Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“Last night, Darth Vader came down from Planet Vulcan and told me that if I didn’t take Lorraine out, that he’d melt my brain.”

— Back to the Future (1985)

Des stared at me for a long time, and I could see his brain working. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I wasn’t worried about him thinking I was weird. He knew I was weird. And me knowing that he already knew I was weird and yet he hadn’t left, redoubled my suspicion that I’d enjoy being with him if I ever got the chance.

Well, that plus the aforementioned tipsy bar imaginings.

Despite the neutrality of his scrutiny, my nervousness turned to restlessness—probably the reminder of me propositioning him in his car—so I stood and picked up his now-empty mug of tea. I walked to the sink and washed it, placing it on the drying rack, then turned back to Des.

His eyes were on me, assessing, watchful. He’d been looking at me like this a lot today.

Needing to fill the silence, I reached for a towel to wipe my hands as I spoke. “Now I’m twenty-five and I can’t simply go on a date anymore. This last year in particular has been fraught with disaster. I end up spending the whole time during dinner imagining what it would be like if the guy sitting across from me—ordering beef with mushrooms and getting the savory sauce on his shirt—what if he is my first experience? Do I really want my first time to be with savory-sauce-shirt-stain guy? I can’t help it. I get hypercritical, seeing only the bad and none of the good. Plus, I know I’ll be bad at sex the first time. Hell, I’ll probably be bad the first twenty times, making all sorts of mistakes. And if the guy is also bad, then it’s all bad. I keep telling myself not to do this, to relax, but it’s⁠—”

“Too much pressure,” he finished, like he understood exactly what I meant. And then he proved it by saying, “That’s how I feel, about dating. I’ve never dated anyone and I think to myself, what if this person in front of me is my first real relationship? She’ll be someone I remember forever. Am I okay with that? And like you said, I don’t want to be bad at dating, but I will be. I’ll be clumsy and make huge mistakes, and how is that fair to someone else?”

“Exactly!” I lifted a hand toward him, feeling intense relief that someone else actually understood the issue. More than that, he’d clearly experienced something similar. “That’s exactly right.”

He nodded, the movement seemed absentminded. “But it wouldn’t be too much pressure with me? If I was your first?”

He’d proved himself trustworthy, not judging me, not making fun of me, but listening and sharing in return. Thus, I answered with frankness, “No. Not at all. It would be no pressure at all, I’ve often thought this.”

“You’ve often thought this?”

“Yeah.” I nodded for emphasis, lost in the momentum of oversharing. “I’ve known you forever, I know your family, I know you’re a good guy.”

He slowly—extremely slowly—stood from his stool and walked toward me, his eyes moving to my neck, then lower. “I’m a good guy despite having no morals?”

“Which is a bonus, honestly, if you think about it. I know you’re leaving town eventually. Pragmatically speaking, there would’ve been no pressure for us to continue being intimate after you left. It could’ve been a one-time thing.”

Des frowned. “Bad boy himbo and all that.”

Something about the way he’d said himbo had me worried I’d offended him. I hurried to add, “You’ll never be a himbo to me. I know you too well. You’re too intelligent, and since I’m being honest, I’ve always resented that you’re smarter than me.”

His frown dissipated, and he resumed his unhurried advance.

Seeing that I hadn’t offended him, I continued. “I honestly believe I’d be more open to trying things and going further with guys if the first-time thing was out of the way and I felt more capable in the bedroom department. I don’t like being the least informed person in the room during any task. I want to be educated and prepared before I’m expected to perform. I don’t want to have to rely on someone else to teach me.”

“You asked me to teach you.” His head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

“But I trust you.” I turned to wipe down the counter, speaking my thoughts out loud. “I wouldn’t have minded my ignorance with you because I would’ve trusted you not to try something I’m not ready for, or wouldn’t be interested in. Or trick me because I’m unknowledgeable. I do want to get it over with, but I also want to do it with someone who will be thoughtful and respectful of my inexperience, treat me well and take care of me during.”

