by Tara Sivec
Drew's grief counselor, the waitress, walked back over to console him and interrupted my penis pity party. At the same time, a rush of air surrounded me as someone quickly walked by, their shoes clicking on the hardwood floor. I breathed in right at that moment and the smell of chocolate overwhelmed me and instantly transported me back in time to five years ago.
"Mmmmm you smell so good. Like chocolate chip cookies," I muttered with a raspy, hung-over voice as I pulled her incredibly soft body against my own.
Wow, she doesn't have any bones. Like, at all. Where the fuck are her bones? Am I still drunk? Did I sleep with a blow-up doll? Again? I pealed my eyes open one at a time so the rays of sun shining in the room wouldn't make me go blind. Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I looked down and groaned. Nope, not drunk, just hugging a pillow. I let go of the pillow, rolling over onto my back and flinging my arm out to the side of me to stare up at the ceiling.
She was gone. And I didn't even get her name. What kind of a dick was I? She wasn't too interested in knowing my name either though, so I guess we were even. As drunk as I was last night, I could remember every single second. I closed my eyes and pulled to mind how great her ass looked in those jeans, the smell of her skin, the sound of her laugh and the way her body felt like it was made to fit against mine. I scanned through every memory I had, but for some reason, her face just wouldn't come into focus no matter how hard I tried. God dammit, how was I going to find her if I couldn't remember her face and didn't know her name? I was the king of jackasses. I knew she was beautiful, even if I couldn't remember everything. Her skin was soft and her hair felt like silk and her lips on me could make me whimper like a girl. And best of all, she made me laugh. Not many girls made me laugh. They never got my jokes or were too uptight for my sense of humor. But she got me.
Last night obviously wasn't my best performance. I hope to God I didn’t have whiskey dick and was able to at least get it up and keep it up. Shit. She probably ran out of here as fast as she could this morning because I sucked so badly. I never had a one-night-stand before; I didn't know what the protocol was for something like this. Would it be wrong for me to hunt her down? Even if she wanted nothing to do with me ever again, I needed to at least apologize for my God-awful skills last night.
And truth be told, I just wanted to see her again. I wanted to know if she was real or if I just imagined how perfect she was. I grabbed the pillow and brought it up to my face, breathing the smell of chocolate in deep and smiling. I might not have remembered everything, but I remembered her smell. It was like hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day, chocolate cake baking in an oven on a rainy afternoon…
Oh my God, I sound like a chick. I need to watch some ESPN and get in a bar fight, pronto.
The sound of the toilet flushing in the connecting bathroom had me bolting upright in bed. Holy shit! Was that her?
I swung my legs around off the bed and started to get up right when the door opened.
"Fucking hell dude, don't ever sleep in a bathtub. That shit is for the birds. My ass is killing me," Drew complained as he shuffled over to the bed, turned around and let his body fall back onto the end, settling after a few bounces. He threw his arm over his eyes and groaned.
"Why the fuck does morning have to come so early?" he whimpered.
I sighed in disappointment, holding the sheet in place so I could lean over and grab my jeans that were crumpled on the floor with my boxer-briefs still shoved inside them.
"I'm never drinking again," he promised.
"You said that last week," I reminded him as I flung the sheet off of me so I could put my pants on.
What. The. Fuck?
"Oh shit. Fucking shit. Mother fucking shit balls."
This can't be good. This really, really cannot be good.
"What are you whining about over there, Nancy?" Drew asked as he removed his arm from across his eyes and sat up.
"My dick is bleeding. Drew – MY DICK IS BLEEDING!"
I was screeching like a girl. I knew it, he knew it, pretty soon the whole house would know it. But my dick was bleeding. Did you hear me? My fucking dick was fucking bleeding. FUCK! It's not supposed to bleed. Ever.
I thought I was having a heart attack. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know much, but I did know the rules about owning a dick. Rule number one: It should never bleed. Rule number two: There was no rule number two. IT SHOULD NEVER FUCKING BLEED.
