The Reality O

by Candy Sloane

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Behind the Scenes

  Episode One: Meet the Gasms

  Episode Two: Triple Date

  Episode Three: Ball(s) in Your Face

  Episode Four: Body Snatcher

  Episode Five: Food Fight

  Episode Six: “Blind” Date

  Episode Seven: Very Dirty Dancing

  Episode Eight: Talk Sort of Dirty to Me

  Episode Nine: High Rollers

  Episode Ten: Las Vegas Strip

  Episode Eleven: Aces and Areolas

  Episode Twelve: The Winner?

  The Finale

  About the Author

  Sneaking Candy

  Again

  The Reality O

  An Erotic Comedy

  by Candy Sloane

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or

  persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Candy Sloane.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  ISBN 9781634526203

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Craigslist, MTV; Reddit; iPad; iPod; Kindle; Hawaiian Tropic; YouTube; The Village People; Brokeback Mountain; Fruit Loops; Fruity Pebbles; A Room of One’s Own; Pretty Woman; Michelin Star; Fifty Shades of Grey; Prozac; Cosmopolitan (Cosmo); Penthouse; Cheetos; Budweiser; G500 (Gulfstream); Caesers Palace; The Hangover; Yosemite Sam; Undercover Boss; Girls, Girls, Girls; The Venetian; Coldplay; The Rolling Stones; Backdoor Teen Mom; I’m Your Man; Top Gun; Princess phone; The Situation

  Behind the Scenes

  Make me come for the very first time.

  Twenty-five-year-old busty, blond, green-eyed, straitlaced librarian,

  looking for a guy to be able to do what no one before him has.

  Above you’ll find the joke “Casual Encounters” post my best friend Allie put on Craigslist without my knowledge.

  On the bright side, she’d referred to me as busty. On the not so bright side, her bawdy prank started a chain of crazier than crazy events that neither of us could have predicted.

  Her post was true. I’d never had an orgasm during sex, or anything else I’d done with someone else. Yes, even with tongues, fingers, and things stuck in places my mother and your mother would not want to hear about things being stuck.

  My lack of orgasm without my trusty vibrator wasn’t something I bragged about, but I also didn’t think it was that weird.

  I mean, Allie told me it was, but it was like rule number one of being friends with her to never believe anything she said. Her self-described sex life rivaled the tips in Cosmo magazine—the good parts that revealed confidences you were pretty sure no human had ever actually experienced, not the embarrassing anonymous stories that made you feel better about your own boring sex life.

  Or at least, they’d made me feel better about mine.

  I received the first response to Allie’s post while I was at work shelving books in the miniscule poetry section of the Bangor Public Library. I was using my recently awarded Masters of Library Science degree to its fullest for sure.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I picked it up with one hand and squeezed it between my ear and shoulder, balancing a huge volume by E.E. Cummings in my other hand.

  At the time I didn’t notice, but now, yes, I see the irony.

  “Hello,” I whispered, glancing around to make sure I was alone among the shelves. We weren’t supposed to take calls in the library, and that day I wished I would have followed the rule I continually got reprimanded for breaking.

  “I want to make you come,” a breathy voice oozed from the receiver, “I’m going to suck on your sweet, throbbing clit until…”

  “Excuse me!?!” I screamed. Well, as loudly as you can in the middle of a library. My heart was pounding so chaotically the people using the free internet could probably hear it anyway.

  “I’ll start by licking you nice and slow, all around your honey pot, till you’re begging for it, desperate for more. Then I’ll—”

  I hung up. My throat ached. My face dimpled with sweat.

  Honey pot? I was too freaked out to even appreciate the humor in a guy trying to talk dirty while using Winnie the Pooh as his muse.

  Yes, freaked out. I was not turned on. I was terrified. I studied the phone number in my recent call list. It was local.

  I tried to gather myself, smoothing my tight ponytail as I went back to shelving, but I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. I kept hearing him. The men I went out with never talked to me that way. No one had ever talked to me that way. I certainly didn’t like it, but I also couldn’t deny the adrenaline shooting and pinging through each limb like my body was a pinball machine.

  I picked up a slim Anne Sexton paperback—yet another irony in hindsight—and squatted down. His voice still echoed. My thighs burned as I glided my fingers along the back spines on the bottom shelf looking for its space.

  My phone vibrated again.

  I glanced at the number before I answered, not the breathy-voiced sicko, another local call. I should have just let it go to voicemail. I should have, but I didn’t.

  “Hello,” I answered, hesitantly, rubbing one finger along the frame of my glasses—chunky and bright red, a perfect contrast to my olive green eyes and the one style decision that always made people wonder about me.

  “Hey baby,” a growl slithered over the line, “I hear you need a real man.”

  “Who is this?” I whispered.

  “Your daddy.”

  I held out the phone and stared at it like it had come to life. I could still hear his voice thrusting through the receiver.

