MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “He just hasn’t come up, I guess. He works for Homeland Security—long hours, so I don’t see him much.”

  “And what would your brother say about you using him as an excuse to mask how you’re really feeling right now?” Merrick keeps his eyes fixed to the horizon.

  He’s like a hyena that’s spotted a limping injured animal. He’s going straight for the kill.

  “What are you doing, Merrick?”

  He glances down. “Just trying to keep it real, love. Must see how you handle pressure. Especially when your emotions are so firmly tied in.”

  “Wait. So this is just some test? You wanted to see if I’d hit on you again and then crumble when you turn me down for a second time, didn’t you?”

  “Who said I’d turn you down?” He shrugs his brows, looking away again.

  I know this is a trick. “Sorry. Not falling for it.”

  That’s when his hand slides down to my ass, and he gives it a tiny squeeze. My body’s reaction is immediate as our pelvises push together.

  He’s hard. And suddenly, I’m wet. Just thinking about his shaft so close, only a few layers of fabric separating our throbbing privates, makes me crazed with need. He’s a beautiful, disgusting pig of a man, and I really want to fuck him.

  I rally my bravery and slowly bring my eyes to his. Our gazes lock. My lips can practically taste his kiss. I can’t not do this.

  I slowly push up on the balls of my feet to close the distance.

  He jerks his head back a bit. “Are you trying to kiss me?”

  I freeze, and a sharp, ice-cold spear pierces my stomach. “Uh—but you—I thought…”

  He steps back, shaking his head and tsking. “You really can’t keep your emotions in check, can you?”

  “But you—you just grabbed my ass and,” I point to his groin, “what’s that all about, then?”

  “The inappropriate grab was a test.” He slides something from his pocket and holds it out. “And while my pen is huge, I assure you it’s nothing compared to my Johnson. Your mind is clearly bobbing in the gutter.”

  I look down at the big fat Meisterstück in his hand. I’m going to shove that thing up his ass.

  “How dare you,” I seethe quietly.

  He stows his “huge pen” and flashes a gloating smirk, like he’s won some prize by getting me to go for him again.

  “Look, Gisselle. I’m doing you a favor. You’re not cut out for this kind of work—too trusting, too needy, and, frankly, you’re too pretty. No one’s going to take you seriously, and if they did, love, you’d only get yourself into trouble.”

  You know how when someone says something so incredibly flawed and ridiculous that it leaves you speechless? Well, that’s how I feel. But if I thought what he just said was bad, I’ve got another think coming. Because he’s now talking on his phone, leaving a message for Augusto Kemmler.

  “Sorry, mate. Just letting you know your prized pupil here isn’t going to work out. Can’t keep her hands off me. Oh, and you owe me fifty dollars.”

  Wait. This whole internship thing wasn’t real? My mouth flaps as my brain tries to comprehend what’s just happened. I was a bet. A fucking bet? I can’t begin to fathom why Professor Augusto would do that to me or why he’d risk his reputation like this, because I could tell everyone.

  But I won’t.

  I’m too humiliated.

  Too hurt.

  Too fucking pissed off.

  Leland Merrick is a legend in the industry, and he thinks I’m a joke.

  There’s nothing left to say other than, “I’m going to kill you.”

  I don’t mean it literally, but I do mean I’m going to obliterate him and his career. From this day forward, my vengeance will be shoved so far up his perfect ass that he won’t be able to poop. No more air freshener for you!

  I leave the bar and head home on foot, every step taking me further and further from the lifelong dream that just died a sad little death on that dance floor. By the time I reach the corner, I’m in tears.

  “Hey, you. Gimme all your money.” Some dude in a black hoodie pops out of nowhere. He holds out his hand.

  I don’t see a weapon of any kind, so I could probably scream and make a run for it, but the fight’s been drained right out of me.

  “Here,” I say miserably and hand him the twenty in my pocket, “that’s all I’ve got.”

  He grabs it and runs.

  “Have a good night,” I mutter and just keep on walking. I am so completely fucked without that job.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Well, look who’s finally out of bed and awake.”

  I look up from the couch to see a frowning Camila in her work clothes.

  “What are you doing home early?” I mutter.

  “I took a half day. Came to check on you.” Camila tosses her purse on one of the dining room chairs, since our small kitchen table is piled high with empty Chinese take-out cartons and dirty bowls—evidence of my decision to give up on life. Life that is nothing more than a sad, sad joke.

