Tweedle Dick & Tweedle Dumb.

She’s a little drunk and is enjoying her solo star gaze so much that she barely notices the topless male that shuffles down beside her. She thinks he says something and turns to look at him, not really caring, but willing to put up with him. He has blonde hair. Almost yellow. Despite the darkness, she can tell he is no supermodel and most definitely doesn’t lift weights at the gym. His limbs are long and she can feel how short she is while lying beside him. He says something to make her laugh and suddenly she is holding his hand.

“What was your name again?” She asks.
“Jake. Jake Chaplin.”
“Chaplin…” – the name sounds familiar. “Do you have a brother? Named James?”
“Yea.”
Ha. James Chaplin. Biology class, grade 12. She had had a crush on him. There was something about his dark, I-hate-the-world attitude that had tickled her fancy, but she holds back from telling his brother this.

“Wait. How old are you?” His brother was her age.
“19” He tells her.
She ponders to herself for a moment before deciding that this number isn’t really that low. In fact, she’s always wanted to be the ‘older woman’, even if by just a few years. Blame it on the weed, but her social barriers disappear as she climbs on top of him, straddling and kissing the younger, Jake Chaplin.

“I live just up the street. Do you want to walk up?” He inquires.
She thinks about boys like Chase Devereaux, who couldn’t remember their night together, and then thinks of that older man she had had a run with, who took her to that swingers club. She is enamoured by the idea of sleeping with Jake Chaplin, who is not only younger than her, but the brother of the boy who never noticed her flirting in high school.

“Yes.” She fades in and out as Jake tells her about some scar on his stomach, his arm draped over her shoulder as they walk up the street, barefoot on the pavement. No cab, she noted. Suburbia, one point. When they reach his house, she is taken aback by his initiative and dominance.

“How many people have you slept with?” Protocol questions to ease her curiosity.
“One.”
“How many relationships have you had?”
“One.”

She was hoping to pop his one-night-stand cherry. She didn’t know if she felt immensely guilty or giddy with the thought of falling into the perfect epitome of a sexual miscreant. She decides to lean towards the latter.

The whole scenario lasts no longer than 30 minutes. She asks for his number and takes a picture of him on her phone.

A week later she sends him a fairly direct text. “I think you should wind up in my bed at some point this weekend.”
She gets a response: “I am so sorry. But that was a huge mistake. I can never do that again.”
She shrugs, half expecting it. Moments later she receives another, more surprising text:

“So you boned my brother, you ready for the big leagues now?”

Her jaw dangles while she tries to put the pieces together in her head. To be safe, she asks:
“Who is this?”
The response: “James Chaplin. From high school.”

The logic behind this is lost on her. James, undoubtedly, got her number from his younger brother, who, undoubtedly, told his older brother about her and perhaps even her interest in frivolous sex. But by what logic would an older brother be interested in sleeping with someone his younger brother has already slept with? She can’t find any moral reasoning behind this horny bastard’s approach but pauses nonetheless to seriously consider the offer.

On one hand: The Fucker! I can’t just be pawned off to horny bugger after horny bugger! It’s not like my vagina is a watering hole accessible to the entire jungle!

On the other hand: I did have a crush on him in high school. It would be a pretty fucking awesome tribute to my high school self. Not to mention the opportunity to say I’ve banged brothers. Fuck it.

Decision made.
– Bareback Cowgirl.

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