Cocky Doms

by Lee Savino

  And now I’m tearing up in a department store. Pathetic.

  My phone rings again and I get a flash of relief at the generic ringtone. Talk about saved by the bell.

  The name on the screen isn’t familiar, but my neurons stir at the sight: Bear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby.” Deep, rumbly voice, almost a purr. Oh yeah, the memory is coming back. Me, a bar, too much tequila, a guy with biceps big enough to be seen from space.

  “Bear?” I croak.

  “Yeah, baby. You okay?”

  “Um... yes?”

  “You didn’t call.”

  Call? Was I supposed to—

  Ooooh. He asked me to call him.

  “Sorry, I... fell asleep. But I did drink water!” I crow. For some reason, I want him to know I obeyed.

  “Good girl.” His approval warms me all over.

  “Thanks for... taking care of me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can I just say... I’m never like that. I never get drunk like that in public.”

  “It’s okay, baby. No harm in letting go once in a while.”

  “It was more that,” I blurt. “I was having a bad day. My cousin is getting married, and I’m happy for her, but she’s winning at life and I’m not.” As I talk, I cover my face with my free hand. My blush is creeping up from my neck, spreading like a stain. I need to stop. But something about this guy just makes me want to share.

  “Why do you say that?” No sign in the deep voice that I’m boring him with my patheticness.

  “‘Cause it’s true. We’re the same age. I’ve always been compared to her and I never come out looking good. For example,” I take a deep breath, “She’s a beauty queen and I’m... well, I’m me.”

  Silence.

  Yeah, this is humiliating. But I’ve given up guys, and it’s not like he’s gonna date me, so it doesn’t matter what I say. “And she’s getting married and I just broke up with my boyfriend.”

  “He didn’t sound like a keeper.”

  For a moment I’m confused. Did I tell him about my ex? Then last night’s whole conversation comes flooding back and the crimson tide of my blush advances. I’m about to turn bright red in the middle of the department store.

  And then it hits me: the thing I’ve been trying to remember. It shines in the daylight with horrific clarity: don’t talk about not being able to orgasm with a man. That’s supposed to be a secret between me and my vibrator.

  Damn tequila.

  “Jerry was all right.”

  “He just didn’t satisfy you.” Bear’s voice seems to get deeper.

  “Um.” I can’t believe I overshared to two random guys at a bar. My cheeks are about to spontaneously combust. I duck behind a display lest the saleslady see. “No, he did not.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Sawyer and I have a proposition for you.”

  “Sawyer?”

  “The bartender. We’re friends from way back. We’d like to help you, and we think you can help us.”

  “Oh... ‘kay.”

  “You free for lunch?”

  “Um, today?” I glance around. My feet have already taken me towards the department store’s exit. “I could be. I took off work this morning to run an errand.” I take a step and the sliding doors open. Above, a bird wheels lazily in the clear blue sky. Freedom.

  “Meet me at the bar at one. I’ll buy.”

  “What, like a date?” I cringe. Of course, he didn’t mean it like that. “I mean, I’m super busy today. And you know I’ve sworn off men forever.” I try to joke, but it comes out serious.

  Bear is silent. He’s probably wishing he hadn’t called. Gah! Why did I say the ‘d’ word?

  “What’s the proposition?” I ask as casually as I can. “I’m curious.”

  “I’d rather tell you in person.” His voice is a low rumble.

  “Oh? Is it something illegal?”

  “No.”

  Dammit, nothing I’m saying is coming out right. “What is it? Just tell me.” I detour from the exit and duck behind a shoe display.

  “We want to help you orgasm.”

  Apparently, I died in the bar last night, because now I’m in heaven. Or hell. Either way, my head has exploded because it takes some time for me to choke out, “Excuse me?”

  “Sawyer and I are competitive. We’ve always been, since we met. We try to see who’s the best in everything.”

  Now I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I can’t hang up. The memory of his big body hovering protectively over mine is imprinted on me.

  And my libido is wide awake and listening.

