by Lex Martin
“No fucking way.”
“Good.” He sits back down and kicks up his feet again.
I take a long pull of my beer. “So I’m off the hook?”
“No. You are not off the hook.”
After we finish our beers, we walk down to the craft brewery-slash-funky pizza place on the corner a block away. As usual, the air smells like hops from all of the microbreweries and rain. We enter the old brick building, order an extra-large meat lover’s and a pitcher, and sit down in a booth.
“So have you heard back from Caligula Toys?” he asks.
I glare at him and take a drink of the especially bitter IPA. “Can you say that a little louder? I’m not sure my mom heard.”
He ignores me. “Well, have you?”
I nod. “They’re offering six figures for an endorsement deal. For starters.”
“What kind of deal?”
Glancing around to see if anyone is paying attention—they aren’t—I answer in a low voice. “Celebrity dildo mold.”
He bursts out laughing. “You?”
“Shut up, dude.”
“Your parents would be so proud. Your sister’s sculptures that are all in museums and shit? Nothing. Their son has his prize member out there for millions of people to fuck themselves with? Priceless.”
I pause. “That is sort of weird, now that you mention it.”
“And kind of awesome.” Shaking his head, he continues, “Dude, most guys want to be able to fuck everyone. This is your way of doing it.”
“They want me to endorse an organic lube, too.”
Just then, the pizza comes, and we don’t say a word. Drew can hardly keep his mouth shut, and he’s turning purple. His whole upper body shakes right next to the table as he struggles to keep it together.
Once the waitress leaves, he laughs so hard I think he’s going to need hospitalization. We each grab a slice, and all he says is, “That’s my boy. Joshua Cartwright. Master masturbator with his meat rocket pointed to the stars. And now he’s gonna get paid to jerk off, unlike the rest of us.”
“Everyone beats off.”
“Most people don’t do it on camera, though.” Shoving a bite of pizza in his mouth, he says thickly, “It just seems too good to be true, you know. Like getting paid to breathe.”
I glare at him. “It’s for real. They have a marketing plan in place and a written offer on the table. They emailed me through the blog. But they don’t have a name to put in the contract because I won’t give it to them.” Then I realize he’s talking out of his ass. “You’re one to talk. You pretty much get paid to breathe.”
Whistling, he leans back in the booth and nods without a trace of sheepishness. Then he leans over and holds out his hand. “Fist bump, dude. May your man stick go to new and ever-increasing, uh, growing, uh… Never mind. I don’t wanna know.”
He chuckles, and we finish the pizza. He has three more slices than I do. And then I go home.
Alone.
“Give it to me harder. Harder!”
I’m in bed, but instead of my ex and her lies, I curl up with a woman who won’t fuck me over.
My laptop is streaming next to me, and the porn star moans, and it’s contrived and too breathy, but I don’t care because I’m not watching the video for her vocal articulations. This isn’t about an emotional connection.
It’s fake. All of it. But there’s safety in knowing she’s an illusion.
Pretty, pink, almost plastic-looking skin. Heavy makeup. Long, dark hair. Tits bouncing. Swollen pussy lips.
And now Sandi Sundae is shrieking like a banshee on crack. Because it’s so good, she can’t take it. She wants more. More cock. More friction. Faster fucking.
“Right there!” she wails.
I tighten the grip around my dick.
Her keening cry and the wet sound of her skin almost make me come, but I edge it. I watch her writhing, watch her begging. Like she’s begging for me.
Oh, yeah.
As I stroke myself off, my stomach muscles clench. So good, this is so good. I can’t stop now. I’m gonna blow. I’m gonna—
I roll over, pause the video on my laptop, and reach, fumbling for my iPhone and unlock it. Scroll to the camera app.
I open it and take a shot of my dick.
Click.
I look at it and study the contrast of shadows.
Meh.
Changing the angle of my phone, I take a dozen more pictures. I get up and move around for better light in my apartment, changing where my hand is and how much of my abs are in the shot.
I keep going, checking the images, looking for one I like. I scroll through the photos, my shaft like an iron rod.
Yeah, that one will work. While half of my posts are Photoshopped dicks over some urban skyline, the other half are just good ol’ erections with moody lighting and clever contrast.
I sit down, my dick pointing up, my bare ass on my chair. The leather sticks to my skin, but for once I don’t care. After snapping so many pictures, I have to wiggle my mouse to wake up the computer before I download my latest masterpiece. I add a quick filter—tonight it’s Warren—and upload to my blog.
I type, “Thinking of all of you tonight.” Just a simple caption, because I’d like to take care of business, and I hit enter. Published.
I sit back. Post number one hundred and fifty. Guess I’ve beaten off a lot in the last five months—almost daily.
I unpause PornHub.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Sandi cries like she’s lost on that threshold between pleasure and pain.
But I’m distracted and click back to my blog to see if it’s tumbleweeds or if there’s interest.
Seven likes. Fifty. Two hundred and thirty-seven. A thousand and five likes within a few minutes.
And the comments.
“OMG sexy AF.”
“AATD has the best abs. Wanna lick them so bad!”
