by HJ Bellus
None of it makes sense. Iris isn’t his girlfriend, so what is she? His grandma? I know there’s a niche market for taboo books but boning your grandma is too far.
Jesus, now I’m analyzing Memphis tagging his grandma.
The mental imaginary making me dry heave. Maybe he’s married? Iris screamed sugar momma status. Still, it doesn’t add up. Memphis’s pleading gaze screamed guilt and shame. He wasn’t proud of the situation.
That thought causes tears to prick at the corners of my eyes. There is zero chance of developing a friendship let alone a two-week romantic affair with Iris’s claws dug in. My theory on men remains stable and perfect without one single flaw.
Josi and Brenna despise it and have coined it “The bullshit that shall not be named.” They convinced me this cruise was going to be perfect not only to celebrate the fact my job wasn’t cut but also to prove my theory dead wrong.
However, men continue to prove my theory over and over again. It goes like this. The good ones are taken. The men attracted to me have tiny peens and propose marriage before blowing their load. The lethal combination of sex appeal, huge cock imprint through jeans, and a suntan line around their ring finger. The most vicious one being the single man, hot as sin, massive dick imprint seen through their trousers, and loves to suck dick as much as me. Those sting like a bitch reminding you of all the what-ifs.
And then we have Memphis, the poster child for the manwhore. As long as it has a pond for them to dip their pole into, they are game, and they don’t stick to one pond for fishing trips.
I stare up at the ceiling, feeling every bit a fool for indulging in the idea of an intense romantic fling at sea. I’ve learned my lesson over and over again and I am two steps from swearing off the other sex. And I like dick, so chasing women will never shake out for me. Two weeks. That’s how long I have to fool the duo of meat lips known as my best friends.
It will take all of my patience to indulge in their whore-lympics voyage challenge. Josi’s goal is a solid five while Brenna went all out claiming a ten. Men that are on this damn ship. They forced me to pick a number, and living on the edge and all that crazy shit I went for half. They called bullshit, claiming oral didn’t count. I countered swallowing puts it right over half rounding it up to a solid one. No pearl necklace for me.
I force myself to sit up, knowing Josi and Brenna will be busting down my door if I don’t show up at the spa. While readjusting the messy bun on top of my head, Roberto drifts into my thoughts. I wonder where he falls on the theory scale? From the feeling of him grinding on me last night while dancing, he wasn’t small, and his cock was rocking out pressing into me. The ring finger inspection slipped my mind. Blame it on the booze, food, music, and cluster of fine, fine men all over the dining room. His thick Spanish accent makes me smile at my reflection. He was fun and the conversation easy. Hell, I’ve never had fun dancing until last night.
Roberto, by no means, had me falling into his lap or butterflies floating around low in my belly. Nor, has he been the hulky hero in my daydreams. Nor the one going down to his knees in a smooth movement, spreading my legs wide, and then…
“Stop!” I point a finger at myself in the mirror and glare. “Memphis is off limits. His broad chest, strong jawline I want to nibble, and everything else between.”
Roberto. My thoughts drift back to him. Well, not drift but more like shove with brute force. I’m not dead after all. His movements and touch were nice, but not explosive. Guess a girl can’t have her cake and eat it, too.
I should’ve faked battling seasickness or better yet explosive diarrhea. As loyal as these two are diarrhea is the line. I’ve perfected a bank of descriptive words to use when explaining how close to fire my butthole is and have the mewling sounds down to a fine science.
The Mimosas and an empty stomach are the two things saving my ass right now. The smart girl lost somewhere inside of me is warning me it’s a lethal combination since I don’t drink very often. I keep tipping them back, doing my best to ignore their jabs. I know it’s all in good fun, but it gets old when you’re the target every single time.
I stretch out my legs, finishing off another drink. Tasty. Ordering another one, I shake my head at dumb and dumber’s conversation. I flip them off when the woman doing my pedicure focuses on my toes. Her hand is steady as she lays stripes of neon orange polish on my nails. Flipping them the bird made me feel like a badass, so I send slut-pup and whore-kitten the double bird and stick out my tongue. Take that!