Did I sleep with a nutcase that decided to carve my dick like a jack-o-lantern while I slept? Or maybe her vagina had teeth. My dad used to always tell me when I was a teenager to stay away from them, because they bite. I thought he was kidding. Oh God, I can’t look. What if some of it is missing?
"Calm down. Let's assess the situation," Drew said, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his knee. "Have you noticed any of the following: unidentified discharge, burning sensation when you urinate, lower abdominal pain, testicular pain, pain during sex, fever, headache, sore throat, weight loss, chronic diarrhea or night sweats?"
He sounded like a fucking commercial for syphilis.
"Eeew dude, no. I just have blood on my dick," I answered irritably, pointing to the problem but refusing to look.
He leaned over and looked down at my lap.
"Looks okay to me," he said with a shrug as he stood up. "You probably just bagged a virgin."
I sat there with my bloody, non-chlamydia infested dick flapping in the breeze and my jaw hanging open.
A virgin? That can't be right.
I glanced back down in my lap and took a closer look. Okay so it wasn't the bloody slaughter I originally thought I saw. My dick hadn't been Texas Chainsaw Massacred. There were just a few pink streaks. I wore a condom though. How in the hell does something like this happen? You use those God dammed things as water balloons in middle school and couldn’t get them to pop even if you threw them at a bed of nails. The one time you need them to stay in one piece they decide to say “fuck this shit”. It was like condom anarchy.
But more importantly - Holy hell! Why would she let me take her virginity? Why in the fuck would she give something like that to me when I was completely shit-faced and couldn't even make it sort of enjoyable for her? What an epic fail. I probably ruined sex for her forever. She's probably thinking right now "Seriously? That's what I waited for? What a joke."
"I have to find out who she is. I need to apologize," I mumbled to myself, standing up and pulling my boxers and jeans on.
"Whoa, dude. You didn't even get her name? Wow, you're kind of a dick," Drew said with a laugh, walking over to the bedroom door and opening it.
I threw my shirt over my head and then followed behind him, hopping on one foot to slide my shoes on.
"Thanks for making me feel a whole lot better Drew. Really. You're a stellar friend," I said sarcastically as we maneuvered our way through a house full of passed out drunks.
"Hey, it's not my fault you banged and bailed bro," he stated as he took a giant step over a naked chick wearing just a sombrero and opened the front door.
"I didn't bang and bail. In case you failed to notice, I woke up alone in bed this morning."
"With a bloody johnson," he added, walking down the steps of the porch.
"With a fucking bloody johnson," I repeated with a groan. "Shit. I have to find this girl. Do you think it's wrong for me to ask your dad to use his private detective resources to find out who she is?"
Drew’s dad opened his own PI agency a few years ago when he decided following the rules of the police department didn’t fit in with his busy schedule.
"Are you asking me if it's ethically wrong or if I think it's wrong? Because those are two very different questions my friend," he replied as we crossed the street and got into his car parked by the curb. If only Drew took after his father in some way…
"I have to find her Drew," I said as he started up the car.
"Then find her we shall my little virginity thief!"
"We never found he
r, did we big guy?" I muttered to Drew, who I assumed was still sitting next to me.
"Are you speaking to anyone in particular or do your shot glasses usually respond?" replied a very un-Drew-sounding voice.
***
"Now, if you'll direct your attention to the one Claire is holding, that is called the Purple Pussy Eater. It has four speeds: Yes, More, Faster and Holy Shit Balls. It's also got a g-spot stimulator that is sure to tickle your fancy. Could you hold it up a little higher so everyone can see, Claire?"
I shot Liz a look that clearly said “bend over so I can shove this thing up your ass sideways” before I raised the rubber penis above my head with absolutely no enthusiasm.
The living room full of completely trashed women screamed in excitement and bounced up and down in their seats when I raised my arm, like the thing I was holding above my head was the actual penis of Brad Pitt. It's plastic, people. And it's filled with double A's, not sperm.
