The Pacifist by Jenny Holiday

Author:Jenny Holiday [Holiday, Jenny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jenny Holiday

Chapter Eight

Tony

I spent the week walking around with a perpetual hard-on. There was no cure. Well, there was a cure, but that wasn’t happening.

But it was okay. It shouldn’t have been, though, and that was the odd thing. Blue balls…weren’t really my thing. The world was big, and it was full of amazing girls, I’d always thought, so why waste time with one who wasn’t interested?

But that was before Laraline. Before I’d seen her transform herself into a confident woman powered by righteousness. Before I’d seen her cry. What it sounded like when Laraline cried… Well, it was something I never wanted to hear again.

So, in the past week, we had settled into a rhythm. Almost every hour I wasn’t in class, we spent together. We would work on the zine or on her campaign, putting up posters or handing out leaflets outside big classes. Then we would go to my apartment, and I would make her come. Usually more than once.

I was addicted to it.

It made no sense.

She kept protesting and was forever trying to grab my dick, but I never let her. I would always take care of her and then retreat. Even though it was, objectively, ridiculous, I had my own warped logic. I wanted her to feel good. Hence the multiple orgasms. I also wanted her to stick around. I was afraid that if things got too heavy, she would bolt. She’d told me that Laraline was Latin for “seagull,” and I did think of her like a bird. If I moved too swiftly or suddenly, she would fly away, back to her father. Back to her fiancé.

So I’d gotten all weirdly selfless, sexually speaking.

There was no precedent for that. If I started to worry too much about what it might mean, I shoved those rogue thoughts out of my mind. Gave Laraline another orgasm.

“In conclusion,” she said, her eyes darting around as she stood in front of my bed. We were practicing a speech she’d be giving at a student assembly tomorrow. She smiled sheepishly. She couldn’t remember her line. There were note cards, but they were in the kitchen, and I was on the bed, playing her audience.

She was adorable as she scrunched her nose and searched for the missing line. After a few beats, she made a silly face and shouted, “In conclusion, fuck the patriarchy!” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth.

I laughed and applauded.

“I’m usually not like this,” she said.

“Like what?” I asked. Beautiful? Breathtaking?

“Bold,” she said.

“But you are,” I protested. “Remember the first time we met? You nearly broke down the door to my darkroom.”

She flopped down on the bed beside me. “I know it seems that way to you, but I’m really not. Or at least I haven’t been historically. You don’t know the real me.”

I raised an eyebrow. Her comment would have stung if I had believed it. I thought it was possible, likely even, that she had it backward, that I did know the real her, and that Jason was the one who didn’t.

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