You never know what alcohol will bring out in me. It’s either the giggly, airhead girl, or my inner bitch. My inner bitch is winning out right now. I bite down on my lower lip, fighting to simmer down. A girl can only take so much though. Their faces are down while they get their massages. Their voices are muffled yet clear enough for the entire spa to hear them.
“I’m tempted to pay him myself to take Ray-Ray for a spin on his bicycle,” Brenna chirps.
“Ray-Ray.” Josi tries to lift her head up, but the Helga giving her the massage pushes her head right back down. I fight to keep the laughter contained. It doesn’t stop Josi from asking her question. Nope, she hollers louder.
“Do you think Dr. Love’s beef whistle is bigger than Ned’s?”
I shake my head, regretting sharing Memphis’s nickname with them. Their laughter is filling the entire spa drawing everyone’s attention over to us. It’s not a quick chuckle, but a long drawn out one.
“I forgot about Ned.” Brenna gets out between laughter.
“All two inches of him?” Josi adds. And the cackling starts all over again.
Ned has been the butt of every joke between those two. I’m not a virgin, but also not a well-oiled machine. On one finger using my knuckles, I can count how many men I’ve had sex with. Losing my virginity in high school with the tatted up bad boy never comes up in conversations. It’s always poor Ned and his micro-penis.
The man was good looking, kind, dollar bills spilling out of his asshole rich, and had manners for days. I tried. I really did. It’s not all about sex, but a little dick inside me is good. And he was two inches when he was hard. Grinding on his pubic bone was the only way I’d get off, and that was a rare occasion. Ned was a fan of missionary and pounding all two inches of himself into me. I gotta give the man credit. A small dick didn’t stop him from fucking like a porn star.
“We’d have to get Ray-Ray into counseling after seeing ginger pubes and his massive flesh flute,” Josi says.
Their laughter has died down. The mask I’m wearing to hide behind cinches down tighter with each of their jabs. It’s my fault for never sticking up to them. I’m the one whose put on the façade of having a steel heart when it’s the complete opposite. I hunger for the courage and adventures of the characters in my novel hidden away on my MacBook.
“And how would you know, Josi?” I ask her, fighting to tamp down my raw anger.
“Oh, Ray-Ray, if you’d ever pull your head out of the sand and your job you’d know it takes one peek to his nether regions to know the man is packing a healthy cock.” Brenna sits up, pulling her bikini top to her chest then tying it off in the back.
“The man is a player with a crystal clear prolific for whoring around.” Josi sits up, tying her own suit back in place.
“You mean proclivities, Jo.” I roll my eyes. “Careful, you might burn your last brain cell using big girl words.”
She shrugs. “Oh, well, my vagina will be living in happily ever after land.”
I go to open my mouth but decide against it knowing nothing but mean words will fly out thanks to my inner mean drunken bitch controlling me. Instead, I fake giggle and run my palms up and down my thighs. Deep inhales bring me back to reality. Josi and Brenna are themselves, and I know it’s not out of a vicious nature. It’s how they are. So, why is Memphis causing more of a sting than the rest of my miserable fails?
“C’mon, let’s go get your inner slut on.” Brenna holds out her hand. “My girl needs to learn ho
w to ride without training wheels.”
I shake my head, not giving into their damn harassing. I’ll get my half with Roberto if I run into him again or better yet I’ll make up a wild tale about my half of man. I do adore fantasy and I'm not too shabby when it comes to pounding out words on a keyboard. I’m a warrior like that.
“Epic.” Josi reaches in front of me, giving Brenna a high five. “Ned was training wheel material.”
“You guys are dicks.” I send an elbow into both of their sides when they try to group hug my ass.
“You love us and you know it. It’s too easy to give you hell,” Josi says, then kisses my cheek. Brenna concurs, going on with her speech. I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to break down in the middle of this posh spa. Lord knows, I’m close. I refuse to.
