Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  The phone buzzed in my pocket and I patted it, pulled it out, hoping it was Amy. It was Darla, though, texting me, You with Amy?

  I texted back, No, why?

  Amy left her tablet at the bar last night. Can I give it to you to give to her?

  I wouldn’t be done with this job for hours. A full day.

  I can’t give it to her ‘til tomorrow I replied.

  K, Darla sent back quickly. What’s her number? I’ll call her.

  I entered the number, but added, It’s 6AM, too early, don’t call her.

  K. I’ll drop it in her mailbox on my way to work. What’s the address?

  I texted it back, and then added, If you do see her, tell her I said hi.

  You tell her, was all Darla wrote back, with a little smiley face.

  I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and resumed my wait for the dude with the truck to show up, so I could spend the next eight hours helping someone move from the Back Bay out to Weston, one of the tonier suburbs of Boston. At the end of the day I’d walk home with about a hundred and twenty bucks, and that was the kind of security I needed. That and money for coffee. And food.

  This $120 hauling boxes and furniture would save my ass until my first paycheck. I really needed stripping with Liam to work out, so I could hope this was the last Craigslist gig I’d ever do.

  I didn’t want Amy to know just how on the edge I lived. It was shameful, a shame I needed to hide.

  As a big, white box truck pulled up, and two guys named Jose and Paolo shook my hand and smiled, I climbed in, ready to go off and make my own security.

  To make myself worthy.

  Amy

  The first thin ribbon of ultra-bright morning sunshine had aimed itself straight for my left eye to torture me. Turning over helped, but then I found myself staring at the back of the door, remembering Sam leaving last night, how his jeans cupped his ass as he turned the corner, the way his hands had—

  And there it was.

  The female equivalent of a hard on.

  Oh, we get them. It’s a gentle throbbing and wet warmth that tells us we’re ready for orgasm.

  Now, please.

  And please, sir, may I have another?

  You think blue balls are bad?

  Try blue clit.

  Wait. That sounds like an STD. Nevermind.

  The only surefire way to handle the throbbing is to rub one off. Masturbate. Self-pleasure. Flick the bean.

  Pick your term, but it all boils down to taking arousal and translating it into an orgasm, followed by ice cream and a lengthy stretch of time deliberately not worrying about the possible psychopathology of having seventeen sex toys to choose from.

  Said collection was now in my closet, among the other still-packed boxes. The boxes were four across, three deep, and six high. A giant block of crap I’d probably never really need, but carried through life with me because it contained keys to my identity.

  Except the small white file box labeled “Philosophy Papers” as camouflage for what it really contained. Anyone looking in there would think I was a professional tester for Adam and Eve.

  Which should definitely be a real job.

  Opening the closet, I search the first layer of boxes. Nope.

  Unloading every box seemed ridiculous, and would take too long, besides—She Who Rhymes With Delores was screaming for some attention and dreams about Sam’s tongue on her.

  That was the problem with real-life sex: it never sated her.

  It just whetted her appetite.

  And now that she’d had the Holy Grail of encounters with a tongue, she was desperate for more.

  I couldn’t give her more of that (I’m not that bendy), but I could give her my pink Rabbit. Its little feelers might calm her down.

  But....nope. No visual on my Philosophy Papers box.

  At some point in the move, had I misplaced my sex toys? A panic threatened to creep in. What if I’d left them at home with my mother? Scrambling to check, I began unloading boxes.

  Throb.

  Three boxes.

  Scream.

  Seven boxes.

  I will not be ignored! my clit demanded from below.

  A few more boxes and my tiny apartment would be impassable. Plus my angry clit would be boiling a bunny in a pot at this rate.

  Then I remembered my smartphone.

  I’d downloaded a vibrator app a few weeks ago, just for fun and because—seriously? How cool is it that some techie decided to invest the time to write the code for THAT instead of yet another tipping or weight loss app.

  The $9 seemed sooooo worth it.

  But I hadn’t used it.

  Yet.

  Time to pop my vibrator app cherry?

