by Amanda Aksel
I rinse the soap off my legs, then gaze down at the third one.
“Now, what am I going to do with you?”
My buddy moves slightly as if it’s talking back. After everything that’s happened, a talking penis can’t be that far behind. I’ve always been curious as to why some, if not all, men talk about their dicks like they’re a loyal sidekick. Culturally, we enjoy jokes about guys thinking with their little head instead of their big head. Now that I’ve spent the morning with one, I’m beginning to see that these things really do have minds of their own. No wonder guys name them. One of my ex-boyfriends called his Moby. Sometimes he’d call it Mobes for short. Hell, I called it Mobes a couple of times too. And now, staring down between my legs, I’m tempted to name my own Moby Dick. Nah, I can’t feed its ego like that. It’s already out of control.
“So what should I name you? Hmm, Little Dickie?” I ask in the same tone I used when training one of our childhood dogs.
It moves again. Okay, now I swear it’s listening to me. And I’m pretty sure it likes the name. So it’s settled.
“Ready for a scrub-down, Little Dickie?”
No response this time so I start slow, dabbing it gently with the sponge. So far so good. I should probably really get in there. I’m a cleaning professional after all. I maneuver around all the hanging skin, making sure not to miss a single spot. Sudsy bubbles release from the loofah as I squeeze it, then let the sponge go. My soapy hand is slick and slides easily up and down the shaft. Up and down. Feels kinda nice. Up and down. A tingling sensation shoots to the tip and the soft skin solidifies.
Whoa . . .
The rhythmic motion slowly pumps it up like one of those long carnival balloons. It grows longer and stiffer until it reaches its full potential. My rational Delia-mind is urging me to stop but my new friend likes it. It feels so . . . instinctual.
Geez. Really? I’ve hardly had this thing for an hour and I’m already playing with it.
Men.
I release my grip, and the hard-on stabilizes on its own. My hard-on. Little Dickie’s not abiding by his name at the moment. The shower rinses the suds off my staff and I’m transfixed again. You’d think I’d never seen an erect penis. All memories of various boners forgotten at the sight of my own. What’s happening to me? Just yesterday I was in here shaving my legs for the millionth time since I was twelve and now I’m doing this? My mind begins spinning for a split second but then curiosity reins it in. My buddy’s enthusiasm isn’t the least bit deflated. Resilient little fucker.
A fist bangs at the door, and I jump so far off-balance that I have to grip the tiled wall for support. “Shit.”
“Hurry up!” Regina’s voice roars. “I need a shower too! My skin smells like spoiled grapes after last night.”
I glance down at my flagpole, and the wind’s died. “Be out in a minute!” So if piss-stained-toilet-seat thoughts don’t keep it tamed, Regina yelling at me is a good backup plan.
Noted.
I towel off like normal, but then ease up the terry cloth around my goodies, treating them as carefully as a fresh manicure. I spent so much time stroking myself in the shower that I completely ignored that squishy scrotum. Yeah, not exactly ready to own that one. It just dangles there like a sack of potatoes with nothing better to do than wait to pull the trigger and shoot. Ugh. I was right to ignore it.
I wrap the towel around my chest and squeegee the steamed mirror with my hand. Oops. No tits to cover anymore. Loosening the towel to my waist, I stare at my naked reflection. My gaze wanders south. The image invokes a memory of the man attached to Mobes. After showering, he would open up his towel and do the Twist, slap his thing around like it was a Chubby Checker dance party on speed. Another way to play with it, I suppose. He’d laugh hysterically. The first time he did it, I humored him with a chuckle. Every time after that, I’d cover my eyes and beg him to stop. It’s not like I got out of the shower and jiggled my breasts around to amuse him, or myself. Then again, he probably would’ve enjoyed that. So weird. It can’t be that fun. Can it?
Only one way to find out.
Holding the towel up around my back, I begin twisting my hips and my ding-a-ling smacks back and forth. Smack, smack, smack. My mouth turns up.