“I wish THAT was in me.”
My hard-on loves it. I stroke again, reading the comments.
Then I click back on PornHub, fisting myself, getting lost in the sounds of her orgasms. Of the mindless fuck. Of her begging for more.
On the screen, the guy pulls out, and Sandi says the magic words, “Come on my tits.”
A message comes up—“AATD is a fucking GOD. Wish I could bounce on that tonight!”—and my balls clench, I throw my head back, groan, and come all over my hand.
They love me.
I smile.
Maybe I should thank Drew for suggesting the best way ever to get over an ex.
3
Evie
The slow whine of my straw scraping the soda lid reflects the ornery attitude that’s been festering under my skin since yesterday afternoon. Unloading on my best friend Kendall is probably the best form of therapy, but rehashing what Angela said about me is still embarrassing. Especially since I haven’t seen Kendall in ages. It takes a small miracle to get together sometimes because of our work schedules, but she’s staying over so we can have a bona fide girls’ night.
We’re tucked away in the corner of the food court, and for the last few minutes she’s been holding a fork full of Mongolian beef halfway to her mouth, her blue eyes narrowing on me the longer I babble.
“Admittedly, I’m slightly nerdtacular. I get that, but—”
She huffs. “Angela’s still a twat for calling you frumpy to Nathan of all people.”
“I can always count on you to agree with me.”
“That’s what friends are for, babe.” Her lips twitch as she studies me, still not eating her Chinese food. After a moment, she sets down her fork and tucks a lock of her long, red hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful. You just need to enhance what you have instead of always hiding your curves.”
“I don’t hide,” I insist as I swivel my straw. “I’m just not comfortable putting everything on display.”
Her eyebrow arches, and with that one look, I know what she’s going to say. That’s the problem with having a fr
iend who’s known you since you were twelve.
I cut her off before she can open her mouth. “Don’t.”
She studies me a little longer. “It’s about what happened junior year, isn’t it?”
“Pfft. Please. I’m over that. So over that.” Okay, mostly over that. “Besides, who doesn’t have one or two horror stories from high school?”
She lowers her voice. “Or is it about that kid calling you ‘pepperoni’ in junior high?” Dear God, shoot me now. “He had to be making that up because there is no way he could guess the width of your areola in the dark like that.”
“Please shut up now before I stab you with my plastic utensil.”
She laughs that laugh, the same one that got me through so many hard times growing up. Like when my mom took off, or when a tampon rolled out of my bag in the middle of math class in seventh grade. Or when that dick Clay Dawson made up that rumor in high school. Yes, the kind of shit you take to your grave. Unless you have a friend like Kendall.
My gaze wanders around the crowded mall. “I’m so glad I told you that story. These days, when people think about dying, they want someone to erase their internet history on their hard drives. Me? I want someone to erase your memory.” Which makes me reconsider whether I want to mention the whole dick blog situation. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I’m feeling a little raw from the mention of the jerk who made my life miserable as a teen.
She laughs harder and reaches over to grab my hand. “I love you and promise I’ll never whisper a word of that story to anyone. Besides, I saw Clay a few months ago, and he’s as bald as a newborn baby. Karma is a badass bitch.”
I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for him. Almost.
I take another bite of my overcooked General Tso’s chicken and lament the reason we’re at the mall in the first place. “Please promise you won’t laugh when I try on those dresses.”
“Cross my heart.” She studies her dinner again before she wrinkles her nose and pushes the plate away. “I called my consultant at the boutique, and she set aside a few outfits for you.”
“You have a consultant?”
Really, I shouldn’t be surprised. Kendall is quickly becoming one of the best public relations consultants in the city, and she always looks stunning, even tonight in skinny jeans and a boho-chic sweater. If I wore that outfit, I’d look like I swallowed a water buffalo, but on her, with her silky, fire-engine red hair and that designer scarf, she looks like she fell out of a fashion magazine.
“My sister has a consultant. I mooch every now and then. When’s your thingy again?”
Holding back a groan, I mumble, “My thingy isn’t legit. I haven’t been invited yet.” I give her a resigned look. “It’s in three weeks, but Malcolm likes to wait until the last minute to extend invitations, as though we haven’t all cleared our calendars in case we get the nod.”
Besides the annual holiday gala, Gwen Waller’s birthday party is one of the biggest schmoozing events the firm has all year, and business is always overflowing afterward for the attorneys who attend.
And let’s be honest. I could use the help.
There are several aspects of my job I’ve come to hate since graduating law school all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take corporate law by storm. The first of which is client origination, because I didn’t get into this field to be a salesman, but that’s a big, obnoxious part of this job.
Second in this growing list of pet peeves is the reality that women are sorely underrepresented at my firm, a problem I hope to remedy when I make partner.
Third is the fact that I care whether I’m extended an invitation to this dumb party.
With that thought, I blurt what’s really bothering me. “Is it pathetic that I’m shopping for an outfit when I don’t even have an invite?”