Finished with the counters, I hung the towel on the rack beneath the sink. “My sister always said I’ll remember my first time. I don’t want it to be unpleasant or with someone I want to forget. I want my first time to be with someone I really like and trust. But asking you was rather silly in retrospect, because it’s not like I’d be comfortable and confident after doing it once. I’d need someone to practice with, multiple times”—I turned, expecting Des to still be halfway across the kitchen, but ended up sucking in a short, unsteady breath as he was suddenly right there, in front of me—“you—you know?”

His eyes, warm and unmistakably interested, conducted a methodical survey of my face. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt abruptly tight and hot. The embarrassment I’d fought so successfully earlier rushed to my cheeks, turning them—I’m certain—bright pink.

“How many second dates since Cole?” he asked, his voice low and quiet, his eyes on my lips.

My mouth answered before my brain fully comprehended the question. “None.”

Is the AC on? Why was it suddenly so hot in here?

Des’s gaze cut to mine. “Are you still hung up on Josh? The guy from college? Any unrequited shit going on?”

My breathing had changed, growing short and unsteady at his closeness, and so I told myself to calm down. I forced my brain to engage and give his question serious thought before answering. “Not with Josh,” I whispered, successfully not cringing at my technical honesty. I didn’t have unrequited feelings for Josh. I had unrequited feelings for Des. “I mean, I don’t think about him at all or pine for him or anything like that.” Unlike how I pine for you.

Des licked his lips, his stare returning to my mouth. “But he was a good kisser?”

Oh my God.

Wait.

Is he going to kiss me?

No. Yes. No. Yes. No! Don’t be absurd⁠—

“Ava. Answer the question.” Des’s hands lifted and cupped my cheeks. He gently tilted my head back.

Yesssss.

“Uh,” I said clumsily, my heart taking off at a gallop. My hands found the counter behind me and I gripped it. I couldn’t think.

Des lowered his face, brushing his lips softly—so exquisitely softly—against mine. “Focus,” he whispered. Now we were both whispering.

Like before, the words burst forth before my brain could engage. “I wouldn’t say, technique-wise, Josh was much different from anyone else I’d kissed before or since, but I did enjoy kissing him a lot more than anyone else before or since—except you on Friday—if that’s what you’re asking.”

Our mouths were so close, but not quite touching. Eyes on me, he slid his nose along mine. “Okay,” he said.

I panted a few breaths, still gripping the counter, my mind slippery. “Okay?” Okay what?

“Let’s do this.” The tip of his tongue flicked out, touching my bottom lip, sending a jolt down the center of my body. His tongue must’ve had an electric current running through it.

I shivered. “What?” I asked, the word escaping as a strangled squeak.

“We’ll be each other’s firsts. How does that sound?” Sliding his hands from my face to my shoulders, he trailed these whispered words against my cheek. When he reached my neck, he placed a lingering kiss there and another electric current passed through me. I shivered again.

“Each other’s firsts?” Without telling my head to do so, it angled itself to one side, offering more of my neck.

“I’ll be your first home run”—another slow kiss, another reason to shiver and shake—“and you’ll be my first girlfriend.”

It was the word girlfriend that pulled me out of the electric slide of lusty recklessness.

I raised my hands to grip his wrists, and I angled my chin up and back, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Excuse me. What?”

Des lifted his head. “You teach me. I teach you. We’ll help each other,” he said. His voice was no longer a whisper, but it was low and soft, and something about it still made me fuzzy-headed.

“You want to be in a relationship with me?” I asked, only able to focus on the most important issue.

Instead of answering my question, he said, “You want me to be your first, someone who you can trust, so you don’t have to worry about making mistakes, or being bad at it, or being clumsy. Someone you won’t want to forget when it’s over.” Des paused, moving closer until the length of his body pressed against the entire length of mine. “I want the same thing.”

I blinked several times, trying to absorb and process while he filled every inch of my space. His closeness shouldn’t have discombobulated me so much, but it did. Maybe it was how his thumbs pressed against my neck. The placement and grip felt aggressive and possessive, but not at all unpleasant.