"Go ahead and pass it around for me, Claire," Liz said sweetly as she reached into her suitcase for yet another rubber rod.
I held my arm out lifelessly in front of me for the drunk-ass sitting closest to grab, but she was too busy complaining about how her husband's spunk always tastes like garlic.
Please God don't let me ever come face-to-face with this man, I beg of you. I will look at his crotch and see cloves of garlic popping out of his dick.
"Yo, Lara," I called, trying to get her attention so she could take this dildo out of my hand.
"Claire, remember to use her Bedroom Fun Party name!" Liz reminded me in a sickeningly sweet voice that was starting to make my ears bleed.
I gritted my teeth and imagined raising my arm back up and chucking the fake phallus right at her forehead so she would have a permanent dick head mark right in the middle of her face that people would point and laugh at. Is that a birthmark? No, it's a dick mark.
"Excuse me, Luscious Lips Lara?" I enunciated politely while trying not to vomit in my mouth.
Really, was it necessary for everyone to come up with a stupid ass nickname for themselves? That was the first thing Liz made everyone do when they got here. Come up with a sexual nickname for yourself using the first letter of your first name. And you were only allowed to call each other by those names all night.
Luscious Lips Lara, Juicy Jenny, Raunchy Rachel, Tantalizing Tasha ….
Who thought up this shit? Oh, that's right, Liz - my former best friend. The one who decided to start a sex toy business without telling me so she could con me into working for her.
She should have let me come up with the names. Twat Face Tasha, Jizzbucket Jenny, Loose Labia Lara…those didn't make me want to jam a pencil in my eye.
Liz finished up the rest of her stupid party while I imagined I was doing anything else but this, like getting a Brazilian wax, water boarded by Navy Seals or my big toe shot off at close range for a gang initiation. Any of those would be preferable to talking with complete strangers about lubrication, nipple clamps and anal beads.
I gave her the silent treatment as we drove to the bar an hour later. I was offered an extra shift tonight that I couldn't pass up and Liz was going to keep me company in between customers. I should just open the car door and throw her out of the moving vehicle for what she did to me tonight, but I didn't want to ruin someone else's car if they ran her over.
"You can't ignore me forever, Claire. Quit being a dick," she complained.
"Speaking of dick...really, Liz? Sex toy parties? At what point in our friendship did you think I would EVER want to sell Pocket Pussies for a living? And another thing, Pocket Pussies? What kind of man needs something called a Pocket Pussy? Do men really need to release their seed out into the wild so much that they need to stick a fake vagina in their pocket that they can whip out at a moment's notice?"
Liz rolled her eyes at me and I resisted the urge to reach over the console and punch her in the vagina.
Pussy Punch: when a Twat Tap just isn't enough.
"Claire, quit being such a drama queen. I don't expect you to sell my sex toys forever, just until I can hire a few more consultants. Think about it Claire, this is the perfect opportunity for us. What was the one thing you noticed that was missing from this party tonight?" she asked, turning sideways in her seat to look at me as I got off at the exit for the bar.
"Dignity," I replied flatly.
"Funny. Snacks, Claire. Well, good snacks at least. They had bowls of chips and store bought cookies and enough liquor to choke a horse. These are women with money, Liz. Money they don't mind throwing away on Pocket Pussies for the husbands they don't want to screw anymore or clitoral stimulators for the "friend" they know whose husband has never given them an orgasm. What goes better with sex than chocolate?"
Sex and chocolate. My chocolate. My chocolate-covered yummy goodness that I couldn't sell as often as I liked because as a single mother working in a bar, it was hard to market yourself. The majority of people I was surrounded by cared more about who was buying the next round than what kind of desserts to have at their next party.
"The building I rented has the potential to be turned into two separate spaces. One of them with a kitchen," Liz continued. "A very large kitchen where you can perform your magic and when women book their parties they can order dessert trays at the same time."