Kendall’s response is lightning-quick. “No way. It’s smart, like buying Magnum XL condoms for a date. Because you never know, and a girl can hope, right?” She winks in a way that only Kendall could get away with, which somehow makes her look button-cute and sassy.
“I’m also paranoid that if I do get an invite at the last minute, I’ll be stuck wearing something heinous. You know how much I hate buying clothes. Nothing ever fits my butt and boobs. I can pick one or the other, not both.” I pull my dark, shoulder-length hair out of my makeshift hair bun and re-twist it. “Sadly, after what happened yesterday, I’m thinking I need more than one dress. I’m tired of feeling like a fashion reject.”
Her big eyes widen, excitement oozing from her pores.
“Calm your tits, Fairy Godmother,” I warn. “Just because I’m getting a few outfits doesn’t mean I’m going to go crazy. I’m an attorney. I have to look professional, and as we both know, finding a few outfits might take me all year.”
“So no nipple clamps? We could pair them with a fitted skirt and a nice riding crop for a BDSM-meets-office-attire vibe.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m thinking no to all of the above except the fitted skirt. As long as it doesn’t make my booty look big.”
“I promise your booty will look bitable. Rawr!”
“Fine, but we’re not having some dumb Pretty Woman moment because that movie irks me. Like one afternoon with a credit card and a lesson in table etiquette can magically transform a girl.”
“Such a cynic.”
“No, a realist. Because in real life, the rich guy goes home to the wife he never told Julia Roberts about.”
The expression on Kendall’s face is priceless. “I think you just crushed my soul. Stop talking.”
I twist the napkin in my lap. While I want to believe in true love more than I’d like to admit, the fact that my dad still moons over my mother, who is long gone and barely deigns to call us on Christmas, only exacerbates my bad attitude. And when I add my ex-boyfriend’s quick dismissal after dating a year, I can’t help but feel a little petulant.
Elliot and I seemed so right on paper. He was a little older and had just been promoted at his accounting firm, so I knew he was serious about his career. He was smart and cute in a nerdy way. When I looked at him, I thought he was my speed, someone I could settle down with and have a family. Someone who would be there for me the way I wanted to support him.
Except I wasn’t his speed, apparently.
So will I try to look better at work and hope Nathan starts to think of me as more than a friend? Sure, why not? At the very least, maybe Angela will find someone else to tear down. Do I think my efforts will make a difference? With my luck, it’s unlikely.
But another glance at Kendall makes me feel guilty. She doesn’t need me rubbing off on her. Not after her ex planted his own landmines around her heart.
I sigh dramatically. “Okay, okay. Help me look pretty. Maybe Nathan will suddenly realize I’m the love of his life and want me to have his babies.”
She gets this slightly dazed look in her eyes. “Don’t forget the big wedding. And can we invite all of those bitches from high school, so they can see how hot you and your man are together?”
I laugh. I’m probably the only person in the greater Portland area who will ever hear Kendall use foul language. For work, she’s prim, proper, and epically poised. But with me, she shows her snarky side.
“Of course. And while we’re entertaining this fantasy, can I bring in some huge clients and make partner? And maybe fit into some smaller jeans?”
“Hell, yes!”
It’s hard to argue with my best friend when, deep down, I hope she’s right.
An hour later, we’re linked arm in arm as we walk into another shop. So far, Kendall has talked me into an assortment of cleavage-revealing clothes, items I’m sure I’ll regret tomorrow morning.
“Isn’t retail therapy awesome?” she sing-songs as she stalks up to a display. She flings her arms out at me, nearly smacking me in the face. We both laugh as I carefully lower her flailing limbs before she points at the mannequin. “This is it. I can feel it!”
The dr
ess is stunning. It’s a glittery wrap-around dress the color of a golden sunset. I almost squeal in delight until I glance at the price tag.
“That costs more than my first car.”
“You drove a piece of shit in high school, so that’s not saying much. Try it on. I know you’ve been working out, and this will accentuate your awesome curves.”
She waves toward the clerk. I don’t bother arguing because Kendall is clearly on a mission, but once I slip on the dress, I’m hard pressed to say I don’t love it.
I’m standing in front of the large floor-to-ceiling mirror when she comes in with another outfit, but she takes one look at me and claps. “It’s gorgeous! Nathan is gonna have a hard-on the size of Florida when he sees you in this!”
I shush her and look around to make sure there aren’t any other customers in the dressing room. “I’d settle for a smaller package if he was into sex.” Because sadly, my ex wasn’t that into it. Maybe that was the problem.
The mention of a big package has me thinking about Josh.
I guess it’s safe to say I’m not grossed out by his blog. Not by a long shot. Not if I’m still thinking about how amazing it would feel to be filled up by a man like him.
Squeezing my thighs together, I try to quell the sudden flutter down there.
Kendall grabs my shoulder. “Elliot was a tool. If I were a guy, I’d bang you all the time.”
Laughing, I try not to choke. “Thanks? That’s… a little weird, but I get what you’re saying.”
“Seriously, if I were into girls, you’d be perfect. You’re passionate about work and the people in your life, you’re witty and unassuming, and I’ve been jealous of your rack since we were teenagers.”