Hey, this is kind of fun.
I ramp it up a notch, this time thrusting my pelvis and circling my hips, watching my plaything make its own circles in the air. I chuckle. How is this so entertaining? Little Dickie’s like my own little puppet. And if I wasn’t so determined to get a job, I’d stay here all day seeing what else it can do.
Another forceful fist bangs at the door. “What are you doing in there?” Regina yells, and Frankie mutters something about giving me two more minutes.
“Nothing!” I quickly wrap my towel around my waist before opening the door. I think I’m starting to understand why my brothers spent so much time in the bathroom when they were teenagers. Our poor mother.
Steam floods into the cool hallway. “Finally!” Regina throws her hands in the air and slips past me, slamming the bathroom door shut.
“C’mon.” Frankie waves for me at the end of the hallway. “Let’s get you some underwear that doesn’t make your crotch look like an overstuffed taco.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t go commando?” I joke, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s funny.
“No one goes commando in my suit except for me, got it?”
I raise my hands like it’s a stickup. “Got it.”
We head back into his bedroom and he pulls out a dresser drawer, revealing neatly filed fabric arranged by color. So many man panties to choose from. Frankie grabs a pair of red-and-white-striped boxer briefs, then flings them in my direction. “Try these.”
“Are these your candy striper underwear?” I tug on the elastic band. He rolls his eyes without cracking a smile. That guy could use some shower time.
I slip on the boxers and adjust myself some. They hold all my accessories in the right place. “I am feelin’ these.”
“Nothin’ like underwear that fits, huh?” Frankie asks.
“No kidding. My nuts were suffocating earlier.”
His forehead wrinkles. “I can’t believe I have to lend you boxers because you grew testicles overnight.”
“You and me both,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “But thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without your underwear.”
“We can add that to the list of shit we never thought we’d say. C’mon.” He nods. “You’re going to need a hairstyle to match my suit.”
The next thing I know, Frankie’s blow-drying my hair with a boar-bristle brush and running some kind of waxy pomade through it with his fingers. I watch as he swoops it to one side then smooths it out.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I turn my head side to side, checking each angle of my new ’do. “I like it. Is it good enough for Michael Kors?”
“It’ll do.” Frankie hands me his deodorant stick. “Here.”
“I have my own deodorant.” I pop off the cap and sniff the solid blue gel. “They say it’s strong enough for a man.”
He makes a clicking noise with his mouth. “Yeah, and made for a woman. Just put it on so you don’t ruin my shirt, okay?”
“Fine.” I snarl at Frankie and smooth the deodorant over my underarms. It practically glues the pit hairs to my skin. Gross. Furry legs are one thing, but this? I’ll be shaving later tonight. Got to draw the line somewhere.
I cap the container and hand it back. “Satisfied?”
“Mostly.”
“Good, because it’s time to suit up!” I say and head back to Frankie’s closet. A gravelly grumble vibrates in his throat.
After I tuck in the “salmon” shirt and Frankie helps with the paisley tie and pocket square, it’s time for the reveal. I step in front of his full-length mirror and take it all
in. There’s something about a nice suit that makes a man look instantly sophisticated. The tailored fabric and bright colors add a touch of pizzazz. Not gonna lie. I look good. It doesn’t hurt that I’m standing a little straighter, keeping my head a little higher. My big head, not my little head.
Regina pops back in the room, half-dressed in a pencil skirt, camisole, and messy topknot. “What did I miss?” She stops short at the sight of me. “Whoa! You look awesome. Manhood is very becoming on you, Delia.” She gives me a crisp nod.
“Thanks, Gina. Can you believe how well this fits?” I dust off the sleeves and shrug. “What do you think, Frankie?”
He looks as if I polished off the last sleeve of his Thin Mints. “Michael Kors looks better on you than it does on me.”