  “We’ve argued for a long time who’s better in bed. And this is our chance to find out. We talked about your situation last night and decided.”

  My thoughts are running in circles, but they focus for a second. “You talked about me?”

  “Yeah, baby.” Every time he says ‘baby,’ I melt a little bit more. “A woman like you should be satisfied in bed. You’re perfect for our competition.”

  “What competition?”

  “To see who’s better in bed. We’ll both sleep with you, get you off, and you’ll be the judge.”

  I’m in the Twilight Zone. I’m on Candid Camera. In a second, someone’s going to jump out and shout “’Surprise, sucka’!”

  I gulp. “Why me?”

  “You’re a virgin.”

  “What? No, I’m not.”

  “You’ve never come with a man before,” he points out.

  There’s no oxygen in the store. They really should do something about it. I’m surprised I haven’t passed out.

  “Maybe I can’t,” I say casually, as if I’m the sort of person who talks about her sex life with gorgeous strangers. Which, as of last night, I am.

  The deep chuckle rumbles like thunder through the cellphone and stirs up things down below. I clutch a column to keep my knees from giving out. “I like a challenge.”

  “Well… okay.”

  A pause. “You agree?”

  “I…” I have no idea what to say. On the one hand are two hot guys who want to compete to satisfy me in bed. On the other... what the hell is going on? “Are you sure you want me?”

  The answer, when it comes, is gentle. “Yeah, baby.”

  I can’t argue with that. What would I say? I don’t think I’m that attractive. I have cellulite. Are you sure you want me?

  “Just think about it. I’ll call you later,” he says, and hangs up, leaving me opening and closing my mouth like a fish in the middle of the men’s section.

  I have no idea how I managed to exit the department store and drive to work, but at one pm I’m staring glassy-eyed at my desktop computer. Every once in a while I push the mouse so the screen saver doesn’t appear. At 1:05 pm, my stomach rumbles. I could’ve been getting lunch with a gorgeous, considerate hunk of muscle and listening to his outrageous proposal. Maybe it’s better that I didn’t go. Looking deep into his brown eyes, there’s no way I would be able to say no to anything.

  “Evie!” My evil coworker, Ben, sails into my cubicle like he owns it. “Did you get my email about the Billings account?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “Haven’t checked email today. Very busy.” Busy freaking out.

  “Well, as soon as you do, I’ll need your help organizing their expenses. They’re expecting their final report tonight. You can stay late to do it.”

  Freakin’ Ben. He always does this—comes by and spouts off about some account I’ve never heard of, and takes advantage of my confusion to dump more work on me.

  “I wasn’t going to stay late today.”

  “Why not?” he smirks as he eyes my admittedly dowdy work attire of a voluminous blouse, dumpy sweater. My skirt was rejected by the Amish as too conservative. “Got a date?”

  “Maybe I do,” I straighten. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” I face my computer and click my mouse several times. Unfortunately, the first thing it lands on is my email
spam folder, enlarging an email marketing a penis enhancement product. Gah! I click frantically, but instead of deleting it, I end up on the product website. GIVE HER MAXIMUM PLEASURE screams the flashing banner. A delighted cartoon dude’s—ahem—member grows from a string bean to the size of a butternut squash. I mash the keyboard and the banners multiply, until a thousand cartoon men fill my screen.

  “Well,” Ben drawls. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  As soon as he goes, I get rid of the freaking web pop ups and delete the email. My phone rings and I’m so flustered I answer it without checking.

  “Evangeline!” my aunt sings. “So glad I got a hold of you. Listen, the florist we were going to use went out of business. Would you believe, last night their warehouse exploded. Rose petals rained down in the street. All those gladiolas! I don’t like to gossip, but my friend Gwen thinks it was a front for the mob.”

  “Okay...” I keep clicking through my spam folder, waiting for her to get to the point.

  “Anyway, we need to find a new florist. But your cousin’s so busy—did you know her fiancé is taking her on a cruise next week? Isn’t that sweet? He’s just the best.”

