Andre was nice and polite, even offering to pay for dinner before. I don’t mean to be rude, but I struggle to understand my feelings right now. To be honest, I feel more disappointed in myself for not letting go, both mentally and physically. It’s a genuine struggle between fighting for control while attempting to take a mental vacation from my brain.
I grip the handle of my bathroom door and whip it open. “Hi, sorry about that. I think it’s—”
I let out a breath of relief as I check out my empty bed. Maybe tonight isn’t a total bust after all. My eyes catch a piece of paper on top of my pillow.
Thanks for a good time. Let’s do this again next weekend?
Nope. Absolutely not. I’d rather leave the country than see him again.
Wait. Now that’s an idea.
I grab a recently opened bottle of white wine from my mini fridge as I turn on my laptop. Forgoing the glass, I take a big swig straight from the bottle as I open up my dad’s Formula 1 calendar. He already booked next month’s flight to Melbourne.
I open up Pinterest, wondering how Melbourne looks. As I scroll through some posts while intermittently taking sips of wine, I click on one labeled Bucket List.
I end up getting sucked further into the land of lost time and pins, scrolling through multiple travel bucket lists. Blame my burning sense of curiosity at what people come up with. I love a good list, but I’ve never considered half these crazy items. My head grows foggier as I continue sipping wine and searching.
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline as another Naughty Bucket List crosses my feed. Interest eats away at me as I open up the list. Naughty is a word I’ve never associated myself with. At least not since I was five and my dad threatened to tell Santa I deserved coal for Christmas after I spilled a milkshake all over the interior of his McCoy Illusion.
Holy shit. People are mighty creative. I spend too much time going through multiple naughty lists. I could be studying, or sleeping, or finding a new beau on a dating app. But no. Buzzed me enjoys pinning my favorite sexy items. Where was this nonchalance two hours ago?
I don’t know if it’s my lonely evening or the wine I’ve consumed that inspires me to open my expertly tabbed agenda to one of the extra hidden pages in the back.
I work on a list of items I’ve never done but have always wanted to try. An hour later, I somehow have the coordination to type up the entire thing and color-code it. Before I press the print button, a name for the list comes to mind, and I type the words Fuck It List at the top.
I stare at the piece of printed paper, wondering why the hell I created this. Can I really convince my dad to let me join his F1 schedule? Better yet, can I really go through doing half these items? Ignoring my doubts, I pull out my personal laminator because, yes, I’m one of those people. I get the paper to fold after a few failed origami attempts and growls of frustration.
The Fuck It List shines in all its laminated glory. I smile at the twenty items I boldly, yet semi drunkenly, chose.
Go skinny-dipping.
Buy a vibrator.
Try foreplay with ice.
Kiss a foreigner.
Do karaoke while drinking.
Try new food.
Go skydiving.
Watch porn.
Play strip poker.
Get tied up.
Be blindfolded.
Come from oral sex.
Try mirror sex.
Have sex in public.
Have sex against a wall.
Get high.
Have a quickie.
Have outdoor sex.
Kiss someone in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Experience multiple orgasms in one night.
Now I only need to do one last thing, probably one of the hardest tasks before I can start crossing items off my list.
Convince my dad to let me join him.
“I have a few rules before you join the tour. If you break them, I’ll book you a seat on the next flight back to Italy.” My dad taps away on his iPad, taking up his usual spot on our living room couch.
“I know you’re a celebrity with the engineers, but when you call it a tour, you make it seem like you’re a rock star.”
“Famous among the nerds, I love it.” He does a rock symbol with his hands that should never be reproduced again. “Anyway, the first rule is that I want you to try your best to stay away from the racers. I mean it, because they tend to have questionable intentions. Two: you need to check in with me daily so I can be sure you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. And last but not least, stay out of trouble. Say them back to me.”
“You’re getting old, needing all this repetition.”
“Just because I have gray hair doesn’t mean I’m old.” He runs a hand through his thick strands.