“So—” I gave my head a wee little shake, trying to understand. “We would date?”

He nodded. “You teach me how to date. And I’ll teach you how to f⁠—”

“Play the piccolo!” I blurted, fairly certain if I gave Des—in that voice, with those eyes, and with that body smelling like expensive cologne, pressed all along mine—a chance to say fuck, that’s what we’d be doing immediately afterward. Probably on the kitchen counter.

His lips tightened, like he fought gallantly against a laugh, and his eyes moved between mine. “Sure. Call it that if you want. But when we’re in bed, no funny euphemisms allowed.”

Quick, brain. Latch on to that and ignore the bed part. “Why not?” I asked.

“Don’t change the subject.” He gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “And this offer has a five-minute expiration period.”

“What?!”

“Last night you said you talk yourself out of everything, especially good things, when given enough time. And so do I. It’s a yes now, or a no forever. Four minutes and thirty seconds.” Lowering his head to my neck again, his hands slid down my arms, gently forcing me to release his wrists. Against my ear he whispered, “And we start today.”

My shoulders bunched reflexively. “Today? Des! I can’t⁠—”

“You can.” He kissed my neck again, this time with teeth, and I thought my knees would give out. “Four minutes.”

An inelegant sound left me and my body pressed forward, my fingers automatically coming to the sides of his shirt lest he attempt to escape. “That wasn’t a full minute. We can’t⁠—”

“We can. We’re adults. We can do whatever we want.” More hot kisses as he tugged the neckline of my shirt to one side, exposing more skin. “But you have to say yes. You have to agree out loud.” He nipped at my shoulder. “Three minutes, thirty seconds.”

“I can’t agree to something when I don’t know all the terms,” I whined.

One of his hands covered mine and he encouraged me to lift his shirt. He guided our joined fingers beneath the fabric, pressed my palm against the hot skin and muscled ridges of his stomach, then higher. “Three minutes,” was all he said, his lips and mouth still lovingly assaulting my shoulder, sending heat and shivers racing through me.

My body felt restless, strung tight, especially when my hand, the one he wasn’t holding, joined the party and slipped under the fabric of his shirt. I sucked in a shuddering breath, feeling unsteady and dizzy. Damn. He felt amazing. Heavenly. I couldn’t stop touching him, I didn’t want to.

Had I ever been so greedy for the sensation of touching someone’s body? My brain answered with a resounding no. I felt certain, more certain than I’d felt about anything ever before, that if Des were my first, he’d make it good for me and I’d do my best to make it good for him. It was why I’d propositioned him in the car. My drunk brain knew. My sober brain knew too.

The real question was, why did I hesitate now?

“Two minutes,” he said, picking me up and placing me on the counter. He stepped between my legs and pulled me forward, rolling his hips once.

I gasped, the sound of my blood rushing between my ears, my hands spasming on his body. He felt ridiculous. Like, so good, it felt impossible.

“Ava.” His hot breath tickled and my body bowed reflexively. “Ava . . .”

An unformed thought erupted. “Conventional wisdom tells us that having sex is one thing—which is why one-night stands, no strings attached exists with success—but engaging in a relationship with someone is something completely different. That’s spending time together, a lot of time, and increases the potential for someone, one or both of us, getting attached or hurt.”

Des’s fingers played with the waistband of my jeans, barely brushing the skin of my abdomen, a whisper of a touch. “That’s okay with me.”

I tensed, his words having a sobering effect. “That’s okay with you? You’re okay with hurting me?”

He lifted his head from my shoulder and gave me his eyes. They looked dazed, heated, a little frantic. An instinctive thrill coursed through me with the knowledge that he wasn’t unaffected by our impromptu make-out session.

“Ava. I didn’t mean you. I’m never going to be okay with hurting you. If it makes you feel better, you set a time limit on our relationship, as long or as short as you like. I’ll stay in Chicago, however long it takes. Or you can tell me how many lessons you’re willing to give me. We can trade. One of my lessons for one of yours. You said it yourself, sleeping together once won’t be enough. I’ll help until you’re comfortable, confident. How does that sound?”

