. He’s got a really impressive volley going from him to me, me to him, him to me… you get the point. He’s licking us like Roger Federer trying his hardest to win another Grand Slam Title.

  I wake first, making all sorts of shooing and cat hissing noises while I’m trying to get my big, burly dog to either settle down or get off the bed. He’s bigger and stronger than me - not to mention I’m outmatched in the number of legs I have by a solid one hundred percent. Ashton wakes up in the same mindset as me: disappointed. He was probably having a sexy licking dream as well, only to realize it’s the gross, slobbery kind of licking from my obviously starving and impatient dog.

  Dogs need thumbs. They are so needy sometimes, and I think it’s all from a lack of this one particular appendage. He wants me to turn the knob to let him out, and he’s proved this time and again by flatly refusing to use the doggy door that Ash installed for him shortly after his first birthday. Currently, his complaint isn’t about his bathroom situation but instead about his lack of breakfast. In order to put an end to the tongue thrashing, I’ve got to lift my filthy body up and out of this ridiculously cozy bed and get him his chow.

  “He’s your dog! For the love of God woman, get up and feed the beast before he starts humping us to get his point across!” This may be the worst visual ever! “I’M NAKED! YOU’RE ALWAYS SAYING HE LOVES YOU MORE! YOU DO IT!” I’m not sure if I’m shouting the order to scare Master Chief out of here or to annoy Ashton enough to get him to move. Probably both. Neither has been accomplished thus far though, and now to add to my misery the dog’s tap dancing is dragging the blankets slowly but surely off my still-naked skin. I thought I had on my robe? Great! I must’ve stripped it off in my sleep because I’m as naked as the day I was born under these covers.

  “Nice work Master, keep it up! Almost there buddy! Daddy needs a new pair of shoes, or to see some naked boobies! WOO HOO! Go Master GO!”

  So the douche is back and is encouraging the dog, all in the hopes of seeing more of my girly bits? This has got to be a dream… a sick one where I’m being accosted by both my dog and my EX-best friend! Please be a dream, please be a dream! Nope, there’s a nipple.

  “Fine! FINE! FINE!” I jump up shouting and in one smooth motion grab the duvet out from under Master in some mighty herculean expulsion of She-power, thus toppling Ashton off of the bed in the process. Just as Ash hits the floor my crazy dog jumps off the bed and over said friends’ sorry butt. Best. Move. Ever!

  I run laughing down the hallway towards my pint-sized kitchen while wrapped up like a blanket burrito, only to find Master Chief good-naturedly waiting for me, dog bowl dangling from his mouth. For the first time this morning he shows that he has the aptitude for patience as he sits nicely in front of the cleverly locked pantry, waiting for me to use my nimble human thumbs to unlock and deliver him his morning bounty. Shortly after getting him I learned that a doggy-proofed pantry lock was paramount. On more than one occasion I got out of the shower to find my otherwise tidy home scattered thoroughly from end to end with kibble, but not anymore. One point human.

  After filling my zealous pooch’s bowl and giving him fresh water I turn around only to find Ashton, still half dressed and standing unnecessarily close. Now, if I haven’t yet made this clear, let me: Ashton is extremely attractive. Period. End of. Hot stuff. Man meat. I won’t bore you with more hot subtitles, you get it.

  He’s looking at me with those whiskey-colored eyes of his that I love so much, locked in a criss-crossed gaze, tongue pushed to the side almost to his ear, Miley Cyrus style all the while his pecs of steel are staring me straight in the eye. Because we are only friends I try adamantly not to look at said beautiful, sculpted, perfect pecs that are attempting to hypnotize my eyes into a staring contest. Thankfully I am used to Ash in his current state of undress; I’m afraid other girls don’t stand a chance. They probably start licking him as soon as his shirt pops off. The point I’m trying to make before I was so rudely distracted (by muscles) is that he’s very comfortable in his skin and since we live in south Florida where it’s always a balmy eighty plus degrees he feels perfectly comfortable running around shirtless like the douche that we’ve (I’ve) decided that he is. I pride myself on being immune to his… sexuality, but let’s remember that I am a woman of twenty six and even though I may still be a virgin (I know, but it’s true) who happens to have wants and desires just as much as the next girl I’ve also been stuck in this house for the last three years which translates to: I want for A LOT! And it just so happens that Ashton has A LOT to offer! And sometimes, in a state of weakness, I notice. Sue me.

  Lifting my eyes to his I can see he’s struggling not to laugh at me and that underneath that handsome smirk of his there’s something else. I have a feeling I know what that something else is, but the thing about mine and Ash’s relationship is that we don’t do the something else. So right on cue, he locks that look down and then like the good girl that I am, so do I. That’s our go to move when things between us start to feel… bigger. Lock. It. Down.

  I love Ashton way too much to ever allow myself to love-love him, and the reason for that is simply because, just like my mom, I believe the heavy baggage I lug around simply allows me to be incapable of that sort of love. Most days I’m amazed that Ashton hasn’t bailed on me yet. He’s one of the few remaining friends I have and his friendship is something that I will never take lightly. We’ve never had the conversation about our relationship status changing per se’, but he knows me better than anyone and I know him the same way. And, as much as I don’t do relationships, neither does he. The line of ladies that follow behind him is constant and flowing like the ebb in a current or the push and pull between the earth and the moon. It’s ever changing and yet always the same.

  After the mood shifts back to the silly place we’re both comfortable in, I very wisely push my beautifully pecked, bare-chested friend away before he makes the poor decision to remove the only thing between me and my naked skin: my blanket. His stupid wheels are turning and he’s replaced his sexy smirk with his I’m-in-the-mood-to-play smirk and I’m telling you right now mama ain’t playin’ that game today. He’s seen enough naked CeeCee in the last twenty four hours and as of right now I’m putting an end to naked-friend-time.

  “Okay stud. I have work I need to get done which means you have to go home now. No more torture CeeCee time,” I do love pushing him by his pecs and spare me the whole he’s only
your friend speech… I know it. I wrote that speech! But, a girl has to get her thrills from somewhere and I promise you, Ashton isn’t one to mind.

  “Come on Cee, you know I don’t like going home to an empty house. Can I at least bring Master with me? Please, just this once?” I hate his puppy eyes. I don’t. I love them, but they are ridiculously hard to say no to, except on this. On this it’s easy.

  “You know better than anyone, I don’t do alone. Master stays. You go.” I give him my one-sided shoulder lift, signifying my not so sorry apology.

  “That’s seriously harsh. I am totally getting dissed for a dog. Even though you’re the best dog in the world,” he says making googly eyes at Master while scratching him behind the ears. “All I have to say is thank you to the Ego gods for hooking a brother up with a healthy dose of self confidence or all of this rejection would hurt way worse. Fortunately, I’m all good.” I smack him repeatedly on his well worked out bicep as he walks toward the front of the house. Then I notice his well-worn Avenged Sevenfold concert tee on the floor near the couch and I suddenly stop cold in my tracks.

  “Ashton?”

  “Yah babe?”

  “Tell me I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, thank God. For a minute I thought I peed on you last night but I think it was just a bad drunken dream. Thank the heavens because that would’ve been embarr-A-ssing!” I draw that out to make my point clear. Then, I notice him smelling his shirt while trying his hardest not to laugh. Oh God… NO!

  “Give me that!” It’s still wet! Seriously! My bladder is trying to ruin me one untimed pee at a time! I cannot have peed on him… again.

  “Aw, come on Cee, you know I don’t care. It hasn’t happened in like what? A month.” He ducks, smartly, because I fling the offending peepee shirt right at his ugly (handsome) smug face.