  “He’s a great guy,” I agree, wondering what would happen if I just hung up. She’d probably show up at my work place and tell me all of this loudly, in person.

  “Finishing up her work, shopping for new swimwear, she’s too swamped. And you know how busy I am. So, we were thinking you could help us find a new florist. Coral rosebuds, not pink. There’s a difference. And a forty percent discount. We won’t accept anything less.”

  “Auntie Jen, I’m busy. I can’t—”

  “Of course, I already told your cousin that you’d be happy to help. She’s so relieved. It’s not like you have anything else to do after work. You don’t have a man. Which reminds me, my workout class has a bring a friend free day next week. If you do a good job on the flowers—”

  “Right. Fine,” I say to get her off the phone. “Gotta go. My boss is coming by and I’m not supposed to take personal calls at work.”

  “But you’re on your lunch break, right? You’re not eating, I hope. You know what would be good for you? A brisk walk around the block. Your cousin—”

  “Goodbye, Auntie Jen.” I hang up and rub my head. I’ll do the florist thing, just to keep her off my back. That way, when she invites me to go to her aerobics class, I can beg off and claim I am still looking for the right shade of coral rosebuds.

  1:35 pm. I could’ve been eating hot wings and smiling at Bear. Scratch that, I should never eat around guys. Don’t want them wondering how many muffins are in my muffin top. Besides, I might spill sauce or crumbs on myself. The safest thing to eat: a few wilted lettuce leaves from a dressing-free salad. I agree with Auntie Jen on this one.

  My phone rings and I cringe. Auntie Jen probably has another chore for me. Walking my cousin’s dog while she’s on the cruise. Baking the wedding cake from scratch. She’ll make me wear a ball gag so I won’t be tempted to lick the bowl. “Safer this way, Evangeline—frosting is all fat and sugar! Goes straight to your hips.”

  But when I check my phone, it’s a number I don’t recognize. I let it ring through and a minute later, my phone vibrates to notify me about a voicemail.

  I snatch it up and listen.

  “Hey, Evie,” a smooth, familiar tenor. “It’s Sawyer.”

  I nearly drop the phone. Sawyer called me. Sexy bartender Sawyer!

  “—Bear told me he talked to you and... yeah. I just wanted to make sure you had my number. Call me.”

  Call me. I’m in the Twilight Zone. It’s the end times. Earth must be about to be struck by a meteor. There’s no way someone so hot and buff and tan would call me, drab little Evie of Johnson Accounting, round as I am tall, wearing Amish rejects.

  My hands are shaking. I’ve got so many thrills running through me; my arms break out in goosebumps. My hair stands on end, like I’ve been electrocuted. Call me.

  I can’t call him. I’ve lost the ability to speak. But maybe I can text him.

  I pull up his number and save it. Should I message him right away? No. I am very busy and important.

  I ignore Sawyer’s number as long as I can stand. I even work on the stuff Ben sent over and email it back, which is dumb because he just responds by dumping another client case file on me, deadline tomorrow morning. At this rate, I’ll be working until midnight.

  Finally, at 2 pm, I send Sawyer a text.

  Hey. The world’s most scintillating opening. I bite my lip, willing him to text back.

  2:08 pm, my phone blips.

  Hey girl.

  Oooh, classic. My insides are syrup.

  I cover my face. I am texting a guy at work and blushing like a high school kid with a crush. That giddy flying feeling—my practical pumps no longer touch the ground.

  A minute passes and I panic. Did I come on too strong? Was I not supposed to text him first? Is he sitting there judging me? Maybe he’s at work. Is the bar open?

  I click to the bar website.

  “Ahem.” my boss clears his throat behind me.

  I tab over quickly to a spreadsheet before spinning my chair around to face him. “I was just um… looking into a potential new client. Owns a bar.”

  “I see.” Mr. Johnson looks down his nose at me. “If you have time to solicit new clients, perhaps you can help Ben with a few of his accounts.”