  “You want it, don’t you? I’m going to bend you over a table and shove my twelve-inch-cock into your dripping wet pussy again and again, my finger right—”

  I clicked end and threw my phone on the ground. My pulse was pounding so feverishly against my neck it was choking me. What the hell was going on?

  Also, who in this world had a twelve-inch-cock? How did he walk with that thing unless he used it as a cane?

  My phone came to life again, buzzing and lighting up from where it lay on the floor, like a horror movie where you thought the monster was dead, but really he was invincible.

  I picked it up with the tips of two fingers and looked at it, yet another local number I didn’t recognize. I clicked for the call to go to voicemail.

  It was 11:00 a.m., too early to take lunch, but I didn’t care. My phone vibrated in my hand as yet another call lit up the screen. I forced it to voicemail and texted Allie to drop everything and meet me at The Sundown.

  If it was too early to take lunch, it was definitely too early to have a drink, but I needed one. It had to be five o’clock somewhere considering it was sex o’clock on my phone.

  I was up at the bar sucking down a double vodka on the rocks when Allie arrived. I could hear her high heels clicking against the floor before I saw her. She was a beat reporter for the local NBC affiliate station, which meant anytime she was dressed for work her blue eyes were perfectly made up, her blackberry-black hair was perfectly coiffed, and her curvy body was outfitted like a mannequin at Sears.

  “What the hell, Chris?” she asked, slapping her clutch purse on the counter as she sat down.

  She was a good friend, but she didn’t like being bossed around. In our relationship, she was the bosser and I was
the bossee.

  Since I’d been at the bar I’d gotten two more calls that I’d let go to voicemail and fifteen text messages, most with dick pics attached.

  I could have just headed down to the bridge and tossed my phone in the Penobscot River, but I knew that wasn’t a solution. Whatever was happening would keep happening. The internet/cell phone ether would keep all these messages and texts whether I could receive them or not. I might as well know what I was dealing with.

  “This is ‘what the hell’,” I said, sliding my phone over to her. “It started this morning. I don’t know what to do. They won’t stop.”

  Her eyes squinted as she picked up my phone. “Uh oh,” she said, sitting back on her barstool, her cheeks blooming pinker and pinker as she scrolled through the texts and voicemails.

  “What does that mean?” I chewed on a piece of ice.

  She set my phone down. “Remember Saturday night,” her face puckered, deflated like she was preparing for me to hit her.

  I rewound my brain. We were back from the bars wasted and lounging on her leather couch eating nachos. She was regaling yet another of her sexual escapades, and I was just drunk enough to lament that maybe I would never find a guy who could give me my own “vaginal volcanic eruption.” Her term, not mine, but maybe it only seemed silly because I had no idea how it should feel.

  I had been drunk enough to admit that I wanted what she’d experienced, but the other thought that nagged—maybe my lack of an orgasm via another human wasn’t about me, but because I’d never found a guy who really loved and understood me—I would never reveal. An even darker realization, that, at twenty-five, I was beginning to wonder if I ever would, had also stabbed in my gut.

  “What did you do?” I spit, slamming my hands on the bar.

  “Nothing,” she replied quickly.

  “Bullshit,” I said, my eyes not letting hers escape. “What. Did. You. Do?”

  She took a breath, pacing her words like any good news reporter. “After you fell asleep I kind of posted an ad for you on Craigslist in the Casual Encounters section.” She paused to let that sink in.

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. My whole body went slack. This had been her? This was real?

  “I’m surprised it took this long to get any attention actually,” she shrugged.

  “That’s what you’re surprised about?” My hands were shaking so hard the ice in my glass was clinking. I’d have to change my cell number, cell carrier, and possibly—depending on what other information she’d shared about me—my zip code.

  “I’m sorry. It was a joke,” she tried, her voice trilling nervously. “I was going to show you in the morning when you woke up and then delete it, but I forgot.”

  “Delete it now. Delete it right now,” I said, shoving my phone at her.

  She reached for it just as it buzzed with another text. She whistled. “Check this guy out. He looks like he’s brandishing a boa constrictor. That snake can visit my Garden of Eden anytime.”

  “Allie,” I demanded, “Fucking delete it! Right fucking now!”

  The bartender glanced our way. I don’t think he was surprised by my tone of voice—if you were in a bar before lunchtime, yelling was not one of your biggest issues—but maybe he was surprised to see a woman like me who, from the outside anyone would call mild-mannered, acting like a maniac.

  It could only mean that something really fucked up was happening and HOLY FUCKING MOTHER OF CRAP, it was.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. Keep your pants on,” she said, scrolling through my phone, “Well, that is, if you can with all this man candy.”

  “I love how you think this is no big deal.”

  “I understand you’re upset, and I’m sorry,” she said touching my hand, “but once the post is deleted the calls and texts will stop. Sure, the joke went a little further than it should have, but it will be over soon.”

  I glared at her.

  One side of her lips curved up. “Just think how epic it will be when you get me back for this.”