“That’s not true,” I say, even though it is. “Besides, it’s all about persona. That white lab coat of yours . . . totally hot.”
“You think so?” He tilts his head.
“Oh, yeah. Doctors are sexy,” Regina adds with a playful shove.
“Thanks, guys.”
“So now what?” Regina rests her hands on her hips, ready for a game plan.
“Now I need to update my resume,” I say, with a firm finger in the air as I march toward the living room. I grab my laptop off the end table and settle on the couch, curling my legs in and simultaneously crushing my bits and balls. That’s not gonna work. I adjust myself up and spread my knees apart some. Regina and Frankie huddle next to me as I pull up the document. Delia Reese is typed in bold font across the top. I delete one letter after the other and replace it with my new name, Richard Allen.
Richard Allen, Richard Allen. Hi there, my name is Richard Allen.
I need to remember that.
My eyes sweep the page of my experience, education, and accomplishments. I know I’m a stellar candidate. That’s why these last few months have been so frustrating. It’s like as soon as I walk in the room, they can’t get past the fact that I have ovaries. Well, Richard Allen doesn’t have ovaries. Unless they’re bro-varies now.
Here goes nothing.
The hum of the printer sounds from the corner of the room.
“Wait, that’s it? You’re only updating your name?” Regina asks.
“Yep, that’s it.”
Frankie raises his brow. “Aren’t you worried about them calling your previous employer?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“First, when we get that far in the process, they’ll ask for my supervisor’s name and number. I can figure that out later, along with a million other details. Plus, when Howard Brothers had that merger, a quarter of the staff were let go or replaced. Even if someone randomly called, it would make sense that their records would be a little screwy.”
“So in this scenario, the merger’s a good thing,” Regina considers as she walks to the inkjet and lifts the top copy while the printer spits out the rest.
I never once imagined that my layoff could be helpful. “Yep. Seems like it.”
Regina examines the fresh ink then hands the page over to me. “Looks legit.”
The name Richard Allen printed in black and white makes my stomach flip. A fresh suit, an updated resume, and an unexpected appendage. I’d say I’m fully equipped to take on Wall Street. “Goodbye, Amanda’s Maid Service.”
“Speaking of, want me to call them and say you’re deathly ill or something?” Regina asks.
“Nah.” I tuck the finished stack of resumes safely in my faux leather padfolio. “I’m not scheduled to clean until tomorrow. If I survive the day, I’ll handle it then.”
Usually, I’m the responsible one with all my ducks in a row. Not Regina. I still have my concerns, but there’s something about waking up with balls in a world where we revere those who have them that’s given me carte blanche. Permission is a positively powerful thing.
“So, what are you gonna do now?” Frankie asks. I get the sense he’s hoping I’ll wuss out and stay home where his suit will be safe.
“First, I’m going to get my phone back.” I pull the strap of my Gucci over my shoulder. Thankfully my beloved briefcase is unisex and pairs perfectly with my outfit.
Regina’s eyes light up. “At Fairbanks’s place?”
“Yep.” I step toward the door, breaking in the feel of Frankie’s black matte shoes. These are way more comfortable than my best pair of pumps. My roommates follow, encroaching on my personal space. Not that I’ve had much of it this morning.
“Will you come by the hospital when you’re done dropping off your resumes?” Frankie asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. I’ll see where the day leads me.”
“Check in with us later, okay?” Regina says.
“Sure thing.” I turn the brass doorknob. The tarnished surface feels different in my new skin.
“Oh, and happy birthday!” My friends bid me goodbye like I’m their child and it’s my first day of school. I step out into the hallway.
Look out, New York. Here I come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The air seems different. Better. Even the sun seems brighter, illuminating the faces of every pedestrian that passes by. Is it just my imagination, or does everyone seem to have more pep in their step today? Yes, everything’s a bit clearer.
A bit more positive.