  Yesssssss, my clit whispered. My precious.......

  “You’re not getting a clit ring,” I argued back. “It’s just a vibrating phone.”

  I was arguing with my genitals the way people talk to their cats.

  That’s how desperate I was.

  I found my phone and checked the lock on my front door. Doesn’t every woman do that? No one wants to be walked in on while masturbating. That would be worse than being caught reading dinosaur porn.

  Or admitting you wrote some.

  Getting comfortable is totally different when you masturbate with a sex toy, because there really is no prelude. It’s pretty much bzzzzzz and ahhhhhhhh. There’s no foreplay, no kisses, no hairpulling with a vibrator.

  It’s a business transaction.

  The phone was warm in my hand and I found my way to the app, which had a dizzying array of choices. Pulse. Speed of pulse. Patterns. Pre-programmed patterns. Control of vibrator app by another user.

  Good grief. I wanted an orgasm, not a virtual orgy.

  I set the app to a steady buzz and lowered the corner of my phone to my clit.

  Ohhhhh mmmmyyyy.

  Wet within seconds, my body responded to the touch, mind instantly flooded with thoughts of Sam. How his head had been between my legs, his tongue on me, mouth making love the way I knew his body wanted to.

  Sam Sam Sam.

  The pulse of my clit met the vibrations of the warm metal and I stroked up and down, moving the slick of my juices upward, loving the feel. A growing, full-body flush told me I was close, and as always, I craved something in me—the vibrator, so my wet vaginal walls could clamp down, making the combination of muscles create a more powerful orgasm.

  As the frenzy of an extremely fast climax built in me, catching me breathless, my mind flooded with thoughts of Sam’s touch, his mouth, his body, his everything, and I moved the phone down, pushing it into me just a little, my body wanting more, more, more, to imagine it was Sam entering me, the tantalizing touch of the vibrations and the pressure of the small, slim phone giving me the deep touch I so wanted. There is this one spot, about an inch inside and up to the top, off at an angle that is so exquisite, so perfect when touched, and if I could only—

  And then—an exploding, thrashing orgasm that made one arm reach up to my pillow to muffle my screams, my hip twisting sideways, the hand holding the phone slipping on my juices and then—

  Oh, no.

  No no no no no no NO.

  My phone was IN me.

  Buzzing away.

  I sat up and nearly screamed from pain and horror. Impossible. Impossible!

  INCONCEIVABLE.

  Who loses their smartphone in their vagina? Not me.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I stood and squatted, reaching my fingers in. It was at a weird angle, pressing under my pubic bone. My fingers were too slippery, so I wiped them on the bedspread and tried again, bearing down.

  Nope.

  Among my other undiscovered sexual frontiers, I had never, in fact, put an entire smartphone inside myself. I’m sure I’m not alone in that regard. That damn vibrator app was used by millions of women, many of them highly intelligent and analytical, and perfectly reasonable, rational human beings, who were simply trying to use a device
that was manufactured to advance the cause of women’s pleasure, just like me.

  I would say every single one of them, except for me, had managed to use that app appropriately and not get their fucking smartphone trapped in their vagina.

  If I had any doubt whether an entire fist can really fit inside a woman’s vagina (other than in those cable television birthing shows where the midwife shoved her arm in all the way to the elbow), I now knew the answer was YES.

  Especially when my smartphone was in there.

  I couldn’t pull it out.

  Bbbbzzzzzzzzzz.

  A cold horror set in as minutes ticked by and I Could.Not.Get.It.Out. I went to the toilet and tried to push it out. It could land in the toilet and find its way through the sewers of Boston to float out into the ocean and wash up on the shores of Provincetown for all I cared at this point.

  Moisture damage was probably a given by now anyway.

  But—nope.

  I lay back on the floor and pushed.

  Nothing.

  I wiggled and waggled and twisted and turned like I was a contortionist auditioning in front of a very naughty Howie Mandel.

  Nada.

