Patrick: I like interesting too.
Imogen: I'm sure you've heard of the Milligram experiments? Testing people's obedience by asking subjects to shock an unseen patient, even as they scream or beg for mercy.
Patrick: It sounds familiar. What's the verdict?
Imogen: Most people follow orders. Those who don't tend to be less agreeable in general. That's another personality metric, one of the "Big Five." (Mine is low. Which means I don't compromise as easily, but the flip side is I don't compromise my integrity as easily either). Or they don't see the experimenter as a person in an elevated position. Other scientists, doctors, professionals.
Patrick: I can see that.
Imogen: It has a certain common sense to it when you look at the history of the world. Or when you reflect on your own experience. We all feel the weight of what other people expect us to do.
Patrick: Is that an issue you've had with men?
Imogen: I don't like being expected to perform certain acts.
Patrick: Anything in particular?
Imogen: Really?
Patrick: I can guess, yeah, but I prefer not to make assumptions.
Imogen: Or… you want me to say something else.
She's so sure of herself. I love it.
Patrick: I want you to tell me what you like and what you don't like, so we both enjoy ourselves.
Imogen: Even if I don't like your favorite things?
Patrick: You don't know my favorite things.
Imogen: What are they?
Patrick: I asked first.
Imogen: I don't like being expected to do anything, period. Men usually expect one thing: head, even in situations where they'd never expect sex. It's not that I don't like it. Well, I don't really know if I like it, honestly. It was just okay with my ex. I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it either.
Patrick: That's fine.
Imogen: Really?
Patrick: Why wouldn't it be?
Imogen: Because men like blow jobs.
Patrick: So?
Imogen: So? Isn't it… disappointing?
I really like her.
Patrick: I enjoy receiving, yes, but I prefer to give. And there's plenty of other things I enjoy.
Imogen: It's not off the table. It's just it feels more personal to me. I'm not sure if I'll want to do it in a casual relationship. Maybe. But if I do, only if we're exclusive and we're both safe. I know the STD transmission risk with oral sex is low, but I'd rather not worry.
Patrick: I'll get tested this week.
Imogen: Has it been long enough you're sure?
Patrick: Yeah. But we can take it at whatever pace you want.
Imogen: Is this how these conversations normally go?
Patrick: No. Most people leave all this unsaid. But this is smarter. No crossed wires.
Imogen: People don't think it's sexy.
Patrick: Maybe it's not as sexy as reading someone's body. But it's way hotter than realizing you overstepped because someone didn't want to say no. Or letting someone overstep because you don't want to correct them.
Imogen: Has that happened to you?
Patrick: I hope not. But when I was younger, I was dumber too. I didn't see things as clearly.
Imogen: That's true. I agreed to things I wasn't comfortable with because I thought I should.
Patrick: Did someone push you?
I already want to deck the asshole. And I'm not a violent person.
Imogen: No. Not the way you mean. Only the expectations. The social pressure. Women are as bad as men. There's this sort of "Oh, you don't do that?" vibe. "Are you not cool? Are you a prude?"
Patrick: Men are like that too.
Imogen: Right. And men don't always want sex, all the time, any way, anyone, just because they're men.
Patrick: Don't spread that too widely.
Imogen: Our secret.
Fuck, I really, really like her.
Patrick: What are you into?
Imogen: I'm not sure, actually. It's been a while.
Patrick: Happy to help you find out.
Beyond happy.
Patrick: We can experiment as much as you want.
Imogen: I was actually thinking that. It probably sounds ridiculous, but it helps me to put things in scientific terms.
Patrick: A hookup experiment?
Imogen: Exactly. We try new things. I find what I like. If it's not too imposing on you.
Helping her figure out what she's into?
What a gift.
Patrick: Hell yeah. What should we do first?
Imogen: I still like the idea of morning sex.
Patrick: That's perfect. But if you spend the night, I'm not going to be able to wait until the morning.
Imogen: Even if that's what I want to try?
Patrick: Is it?
That's kind of hot, actually. Waiting for her. Making her wait.
Imogen: I don't know. I never have.
Patrick: How about next time?
Imogen: Okay. Next time. This time… I could use a distraction after dinner with my parents Sunday. If you don't mind being used.
Patrick: Being used for sex by a gorgeous woman? No, I don't mind.
Imogen: Your place?
Patrick: Eight?
She's direct. I like that.
I really like it.
Imogen: Nine.
Patrick: Do you want to spend the night?
Imogen: As long as we're clear it doesn't mean anything.
Patrick: We're clear. Anything you want between now and Sunday.
Imogen: Anything how?
Patrick: Pictures. Texts. Calls.
Imogen: Sexual ones?
Patrick: Or other ones.
Imogen: No. I'm okay. Actually, could you pick up some stuff for breakfast and chai? I'm no fun before my morning tea. And I want the morning sex to go well.
Patrick: Sure, but I'll need a list. I don't know tea.
Imogen: You drink Bud Light, right? That's what Luna said.
Patrick: How the hell did that come up?
Imogen: She really judged you for it.
Patrick: She's a snob.
Imogen: Probably, but I am too. I'm from Newport Beach.
Patrick: Really? You don't seem like the type.
Imogen: I'll take that as a compliment.
Patrick: Fancy breakfast. Got it.
Imogen: I'll teach you how to make chai.
Patrick: I'll teach you anything you want to know.
Chapter Eight
IMOGEN
Sunday dinners are a family tradition. Even when my parents are at their busiest, even when my sister's softball schedule means she's hundreds of miles away, we connect Sunday night for dinner.
Usually, it's here, in their Newport Beach house. I guess it's still my house too. We moved here when I was in middle school, after my parents' business really took off.
We went from living in a tiny apartment to living in a three-bedroom house on the beach.
It's not huge, but it's big enough (and expensive enough). I have my own room.
I linger there, in my space, before dinner. I sit on my twin bed, soak in the dark pink sheets and comforter, the white desk covered in colorful lyrics, the bare walls. No more band posters or photographs or moody poems.
Only pure, clean white.
That's the way they like things—clean.
I don't want to sit through another awkward dinner. Even if it comes with the comfort of Mom's cooking.
Right on cue, the scent of lemongrass fills my nostrils. But that can't be possible. It's my imagination.