Read Objectify Me: A Fireworks Novella (The Fireworks Novellas) for Free Online Page B

they’ve done that? But I went from sixty to zero so fast, I think maybe something got broken. And it’s clear I need to do something about fixing it. There are a ton of wild girls in New Orleans tonight. Charlotte was right – if I can’t hook up in New Orleans on Mardi Gras, then I might as well just become a priest.
    My heart starts to pump in my chest. Could I really do this? It’s been years since I hooked up with someone I just met. I started dating my ex just after high school, but I was pretty easy before then. You’re only a teenager once, right? And my parents encouraged me, believe it not. They’re west coast radicals all into “healthy intimacy” and “judgment-free zone” discussions on safe sex and “proto-love”. Mom put condoms in my Christmas stocking (see that’s about how Jewish we are) from when I was sixteen (it was a year too late, but whatever).
    “Dammit!” I say to the ceiling. I realize I don’t have any condoms. Mom gave me some when I was packing for this trip, but like an oppositional asshole, I left them behind. She texted me three times about it before I even got on the plane.
    All is not lost. I’m sure Omar and Buck brought bulk packs of condoms. And even on a good night, they wouldn’t need more than…what…six? Accounting for breakage and droppage and general misfortunes? The rest of their condoms must be in here somewhere.
    I start with Omar’s case. Why would anyone need so many pairs of boxers for a weekend? And three kinds of designer body spray? It’s a bit excessive. But in the back of the suitcase, I hit pay dirt. A twelve-pack of condoms with three left. Three will be enough for me. I don’t plan on any breakage or droppage. I pocket them and don’t bother with Buck’s duffel bag at all.
    Okay. Condoms. Check. I undo a few buttons on my shirt and try out one of Omar’s body sprays. Then I leave the buttons undone. Walking on the wild side, that’s me. I have condoms, a bit of cash, and a semi-hard cock. Slipping on my shoes, I do a phone and wallet check and head out the door, clicking the lock behind me.
    I can hear the party going on out on Bourbon Street. Music, people are dancing, I’m feeling pretty sober now, so I might go down the block and get a frozen cocktail just to lube myself up again, and defer the headache that I’m sure is lining up from those Hurricanes. Hangover cure – don’t sober up. That’s the spirit.
    “Changed your mind?” the doorman says. He looks pretty smug about it too. I guess working in a place like this he knows how to read his clientele.
    “Yeah. I guess I got my second wind. Thought I’d go and see what kind of trouble I can get into. Any tips?”
    He closes his account book, looking at me with a thoughtful frown. “For you? Good looking, clean-cut boy? I think you should go outside and ask the first pretty, single girl you see if you can kiss her.”
    I laugh, expecting him to laugh along with me.
    He just opens his book and picks up a pencil. What is he counting anyway? Souls?
    “You’re serious?” I ask. “Won’t that get me punched?”
    “Nah, boss. You ask first. That’s the whole point.” Then he waves his pencil at me as if to say ‘That’s all the wisdom you get tonight, my young apprentice. Away with you.’
    I take the hint and push the heavy glass door open thinking, what have I got to lose? I am going to ask the first pretty, single girl I see if I can kiss her. If I come home with a black eye, I’ll get Casanova here to refund my money.
    When I step out into the cool night air, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, smelling stale spilled beer, cigar smoke, and a hint of patchouli.
    Patchouli?
    When I open my eyes, Charlotte is standing there. The prettiest girl in New Orleans.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” I say. “A random girl on Bourbon Street.”
    She takes a coy sip of her frozen drink and smiles up at me.
    “You know, I’ve always wanted to say this: You look different with your