  “Less talking, more deleting,” I said, slowing my breathing and taking a long soothing drink. She was right. The calls would stop, the texts would stop, the dick pics would be sent to some other poor innocent woman. Oh, and I would do more than just get her back. I would make her buy me a new phone and pay my new contract for two years. I would also demand a pair of designer stilettos that I could never dream of affording on my librarian salary.

  She maneuvered through the internet window on my phone, squinting and holding it closer and then further away.

  “Why don’t you just get glasses already?” I asked, pointing at my frames.

  “Have you ever seen a news anchor with glasses?”

  “You’re not a news anchor,” I mumbled in the way only a best friend can when they have heard the same ambition repeated daily.

  “And how the hell will I ever be one if I get glasses?” she whined.

  “Then get contacts.”

  “They show in the studio lights,” she said, breathing out so her perfectly trimmed bangs blustered up. “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?”

  “No,” I grumbled. I guess I was just trying to make her feel as shitty as she’d made me feel, reminding her of her own insecurities, considering she’d presented mine for the whole of Craigslist’s sexually active community to see.

  “Here we go, found it. Here’s your post, and voila dele—uh oh.”

  “What uh oh?” I leaned over to look at the screen. “I can’t take one more uh oh today.”

  “I can delete it,” she explained, her lips tightening, “but I don’t know if it will matter.”

  “Why?” I asked, the word coming out as slowly as a whole sentence.

  She looked down. “It’s been picked up by Reddit.”

  My face boiled, so hot I thought my skin might melt off. My mouth was taut, my eyes fixed, a muscle flicked angrily in my jaw.

  “Chris, are you okay?” she asked softly, like she could see the blood rushing to my head and was afraid her words might make it explode all over the bar.

  “No,” I managed to reply. I drank what was left of my vodka and signaled for another. There wasn’t enough vodka in the world to handle this news.

  Reddit? My fake ad about my very real nonexistent orgasm was all over the internet.

  Allie closed her eyes like she couldn’t bear to see my face when she said what she said next, “And it’s been re-blogged 15,000 times.”

  “I hate you,” I said, staring at the bottles lining the back of the bar. There was a mirror behind them, and I tried to focus on my blurry reflection: a heart-shaped face lightly made up, tight ponytail, red glasses, and a white button down under a gray wool sweater. It was everything I had been willing to show the world, but now the world also saw everything I had kept hidden.

  My greatest secret, my greatest shame, had been zoomed all over cyber-land.

  “I’m so sorry,” she pleaded. “Right now, I hate me, too.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” I asked, just as I heard my phone blow up with what had to be twenty more texts.

  “Get a bigger data plan.” She smiled.

  “Not funny.”

  “I know,” she replied, looking down.

  “Fuck, Allie,” I shook my head and glanced at the time. I had to be back at work in ten minutes. How could I go back to work? How could I go anywhere?

  “No one knows it’s you. I didn’t use your name or anything. We’ll just get rid of your phone and it will be done.”

  “My cell number is on that post. Do you know how quickly anyone could figure out everything about me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “How could I have known this would happen?”

  I took a long slug off my newly delivered vodka. My head was spinning. She couldn’t have, I guess, but damn her for not remembering to delete it sooner.

  “Your phone is ringing.” She tried to pass it back to me.

  “Let it go
to voicemail,” I waved it away. “I can’t take any more heavy breathing.”

  “It’s 212, a New York City area code,” she said, sounding impressed, the way someone who worked in media would about a big-city area code.

  “Who cares?” I scoffed. “You already know my lack of orgasm has gone nationwide.”

  “They’re calling again,” she said, clicking answer and holding the phone up to my ear so I had to listen.

  If MTV offered you fifty thousand dollars to star in your own reality TV show, would you take it?

  Considering my life as I knew it was over, how could I not?

  Episode One: Meet the Gasms

  Allie and I stood in the sun outside an enormous mansion in the Los Angeles hills. A camera crew had followed us all the way from Bangor, Maine to L.A. They dressed in muted colors—the guys had lots of facial hair, while the women wore messy ponytails. They had been attached to us like shadows—next to us in the airport, behind us on the plane, with us in the limo, their cameras rolling at specified intervals, their boom mic hanging above us like a fat fishing lure.

  Their cameras were fixed on us now as we glanced up at the mansion, our mouths and eyes wide, recording as we took in a Spanish style villa with a fountain out front and pool and tennis court in back. This was the place where I’d conceivably have my very first orgasm via another person.

  Luckily, it was eons nicer than the crappy one-bedroom apartment I’d left back in Bangor.

  “Okay, I think we got that shot.” From under the portico a man walked out to greet us. “I’m the executive producer of your show, Garrett Jacobs.” He shook my hand, then Allie’s.

  “Yes you are,” Allie said under her breath, clearly taking in what I had: slicked back brown hair, a muscular frame in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, and a jaw so perfectly squared off it could be used to teach geometry.

  “You probably read all this in your contract, Christine,” he said, “but, just to reiterate, you’ve been signed on for twelve episodes. If it goes well and people like the show, we may sign you on for more.”