  Just like me. I reach forward, grab the mason jar sitting on the coffee table, unscrew the lid, and yell at the button-looking thing inside. “I hate you! You’re a turd.”

  “What are you doing?” Camila asks.

  I place the lid back on and return the jar to the table. “That’s a listening device.” I grab the remote and start flipping through the channels.

  “A bug?”

  “Yeah.” I stare at the TV. “Compliments of my new ex-boss. As you’re aware, he’s a complete fucker.”

  Camila looks horrified. “Ohmygod. You’re totally serious.” She grabs the jar and goes to the kitchen. I hear the water run, followed by the garbage disposal.

  “Hey! I wasn’t done with that!” I’d planned to perform a three-hour monologue for Merrick, exploring each and every facet of my hatred, entitled Oh, How I Hate Thee and Thy Huge Pen.

  Leland Merrick, thou art more sickening than a spring day in Chernobyl. The mere sight of you makes my eyeballs blister with the puss of a thousand ass pimples…

  No wait. That’s too generous.

  …with the puss of a million ass pimples.

  “That’s an invasion of privacy! What the hell kind of boss does that?” Camila reappears, standing in front of the TV.

  “The asshole kind who thinks he’s above the law and doesn’t believe in personal boundaries.” I swipe my hand through the air. “Now, move. Dr. Oz is on in two hours, and I need to mentally prepare.”

  Camila snatches the remote from my hand and presses mute. “Uh, no. I’m not sure what weird shit’s going on, but your two-day pity party is over, hon. Rent is due, you have student loan payments coming up, and from the looks of our living room, you like eating, though the nutritional value of your choices is questionable. Still, all these glorious things require money, so it’s time to figure out your sorry-ass life. And maybe file a police report—I can’t believe he bugged our place.”

  “I can, but don’t worry; my sorry-ass life is not your problem. I know you’re moving out soon,” I grumble.

  “Uh, yeah. But I thought we’d be looking for a place together. Somewhere employed grown-ups live, which means you need to be employed.”

  “Adulting is overrated.” Especially the saving-the-world part. “Besides, I’ve become attached to the family of roaches living under the sink.”

  “They are pretty considerate and polite for roaches, but this place is a major dump, and my car’s been broken into five times this month alone.”

  “That’s mall guy. He’s paying thugs to pillage and plunder so property values go down.” Thankfully, he’s skipping the rape and burn parts of the classic pirate-crime trope.

  “What?” Camila snaps.

  “I would have told you sooner, but I was busy wallowing in the dark puddle of existence with my eyes closed.” I.e., sad-sleeping.

  “Got that part. But who’s mall guy?”

  I manage to look at her briefly, but Oz has exp
ectations. I must be ready, eyes and ears glued to the TV. “Some developer guy wants to gentrify our below-modest neighborhood but doesn’t want to pay the extravagant prices.”

  “You’re telling me that some rich dude is paying people to terrorize this neighborhood?”

  I nod and hold out my hand, prompting her to give me back the remote. She doesn’t.

  “Why the hell aren’t you out there busting this story wide open, Gissy?” she snaps.

  “Do not call me Gissy.” Sounds way too close to jizzy, and she’s heard all about my high school years—a time of extreme awkwardness with zero jizzy. Not one guy would even look at me. Not from this galaxy, anyway.

  Camila holds up her peace palm. “Sorry, girl. I forgot that saying anything other than your full legal name triggers you. But don’t you dare start throwing smoke grenades to hide from the real issue. I’ve been your friend for four years and your roommate for two.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ve had to drink your sour me-shakes for years.”

  I blink up at her, trying to understand. She’s upset, and I don’t actually know why. “Me-shakes?”

  “Yeah. Me-shakes. Your thick, nasty milkshake of unrealized dreams. ‘I’m tired of living in a world where only violence and greed get attention.’” She mocks my voice. “‘I’m tired of sitting back and doing nothing while the world goes to shit. I’m going to make the world a better place. I’m going to—’”

  “Fine. I get it.”

  “Do you? Because that’s not the vibe I’m getting, Gizz face.”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  She adds, “You want to change the world? Then be my guest. How about starting right here in your own backyard?”

  She has a point, but, “Merrick told me about the story, so it’s technically his.”

  “Sugar, I don’t see that motherfuckah here doin’ dickshit. Do you?”

