The Casual Rule

The Casual Rule

By AC Netzel

Copyright 2014 © AC Netzel

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

Acknowledgements

To John… My rock and biggest cheerleader who has always believed in me when I didn’t.

To Olivia and Nick…for living in a messy house while I wrote.

To CJ, Michele, Carmela, Vicki and Kerry… a huge thank you for your encouragement and feedback while this story was still rattling around in my head.

*DPGROUP.ORG*

Chapter 1

Maybe Allie’s right; all I need is a no strings attached screw to get out of my funk.

Oh, who am I kidding? That’s not me. I’m not a casual sex kind of girl. Besides, men are nothing but headaches, random or not.

I shake my head to erase my rambling thoughts and concentrate on getting ready to go out. It’s one of those rare summer-like October days, the best kind of autumn day—unseasonably hot, sunny and Saturday. Talk about luck.

Allie, my best friend since fourth grade and current roommate, is dragging me out to Central Park to “take in the sights” as she likes to call it. In reality, her goal is to gawk at the shirtless guys sunning out on the Great Lawn. She’s thrilled because she thought gawking season was over in September. She even had a day of mourning to commemorate it, but we’re blessed with a temporary reprieve.

Looking in the mirror, I sigh. My green eyes always look so small without makeup, but what’s the use in wearing any if I’m sunning? It’s all going to melt off anyway. My hair looks perfect, black, with little waves, and shiny. There’s no way I’m leaving it down. It’s too hot outside. What a waste of a perfectly good hair day. I pull it up in a messy ponytail and grab the bag with my beach towel, sunscreen, water bottle, a few mindless gossip rags, my iPod, and a protein bar. All the essentials are covered. I throw a simple pink cotton sundress over my light blue bikini and slip on my comfy flip flops. Taking a quick glance at my watch, I see it’s only noon; plenty of time to soak up the sun. I’m good to go.

“Come on, Jules. Let’s get moving. It’s sightseeing time,” Allie chirps. She’s anxious to ogle and drool at random men, especially half-naked random men, although I’m sure she’d prefer them entirely in the buff.

I walk out of my bedroom and see Allie standing by the front door, impatiently tapping her foot, with her overstuffed beach bag slung over her shoulder. Her makeup is perfect, her short blonde hair hidden by a giant straw hat with fake fruit lining the brim, along with large round-rimmed sunglasses, a bikini top, and a bright tie-dyed sarong wrapped around her waist.

“You look like Carmen Miranda in that outfit.” I shake my head disapprovingly. “And what’s with all the makeup? We’re lying in the sun; you’ll look like a raccoon when it all melts off.”

“Oh, stop being such a priss. We’re hunting for hot guys. You need the right bait in order to reel them in.”

“
You’re
looking for hot guys. I’m not interested. I’m just coming along for the sunshine.”

“Julia, you haven’t had a boyfriend since Mikehole. That was eons ago.”

Mikehole is Allie’s nickname for my ex asshole boyfriend Michael; the guy who almost broke me and sent me into a month long downward spiral, drowning my sorrows in gallon tubs of ice cream and a serious cupcake overdose.

I’ve penned my own secret nickname for Allie’s random thoughts …Allie-isms. I should start writing them down. It would make a great book someday. I am in publishing after all.

“That was over five months ago. I’m just not interested. I want to focus on my career. I don’t need any more boyfriend drama.”
Because I know it just might break me for good.

“Mikehole was just an immature jerk. Besides, you can’t date BOB forever. I think it’s time the two of you break up.”

“Who the hell is Bob?”

“Your battery-operated boyfriend— your vibrator. These walls are thin. I can hear you buzzing the night away. You and BOB have been intimate a lot lately. You’re twenty-four years old; let your hair down. Live a little. It’s time for you to get a real dick that actually gets hard naturally instead of one that relies on battery power and is in a permanent state of erect.”

“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

“Pffft…I say it with love. Let’s go already. We’re wasting precious man time.” She waves her hand dismissively and opens the apartment door.

I adore Allie. She’s a walking contradiction; ditzy, brash, incredibly loyal, freakishly intelligent, and loves a good time; a great match for my more serious, subdued and sarcastic personality.

~o0o~

I love living in Manhattan. As far as I’m concerned it’s the center of the universe and I’m living the dream in the greatest city in the world.

Being the baby of six children, my overprotective parents tried to convince me to live at home and commute to work from New Jersey, but there’s something electrifying about New York. I never thought Allie and I could afford the rent, but we lucked out with a tiny, two-bedroom apartment her grandmother has owned for the past fifty years on Leroy Street in the West Village. We know she’s undercharging us rent, but she was insistent, claiming we’re helping her by keeping an eye on the place while she lives in Florida.

It’s a great apartment. It’s small—or cozy, as the chic like to call it. After living here for about a month, we thought there was a mold problem because Allie and I were constantly sneezing every time we came home. Ends up, we’re just terrible housekeepers and had to invest in some heavy-duty dusters and a vacuum that actually worked.

The Village is a fabulous place to live. Tons of restaurants, quirky little boutiques, parks—it has its own character, its own unique vibe. The subway is a quick walk from our building. We reach the West Fourth Street station and hop on the B train to Central Park. Washington Square Park is in walking distance from our place, but Allie swears Central Park attracts more straight men.

The subway is crammed with everyone and their mother taking advantage of this gorgeous day. I know crowded subways are a part of living in the city, but when it’s hot out, it just feels grimier.