  The bottle of lube beckoned, so I poured an unholy amount all over my naked mons, putting the bottle’s top in my vagina and squeezing. For a brief second, as I let go, the bottle shifted inside me a few millimeters and I panicked, pulling it out fast, as if having that stuck in there was somehow worse.

  The lube did nothing but leave a stain on my floor.

  And then, someone knocked on my front door.

  I froze. Oh, sweet, merciful Jesus, who in the hell could that be, right here, right now? I stayed in place and stood naked from the waist down, in my own apartment, in horror. No way could I answer the knocking with my vagina humming like a demented version of a song from Glee.

  I looked around and found my underwear and yoga pants and yanked them on as quickly as I could, wincing as I bent and turned, unaccustomed to having an entire smartphone up my snatch.

  “Amy!” A very familiar, sickeningly familiar, voice came through my door. A voice with an Ohio accent.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Amy? You in there? I was gonna drop this off but your mailbox isn’t labeled.”

  Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh.

  I froze and stood there like a toddler with a loaded diaper, bowlegged as if I’d just ridden a horse for five miles across a rocky stretch of mountain at a forty-five degree angle while being chased by a mountain lion.

  I would just keep quiet and she’d go away. Right?

  Bzzzzzz.

  The only way to stop the damn app was to turn it off. Slipping my pants down and squatting, I shoved as many fingers as I could inside myself and frantically tapped the glass side.

  Squish—tap.

  Squish—tap.

  Crying without tears, I succeeded on the third try.

  No more humming.

  I’d turned the app off.

  And then, my pelvis buzzed.

  WTF? Was this some super-BDSM vibrator app, one that turned Siri into a dominatrix? Did she decide when I was done?

  Thank you, Mistress, may I have another?

  My addled brain quickly put together that Darla was texting me. Oh, dear God, this had just gone from disgustingly bad to horrifically worse.

  Bzzzzz!

  “No luck,” I heard Darla mutter to herself.

  Go away, go away, I thought, standing there, my knees bent at an unnatural angle, my body wracked by the thought that she was texting me and making my g-spot go nuts.

  And then the distinct ringtone of Call Me Maybe came out of my crotch.

  Of all the ringtones to pick.

  “That’s weird,” I heard her say as the knocking started again.

  “Amy, you in there? I hear your phone ringing! Amy? Amy?” Her tone of voice had become concerned. Midwesterners were so weird.

  Maybe I could just get her to go away if I answered the door and let her know I was fine. I ran my fingers through my hair and took a step.

  Ow.

  Another step.

  Ow.

  Another step.

  Shift. Huah!

  Lurching step by step like a drug smuggler with a bag of cocaine up my ass, I decided no payoff would be enough for me ever to be a drug coyote. It hadn’t been an aspiration of mine anyway, but it was now official policy.

  Opening the door was an act of extreme faith. Or stupidity. I don’t think there was much of a difference at this point.

  “Hi,” I said, a little too brightly. “Hi, Darla! Come on in!”

  Her eyebrows went from concerned furrow to surprised arches and back down to suspicious scrunch. “Um. Okay. Are you all right?” she said, stepping inside.

  I stayed near the door, as much to keep her from deciding to get comfortable as to keep from making myself more uncomfortable by walking. We were weirdly close together, but I pretended everything was normal.

  The flip phone in her hand looked like a cat-o-nine-tails from my current perspective. I was delighted to see her shove it in her back pocket.

  My stupid brain took a second to think, You can text with a phone that old? Huh.

  “Uh, sure, yeah, totally okay! Is there something...you, uh... what brings you by?”

  She reached into a rather large backpack and pulled out an all-too-familiar object. My tablet.

  “Did I leave that at the bar?” I asked. I took it from her and then turned to put it on the nightstand, and came to a dead halt, flinching.

  Lurch. Lurch. Lurch. I walked over.

  Darla was simultaneously surveying the boxes piled around the futon on the floor, and watching me wince around. “Amy? Are you sure you’re okay? You’re walking like…Did you... hurt your hoo-ha?”

  “My what?”

  “Your... you know.” She gestured to the crotch area. “Your woman parts.”