  “Okay. Yes,” I wilt in my chair and bend over my keyboard, all contrite. He walks away and I grab my phone again. I’m going to craft the most perfect text. Sawyer will be in awe. He will fall in love, propose marriage, and we’ll have twin blond babies before my cousin’s second anniversary.

  At the very least, he’ll text me back.

  After ten minutes, I’ve got it.

  What are you wearing? I text to Sawyer. I go back and forth on emoji choices, finally settling for a winky face. I’m coy, I’m cute. I’m fucking hilarious.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’m pathetic. I’m going to be relegated to being my cousin’s personal assistant with dog watching duties for the rest of my life. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride—except I’m never a bridesmaid, either. Bridesmaid would be a step up.

  I slump over my desk.

  My phone vibrates, and I pop up like the demon possessed girl in the Exorcist. I cringe when I see my What are you wearing? text. I could’ve done better.

  Sawyer: That’s usually my line. Wink emoji.

  AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  I spin around in my chair. Ben walks by, frowning at me. It’s almost three o’clock and I haven’t gotten to my own client case files. I don’t even care. I have left Earth and am sitting on cloud nine. Two hot guys, one day.

  You’re perfect for our competition. Bear growling on the phone. Sawyer’s smooth tenor. You’re perfect for our competition. Take that, Auntie Jen! I’m not too fat to attract male attention. You’re perfect.

  3:29 pm, my phone rings. Sawyer. I mime screaming before putting the phone to my ear. Deep breath, Evie. Be cool. Answer the phone.

  “Hey.” My voice is a breathy melody. Alto meets Marilyn Monroe. I hope. It’s also possible I sound asthmatic.

  “Hey girl.” Sawyer could give Ryan Gosling sexy lessons. If he could bottle his voice into cologne and sell it, the scent would get a girl pregnant at twenty paces.

  “Did he tell you?” There’s a smile in Sawyer’s voice. I clutch the phone tighter. The competition. Bear. Sawyer. Me.

  “Yeah,” I let out a shaky breath. “Is he for real?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sawyer laughs. “He’s always for real. Truth is, we’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time. Just needed the right opportunity.”

  “And that’s me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Huh,” I say, and he laughs.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun. You can’t say you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, I want to…” I trail off, imagining these two guys towering over me, taking my hand
and leading me into a bedroom. Unreal, and yet my body sings to life. “I just don’t know if it will be... wise.”

  “We’ll make it worth your while.” His voice vibrates through me.

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  “Nope. Like I said, we’ve been waiting for the right one to come along.”

  I weigh his words. The right one sounds nice, but maybe they were waiting for someone pathetic and desperate enough to say yes to something this crazy. That would explain why they picked me.

  “I don’t even know you guys.”

  “Get to know us,” he coaxes. He has an answer for everything. “We can spend time together... not fucking.”

  “I don’t date,” I say automatically. Somehow this line has become my shield.

  “We know,” he soothes. “You’ve made that clear. Think of this as... exploring. For mutual benefit. C’mon, Evie,” he adds when I hesitate. “Live a little.”

  “A little? What about living large?” As soon as I say it, I curse myself. I’m already large. Don’t remind him.

  “Sounds good to me. If you’re with us, you better get used to large.”

  “Oh my,” I warble, not even trying to be funny. Sawyer laughs.

  “You are too cute.”

  Cute! I’m cute! “So I’ve heard.” I twirl my hair on my finger, channeling suave and sophisticated. My finger snags on a knot. I tug but it’s stuck.

  “What’re you doing tonight?”

  “Brushing my hair.” I yank my finger out and a chuck of my scalp comes with it. I bite back a yelp.

  Sawyer chuckles. “Not washing it?”

  “Oh, you know, I gotta save something for weekends.” I rub my stinging scalp. “My life is so glamorous.”

  “Well, if you get your hair done early, come on by the bar. I’ll be working seven to two.”

  “Uh, okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got a lot of hair.” I’ve got a lot of hair? I pull the phone away and make a face. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “You do that. Oh, and Evie,” his voice drops an octave. “I’m not wearing anything.”