A server strides past with a tray of Mimosas for another group of clients. It doesn’t stop me from reaching out plucking two from the tray. I’m the recipient of an odd look, but the server doesn’t say a word. Problem solved. Both of my hands are now full, keeping me from wrapping my hands around their necks and squeezing the life out of the dicks.
Seven
Raylan
Call me a glutton for punishment if you must because there’s been one thing on my mind. I’m walking back to the room after a spa session that pissed me off and made me more unsure of myself than it relaxed me. Bam. My life in a nutshell.
Declaring this pity party dead and over, I snagged a drink from the bar. One that reminds me of him. Each tangy sensation that dances over my taste buds makes my insides quiver. I didn’t get the guy. Hell, I didn’t even try. We had shared a few awkward and intriguing conversations before his reality became a player in the game. So it’s done and decided that I’ll do what I do best and that’s to fall back on my imagination.
I tip back the drink once I'm at my door. The ice cubes are clinking on the glass as I drain every last ounce of sweet, sweet nectar. The only thing missing is his taste on the rim of the glass. It was minty and alluring wrapped together in the sexiest ginger stallion I’ve ever met. Giddy up!
The door clicks open. I push my way in, needing some alone time with the current novel I’m working on. Everything else has been short fan-fiction stories, but this gem is my first full-length novel.
“Son of a…” My body lurches forward when my foot stumbles on something.
It might be the grace of alcohol streaming through my veins, but more than likely dumb luck, I manage to right myself into a standing position. There’s a wrapped package on the floor between my feet. I stare at it like it’s a heat-seeking missile sent to blow me to smithereens.
Finally, after staring for several seconds, I bend over and grab the package, rolling it in one hand, studying its every corner. The wrapping paper is a unique shade of orange almost similar to the color now on my toes. The package is wrapped with exceptional care along with matching ribbon and a bow to boot.
I start to think that this has to be a mistake and meant for another passenger, but that’s when I see my name. Raylan is written out in precise block print in thick black marker strokes. Underneath my name in smaller writing, there’s a message. Thought you could use this.
I set the fancy drink glass on the counter right inside my room then bounce the package back and forth between my hands. Right away, I feel like a dickhead. It has to be from Josi or Brenna. I take a deep breath before pulling away the edges of the wrapping paper, being careful to not destroy the beauty of it. Someone put some serious time into this wrapping. More than likely it was a clerk at whatever store one of the girls purchased it from knowing them.
My eyebrows scrunch in confusion at the cube in my hand. The packaging of whatever lies inside of the box is gorgeous. The top is a dark plum that fades into an orange at the bottom of the box.
“We-Vibe,” I whisper the words on top of the packaging.
A chorus of jovial voices in the hallway snap me back to reality. I wiggle the rest of the way in my room, closing the door behind me, making sure to click the lock. I sit on the edge of the bed with tentative fingers and begin opening up the box.
It’s a We-Vibe Sync. That still gives me no clue as to what’s in the box. I pull out a u-shaped soft device. It takes me two seconds to discover what its function is after opening a small booklet. Brenna. It is beyond a doubt that little slut nugget. She’s the only one I know who would give someone a cutting-edge, award-winning vibrator with advanced technology.
My eyes bulge as I read what this thing can do. I squirm a bit on the edge of the bed studying the diagram of a man inside a woman while the We-Vibe Sync is massaging the woman’s clit and also inside her massaging her G-spot. The illustrations go on to show the vibrator doesn’t fall out when sex positions change.
“It has an app!” I slap my palm over my mouth, knowing that came out a bit too loud. Even though I’m all alone in this room, the walls are not soundproof by any means. You can hear cabin doors shutting, muted noise from surrounding rooms, and showers running.
My curiosity wins out faster than I’d like to admit. This isn’t the first sex toy Brenna has given me. Over the years I’ve received purple, lime green, and hot pink dildos varying in size. Some were big enough I was convinced they molded King Kong’s fire hose. They all went straight into an empty drawer in my dresser. The collection is mighty impressive and unused. I've never had the desire to use one, not even the magenta dildo with a suction cup. When the need to have a release is overwhelming, I’m old school. A girl’s best friend is her hand.