  “You mean my vagina?”

  “Any of it,” she said. “Vagina, vulva, clitoris. Whatever. You okay?” And then her face changed. “Oh, did you have a really good night of sex? Did I interrupt something? Is there a guy in your bathroom? Oh, shit, I’ll get goin’.”

  If my wits had been present, I would have told her, “Yes, there is a guy in the bathroom and please get the fuck out, now.” Except my wits weren’t with me.

  Hell, if they had been, I wouldn’t have been standing there with Steve Jobs’ baby midway to my womb.

  “No, I don’t have a guy here.”

  “Well, then,” she leaned in, “you got a yeast problem? ’Cuz,” she twisted the backpack around to her hip and began to rummage in it, whispering, “I have a coupon you can use to buy some cream…”

  I looked around the hundred square feet we were in and said, “There’s no one else here, so you don’t have to whisper.”

  “I was just trying to be modest.”

  “You? Modest?”

  Darla, still confused but suspecting she ought to be insulted, opened her mouth to say something to me

  And at that exact moment, Darth Vader appeared.

  “Dum dum dum da duh dum da duh dum,” my vagina said.

  “Is that your phone?” Darla said, looking around. “Where is it? Sounds like it’s under something. I tried to call or text you before, is that why you didn’t answer?” She crouched down to start helping me look for it.

  Before it dawned on her that my place was too small for furniture that had an “under,” the ring came again. As close as we were to each other, she couldn’t help but realize where it was coming from. My pocketless yoga pants were too tight for me to hope she thought it was anywhere else.

  She stared at my crotch.

  “Amy, you’ve got a vagina that can play music!” Darla shouted. “You’ve been hiding one hell of a special gift. Holy shit!” Phone forgotten, she stood back up, and looked around. “All right, where’s Ashton Kutcher? C’mon. I’m getting Punk’d here, aren’t I?”

  The Star Wars theme continue
d as she walked over to the bathroom door, opened it wide, looked in, slid the shower curtain open. “Nope, nope. Come on, come on out.” She waved her hand. “Get out, get the camera. Where’re the cameras? Come on. Come... on,” she stammered, looking at me. “Where are the cameras? This has to be a joke, right? You’re, like, on some reality TV show here, because nobody’s vagina plays Star Wars.”

  I couldn’t speak because at this point my face was on fire, and I would have been deeply appreciative had the universe spontaneously combusted me, leaving only the smartphone behind in my mortified ashes. At least the ringing had stopped.

  “Is this some really bizarre cosplay body mod?” Darla asked, her tone turned down to sympathetic and conspiratorial. “You know, Amy, it’s one thing to dress up as Link, or Zelda, or Duella Dent, but sticking a microchip inside your pretty place, is...wow.” She held a finger to her temple and made a face of disgust. “There’s some limits you gotta employ.”

  “I don’t – I’m not – Ugh,” I sighed. I went over to my futon on the floor and bent down, making a face as my knees hit the ground. My pelvis felt very very strange, and moving made it worse.

  As did the voicemail alert, I discovered, as it started buzzing and made me jump and yelp.

  Darla freaked out, too. “What is it? What is that?” She looked at my crotch. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  “Good, because I don’t know what to think, but I’m imagining all sorts of crazy ass shit, and I’ve got a pretty good imagination, Amy. So, if it’s not what I think, please tell me what it is. The truth can’t be any worse than what I’m thinking.”

  “Well, what are you thinking?” I whined.

  “I’m thinkin’ you’ve got a Star Wars dildo up your vagina or maybe a Storm Trooper butt plug, cause…”

  “A what?”

  On the continuum of sex toys that could be stuck inside me, the thought that a Storm Trooper butt plug might be the thing that leapt to her mind first made me recoil in horror.

  Apparently, there’s a spectrum of acceptable items to have shoved in one’s genital area, and in my spectrum, the Storm Trooper butt plug was worse than my smartphone.

  Saying the words meant acknowledging what I had just done to myself, and of all the people I wanted to share that with, Darla was about 147,000th on my list.