I took my eyes off of the road long enough to look over and Liz, expecting to see a sarcastic smile on her face and waiting for her to say “Just kidding! Wouldn’t that be great though?” When none of that happened and she just sat there in her seat staring at me expectantly, I blinked back tears that I hadn’t even realized were forming in my eyes.
“What are you talking about?” I whispered shakily in the dark car.
“Okay so I did something big. Something that’s probably going to piss you off because you’re going to think it’s charity or pity, but really, all I did was get the ball rolling. The rest is up to you,” she explained. “I’ve looked everywhere for a building for my business and everyplace I see is too big or too small and way overpriced. My realtor called me a few weeks ago and told me the owners of Andrea’s Bakery right on Main Street came into some money and wanted to sell their space as quickly as possible, retire and move to Florida. It was like a sign, Claire. The price was right, the location is perfect and it’s exactly what we always dreamed about, minus the whole Justin Timberlake penis time share. With one sheet of drywall, we’ve got enough room for two connecting businesses: my sex toys and your desserts.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from crying. I never cried.
“But I really wanted to share JT’s penis with you,” I told her with a sad look, trying to take the seriousness out of this situation before I started to ugly cry. No one likes an ugly crier. It’s uncomfortable for all parties involved.
After a few minutes of neither one of us saying a word in the dark car, Liz couldn’t take it anymore.
“Will you say something already?”
I let out a huge breath and tried to calm my racing heart.
"Liz I don't…I can't believe you…the money…" She put her hand on my arm as we pulled into the parking lot of Fosters.
"Don't turn into a pansy-ass on me just yet. Take some time and think about it. You know the trust fund my grandfather left me has been eating its way through my pocket so we're not even going to discuss money right now. Talk it over with your dad, come and check out the kitchen at the store and then we'll talk. In the meantime, you're going to get your hot little ass in that bar and serve me up some cocktails. I've got some new products to test out on Jim after your dad picks Gavin up later," she said with a wink before getting out of the car.
I sat there for a few minutes after she got out wondering what the hell just happened. My best friend was always a force of nature, but this just defied logic. Did she really just tell me she bought me a business? With every step of my life I felt like I’d made wrong turns. Nothing was going the way I planned. I wanted this more than anything, but pa
rt of me was afraid to really get my hopes up. Who knows though? Maybe good things were finally going to start happening in my life.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and realized I spent entirely too long sitting in my car and now I was late for my shift. I ran through the parking lot and threw open the side door, tying my little black apron around my waist as I went. Mr. and Mrs. Foster have seen one too many episodes of True Blood and recently decided we should adopt the same uniform as Merlotte's. Tiny black shorts and tiny white t-shirts with the word "Fosters" stamped across our tits in green. It could be worse. At least I don’t have to make sure I’m wearing enough “flare” or sing some demented version of happy birthday with the rest of the staff. “Happy birthday to you, with beer goggles on you don’t look like you should moo, happy birthday dear random stranger who’s dressed like a hooker, happy birthday to you!”
I ran behind Liz already seated on a stool at the bar sipping her usual drink of vanilla vodka and Diet Coke and waved to T.J., the bartender I was taking over for tonight. Thankfully the men didn't have to wear the same uniform. I didn't think I could handle seeing a couple of these guys in tiny shorts with their hairy balls popping out of the leg holes.
On a slow night, I would have just hopped my ass up onto the bar and swung my legs around to get behind it, but the place was packed tonight. I had to do it the right way and go under the hinged, lift-top part of the bar at the opposite end. I jogged past some poor drunk schmuck that held his head in his hands, moaning, and made a mental note to call him a cab if he was here by himself.
Once I was behind the bar and got the skinny from T.J. on the customers here tonight and what they were drinking, he left to go home and I got to work getting refills for the regulars. One of the waitresses brought in an order for ten shots of the cheapest whiskey we had. I rolled my eyes and went to the end of the bar where we kept all of the whiskey. What is wrong with these people? Cheap whiskey equals a bad hangover and having the craps all the next day. I started lining up the shot glasses on my tray when I heard the drunken moaner speak.