We trudge our way through Central Park. Although I hate the cooler weather, autumn is a visually stunning time of year in the Park. I feast my eyes on the trees changing to brilliant fall colors with rich shades of red, orange, gold and yellow leaves. In a few weeks the leaves will turn brown. I look forward to that. I love the sound of crunching leaves under my feet.

But for today, I’ll happily take this summertime reprieve. The park is packed with people, a melting pot of city dwellers. I close my eyes and inhale deeply as the scent of boiled hot dogs from the nearby street vendors is wafting through the air. I don’t know why I like the street vendor hot dogs; they sit in dirty water for hours at a time. I doubt there’s a speck of any real meat in them, but I love them nonetheless. Anyway, they’re the cheapest meal in town. Since money is always an issue for us, I’ll take cheap every time. Soon the street vendors will have roasted chestnuts. My mouth is watering just thinking of them.

There’s an elderly couple walking hand in hand down a tree-lined walkway. I stop in my tracks and wistfully watch them. I’m not a flowery type of person, but there’s something about them that is just so…lovely.
Did I just say lovely? Must be the heat getting to me.

“Earth to Julia. Move it. Our public awaits.” I snap out of my temporary lapse of sappiness and continue on.

We make our way to the Great Lawn and, as expected, there are wall to wall sunbathers and picnickers sprawled out everywhere. Our goal whenever we come here is to stay as far away from anyone with a family as we possibly can. Kids cramp our style. They’re loud, whiney, always in your face; kryptonite to any cute guys on our radar.

We find an area that’s kid-free, probably because of the group of hippie wannabes smoking who-knows-what and playing the Grateful Dead out of their small boom box. It’s not obnoxiously loud, so we set ourselves up here.

We unfold our towels and remove our cover-ups. I sit on my towel and grab a gossip magazine while Allie, being Allie, stands for a while pretending she’s stretching, when in reality she’s making sure any guy in viewing distance will notice the hot blonde in a barely-there sparkling gold bikini nearby. Leave it to Allie, modest isn’t in her vocabulary; neither is subtle. After she is satisfied that she has displayed herself enough to get noticed, she sits down next to me as I shake my head.

“Oh, cut the crap, Jules. I see that disapproving look. You’ll be thanking me when you reap the benefits of my hard work,” Allie says as she places her fruit salad hat on her towel.

“If you say so, Al.” I roll my eyes and go back to reading my magazine.

“Where the hell are my sunglasses?” Allie huffs while going through her beach bag.

“Ah, Allie.” I point to the top of her head.

She places her hand on top of her head and finds her glasses resting comfortably. “Oh, thanks. Stupid glasses. It’s always the last place you look.”

“That’s right, Allie, it’s your glasses’ fault they’re on top of your head.”

“I’m glad you agree.” She sticks out her tongue.
Yeah, real mature
.

I’m deep into an article in the latest issue of Hollywood Chatter about a trophy wife who is divorcing her celebrity douchebag of a husband for cheating on her. I know from experience that cheating douchebags don’t have to be celebrities. They come in all shapes, sizes, and professions. I’m done dating them…I’m just done dating. Period.

 I suppose BOB and I could make a happy life as a couple. He never makes any demands, other than the occasional battery change, which admittedly has been often since I dumped that cheating asshole. And I know BOB would never betray my heart. He seems quite taken with me; he’s hard for me all the time after all, and he lives rent free in my nightstand drawer. It’s a win-win for both of us.

Mrs. Julia Dildofucker. Yup, my future’s looking bright.

“Julia,” Allie whispers, nudging me with her elbow. “Check out the speedos on your right.”

I peek over my magazine and look to my right. Very few men can pull off speedos and this guy isn’t one of them.  He’s older than dirt and gravity has not been kind. He’s all saggy balls. I try but I can’t look away. That sight will be etched in my brain for eternity.

“God, Allie, that guy’s junk is hanging out all over the place. And he’s a hairy mess. It’s disgusting.”

“I know, isn’t it hysterical?” She laughs.

I close my eyes briefly and turn my attention back to my magazine.

“Hey, Jules, have you ever wondered why when a guy has an orgasm, he always looks so shocked? It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s going to happen while he’s banging the hell out of you, yet when it does, his eyes practically pop out of their sockets… like someone just jumped out of a giant birthday cake in front of him and yelled surprise.”

“No, can’t say I ever wondered that.” I roll my eyes, another Allie-ism. I should carry a pad and paper so I don’t forget them.

“Hmm. Okay.” She resumes her man watching. “Jules, get your nose out of that rag. Straight ahead check out the hot guy with the khaki shorts and dark brown hair. Jeez, that guy works out. He’s a fucking god.”

I hesitate to look. Last time she steered me to a dud, but curiosity gets the better of me. I put down my magazine and spot the most beautiful man I have ever seen laying out a towel. He’s so good looking, I should probably pay him just to let me stare. I wonder if he keeps a tip jar for us gawkers. I could get seriously drunk off his six-pack abs. I exhale a sharp breath as my eyes follow his sexy as hell V-line to his crotch. Allie and I refer to it as “The V of Stupidity” because just the mere sight of this magical V renders the most brilliant female completely brainless. He’s close enough that I can make out there’s a pretty nice sized package hidden in those shorts. Damn.

Staring at some random guy’s crotch is awful…I blame Allie. She’s a bad influence.

“Okay, you found a good one.” I play it cool while on the inside I’m fanning myself.

“Good one? Are you out of your mind? Look at him, that’s what a great fuck looks like.”