I shrug once then twice. Fuck it. It’s what they want me to do, right? Live, laugh, and get fucked. Decision made.
While the app is downloading, I wrack my mind for a sexy, spine-tingling song. One that gets you heated up when you don’t have an award winning vibrator working its magic. The booklet claimed this little bad boy syncs up to a song while working the lady bits over.
Enrique. Yes, it will be the perfect distraction. Roberto gave me enough to focus on. I squeal like a giddy girl on her birthday. This gift brought my mood from glum to elated in warp speed. It’s little gestures like these I need to focus on and all the times my girls have been there for me to get me through their harmless teasing.
I fall back on the bed, adjusting the pillows to prop my head up, and shimmy down my thong until propping it on top of one of my feet. I wiggle it down to a toe then wave it around in the air like all the kick-ass women do in the romance novels I read. It’s a come-hither gesture to the man of my dreams. Roberto, Roberto, Roberto I chant over and over in my head before someone else has a chance to invade.
The upbeat song of “Tonight I’m Fucking You” by Enrique begins jamming through my phone. All of the nerve endings in my hand ignite to life when the u-shaped vibrator begins pulsing. Holy shit, the booklet wasn’t lying. The device works to the beat of the song. My core starts to ache; my legs squeeze together, thirsting for some sort of friction. I have to force my fingers to stay put.
Propping up on one elbow while running my tongue over my bottom lip, I roll the vibrator into position. The anticipation builds as I drag it over my sundress. When it hits flesh my body fires to life. I lazily pull it through my folds until it’s in place.
My palms slam down on either side of me. I white knuckle the sheets as the sensation sweeps me away. The vibrator stays put working its little heart out as I buck my hips to the rhythm of the song and strumming of the vibrator filling my body. Enrique’s tantalizing voice fills the room. The vibrator is not making a sound while it brings me closer and closer.
“Holy shit!” I scream with my body strung so taught it's ready to explode. It comes out without regret and in its place pure desire and passion. My eyes snap shut, willing away the nearing orgasm. This feeling and the sensation of raw need coursing through me is too delicious to let go of right now.
“Roberto.” His name tumbles out in a loud voice with a flat expression. It doesn’t do the trick to erase the scene with Memphis playing out in my he
ad. I try calling out his name one more time. But it does no good. There’s one player in this fantasy, and he refuses to tap out.
A broad chest, strong jawline, rich whiskey eyes, and a smile that makes my toes curl, flash behind my eyelids. I can feel his body on top of mine, pressing me into the mattress as he fucks me hard. The need in his eyes is raw and determined.
“Roberto,” I let out again, louder this time, fighting to get Memphis out of my head. As delicious as the fantasy is it also hurts. He’s a force I can’t fight knowing he’d obliterate my heart and never look back. And like it matters because he’s not available. With these thoughts swirling around, my orgasm builds up. One more buck of my hips and I’ll be gliding down the slide of ecstasy.
I go for it, craving the release like no other. I raise my hips off the bed, slapping a hand over my mouth to contain my cries, my fist bunching in the sheets, and the cry of pleasure on the tip of my tongue. Nothing. It stops. No vibrations. Zilch. Zip. Nada.
“The fuck?”
Memphis.
Thank fuck for girl time. I throw my head back, hitting it hard on the headboard not giving a shit. Iris calling a day with friends a girls’ day is like classifying my dick a virgin. The crazy bitch thinks she’s still in her twenties with a body to prove it. Looks are very deceiving with that woman and so is the intricate web she weaves to trap you in. Iris is well into her sixties with a few years left before she hits another milestone. Seventy.
Her over the top idea of what we are dick punched me today. My gut knew it, but the greedy bastard inside me didn’t want to realize it. Iris owns me. It’s the sad truth and no other way to slice or dice it while on the cruise. To me, it’s all about the cash flow and escaping a small town and nothing else. There have never been any feelings. I’m not a dick to my customers, but I never, under any circumstances, have entertained the idea of inviting feelings into the mix. Business is business.