I opened my mouth to interrogate him. The trading of lessons seemed fair and would keep us from letting things get too deep in the feelings. But I’d caught an odd inflection on you in the sentence “I didn’t mean you,” and I had follow-up questions.

Before I could ask, he captured my hands where they still caressed his skin, pulling them from his body, causing me to panic as he said, “Thirty seconds. It’s now or never.”

He took a step away, his eyes cooling by degrees, the set of his mouth turning grim. I felt the loss immediately, viscerally, in my bones. Especially in my knees for some reason. I grabbed his shirtfront, keeping him from retreating further. He frowned. My stomach plummeted.

“Do I stay in Chicago until you tell me to go?” he asked. “Or do I leave now and⁠—”

“You stay in Chicago!” Using my grip on his shirt, I pulled with all my might and succeeded only in stretching the cotton fabric. He didn’t move an inch. Apparently, Des was an immovable boulder when he wanted to be.

“Are you sure?” He lifted a single eyebrow, his hands coming to his hips. “Twenty seconds.”

“I’m sure.” I nodded vehemently, hopping off the counter. If he wouldn’t come to me, I’d come to him. “We can start—we’ll start tonight. I’ll draw up a lesson plan and cover first dates as a⁠—”

“We start now. Your lesson first.” Stepping back and forcing me to let him go, he reached behind his head, grabbed his shirt, and removed it in an impressively smooth movement. He tossed it somewhere.

My eyes widened as they devoured his torso, my mouth dry. A sudden, hot, pulsing ache radiated outward from my heart, up to my jaw, and down to my lower abdomen. He was so sexy.

However . . .

Second-guessing and self-doubt started raising their hands like overly stressed, high-achieving school children, with questions I knew I’d be unprepared to answer—likely logical ones, all pointing to rational reasons we should not sleep together without several more conversations about the logistics and planning and future considerations—and began pressing against the foundation of my determination, threatening to derail this reckless, desire-fueled bravery.

Bravery? Or foolishness? they asked. But I didn’t want them to ask questions. I wanted to do the thing!

“If we don’t do it now, you’ll talk yourself out of it,” he reminded me, unbuttoning his fly but not unzipping it.

“Okay.” I nodded, tucking my fists close to my chest, because he was right. “Okay, let’s do it.” My words were more breath than sound and I shifted my weight back and forth, from one foot to the other, then back again.

Inspecting me, he held up his hand and stuck out his pinky finger. “Pinky promise.”

I continued nodding and hooked my pinky finger around his. “Pinky promise.”

As soon as our hands dropped, my doubts quieted to a whisper. It was odd, but the fact that we’d promised—even though I knew he’d never hold me to it, or force me, or make me feel like a quitter if I backed out—somehow helped. Maybe he knew this?

Des advanced once again, completely capturing my gaze but not touching me. “At any point if you want me to slow down or stop, please say so,” he said, using a voice I’d never heard from him before. The deep, gentle tenor made my toes curl in my house shoes. “We will take all the time you need. No rush.”

“Okay,” I croaked, abruptly aware of the fabric of my clothes where they touched my skin, the elastic of my underwear, the tag of my back-clasping bra pressing against the space between my shoulder blades.

I must’ve worn an odd expression because his lips curved into the tiniest little smile. It looked affectionate. I didn’t have enough time to process more than that before he lowered his head and—touching me nowhere else—his lips met mine.

OH MY GOD! WE’RE KISSING!

My heart climbed to my throat. Another one of those electric bolts passed through my body, jolting and sudden. I was hot. Everywhere. Automatically, my hands sought his arms, needing to hold on because his mouth was moving, soft and coaxing, but in no way tentative. He kissed with confidence, like he wanted to kiss me, the warm, searching friction of his lips successfully stifling my self-doubt completely. Subduing the worrying, teacher’s pet part of my brain into silence.

I didn’t want to think. I gave myself permission to stop thinking. I’d made my bed, and now I would happily sleep in it.