I don’t even crinkle my nose when I walk down into the subway. It’s as if someone scrubbed away the usual stench. No more piss. The sliding doors of the subway train open and I hop on a moderately crowded car, immediately grabbing one of the center poles. All of the morning commuters have company—they’re scrolling social media or cozying up with a chapter in a book and, of course, all the news nerds have their papers. Why didn’t I pick up a paper on the way? Aside from Little Dickie, I’ve got nothing on me but the stack of resumes in my Gucci. Feet planted firmly, I steady myself as the train begins to move.
One after the other, faces begin to turn up from screens and pages. Why are they looking at me? Should I have gone with a more basic shirt and tie? Not that Frankie has anything like that. Oh, no. Am I changing back into myself again? No. My big, hairy-knuckled hand holds the pole tight. But what if it starts with my face and works its way down? I lower my chin, tracing my fingers along the stubble above my lip. Hmm, what are they looking at? I adjust my pink paisley necktie, trying not to stain the fine silk with the tiny beads of perspiration puddling in my palm.
In my college psych class, we learned about this psychological phenomenon called the Spotlight Effect. It’s when you think you’re getting more attention than you actually are. Every time I’m alone in a long line at the bank, for coffee, or at Chipotle, I get the sense that people are focusing in on me. This is that. Only way worse.
I stretch my neck, peeking at the other end of the train, and spot some vacant seats in the corner. Walking the city streets with everyone so focused on where they’re headed and not who’s around them is one thing, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be front and center with this new look. Zeroing in on an empty seat, I excuse myself past a few other commuters. One catches my eye. Her freckles may be hiding behind this morning’s Wall Street Journal, but nothing disguises that familiar red hair.
“Shannon?” At the sound of my baritone, I slap my hand against my mouth.
Oops.
She lifts her green eyes from their hot-off-the-press focus. Not an ounce of recognition registers in them. “Do I know you?”
Heat creeps up my face and my chest tightens at the sight of my longtime college friend’s wrinkled expression. The way I see it, I’ve got two choices.
Truth.
Or dare.
“Columbia, right?” I rub the back of my neck.
“Yeah.” Lifting a single penciled-in brow, she searches my face then finally utters a sound like I’ve stumped her.
I clear my throat and attemp
t to tuck my hair behind my ear, but there’s nothing to tuck!
Well, nothing up here anyway.
“You want to sit down?” Shannon gestures to the empty seat next to her.
“Sure.” I take the seat, instinctually crossing my legs.
Squish.
This fucking ball sack.
Ugh. I cringe quietly to myself and untangle my legs.
The color in Shannon’s eyes seems to shift from a dark apprehensive green to a sparkling curious seafoam, and I’m hit with a wave of her citrusy perfume. “What’s your name?”
“De—” I start before correcting myself with, “Richard.”
“DeRichard?” She lets out a little snicker. “Is that a joke?”
Oh, girl, you have no idea what a joke this is. “No, sorry. It’s just Richard.”
Her Millennial Pink lips curl into a coy smile. “Well, I’m sure I would have remembered you, Richard.” My fiery-haired friend says the name slowly, like she’s tasting the syllable with her tongue, finishing off with that ever-so-subtle lower lip tug.
Oh, no . . .
Here I am sitting thigh to thigh with the girl I used to do body shots with to impress douchey college boys and now she’s flirting with me like I’m one of them. Come to think of it, aside from the stylish pocket square and matching tie, Richard is totally her type. My stomach knots, and I inch back as much as this seat will allow. “Well . . . I look a lot different than I did in college.”
“How so? You lost fifty pounds or something?” she jokes.
“More like gained fifty pounds of muscle.” And a barbell to boot.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”
This might not be my real body but I’ll take the compliment. “Thanks. You too. Your skin is glowing.” I’ve got to get the name of her facialist.
“Thanks.” Shannon touches her fingertips to her jaw, batting her lashes. “You know,” she starts, scrutinizing me again, “I still can’t place you. Did we have a class together?”