  Wow. Camila just went all twangy redneck on me. She’s from Salt Lake City, so it definitely sounded weird. But, but! She has a point. Merrick doesn’t play fair, so why should I? My mind quickly flashes to the angry promise I made to go after Merrick. Then I think of Jed, the bartender. If I could get him to go on record, I might have a sellable story. Add to that my mugging and Camila’s car break-ins, I know we have enough evidence to back up the story and maybe stop this mall man from stealing everyone’s property. Maybe I can interview some of the struggling shop owners and get them to add their two cents. It’s one thing if people want to sell their businesses, but it’s another if mall man wants to drive prices down to pennies on the dollar so he can get rich. I just need to find a positive, inspiring hero angle to the story.

  “You’re right, Camila. I’m going to work on an exposé. Right after I watch Oz. They’re doing an extreme makeover on some woman’s vagina. Apparently floppy labia are making a comeback.”

  She looks at me with an emotionless expression. “That actually sounds kind of interesting,” she says dryly and finally hands me the remote before shoving my legs off the sofa so she can sit. “Yuck, woman! Take a shower, wuddya? You smell like anchovies.”

  I reach under my ass and pull out a to-go container. “Oops. Sorry. I was in the mood for salty fish fried rice. Kinda forgot it was there.”

  Camila clicks on the TV. “The nasty-ass shit I put up with from you.”

  I slide my hand to her leg. “Thank you, Camila. I mean it.”

  She smiles at me. “What are friends for?”

  “For going to shitkicker bars. Tonight?”

  “Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Please tell me there will be alcohol involved.”

  “The best BEER beer money can buy.”

  I can lie to myself some days, but now is not one of those moments. Because I want to say I’m exerting my feminine power by wearing a super-short denim skirt with cowboy boots and a paper-thin blouse that lets my bra show through, but all I hear is Merrick’s voice telling me how ill equipped I am to be a journalist. Oh…you’re too pretty. Yeah, well. He’s pretty too, and I’ve got to use the tools at my disposal to get people talking. Of course, it comes with an obligation to do right by them and ensure I don’t betray their trust. If I do this, I have to be willing to go all the way.

  I enter the Hoof N’ Brew Two with Camila on my heels. She’s wearing jeans, black flats, and a baggy black blouse that falls off her shoulder.

  “Wow. This place is charming,” she says.

  The patrons look us over with curiosity, except for the guy slouched over the counter, who might actually be dead, since he doesn’t appear to have moved since I was here last, three days ago.

  Loud country music is playing on the jukebox, and there’s a group of rowdy guys in cowboy hats shooting pool and trying not to look excited that two single gals just waltzed in.

  Camila and I go up to the bar, next to Sleepy Drooler, and wait for Jed to finish pouring drinks down at the other end.

  When he looks up and sees us, his eyes kind of light up. Only, he’s checking out Camila. Not what I planned, but whatever gets the job done.

  I elbow her and whisper in her ear, “Smile and flirt with the bartender. He’s into you.”

  “Huh?”

  There’s no time to explain, because Jed’s arrived.

  “Hey there, Jed. Remember me from the other night?” I hold out my hand. “I’m Gisselle, by the way. This is my associate, Camila.”

  Jed shakes my hand, but his eyes are locked on Camila. “Welcome back. What can I do ya for, ladies?”

  “Mmmm… I’m tempted to have another of those delicious BEERs, but I should go easy on my liver tonight. How about a whisky? Make that two.”

  “Comin’ right up.” He produces two tumblers and a bottle. “So, where’s Merrick at tonight?” he asks as he pours.

  “Don’t really know. Don’t really care.”

  He cocks a brow.

  “Listen, Jed, I’m going to be honest with you. Merrick is a great guy,” I lie, “and I know he helped you—helped a lot of people—but he’s not going to do much about your little problem with the mall man.”

  Jed’s frown indicates he’s not quite following.

  “Let me elaborate,” I say. “He told me his plate is full, working on some other big story, which is fine. Totally fine. But I live right down the street. I care about what’s happening in my community. So if you’ll go on record and point me to some other business owners who are being hurt by this mall-developer guy, then I promise you I’ll put a stop to it.”

  He slides the glasses towards us. “How you proposing on doin’ that? Because I already filed complaints. I’ve done everything short of lighting city hall on fire to get their attention. They brushed us off.”

  “Of course they did. If this area is redeveloped, it’ll bring in more revenue for the city and make them look like heroes. And I’m not saying it’s wrong to want to improve the city. What I am saying is that you and all the business and property owners should have the right to decide for yourselves if you want to sell. Certainly, you have the right to get a fair price.”

  He bobs his head. “All fine and dandy to me, darlin’, but you didn’t answer my question. How you gonna help?”

  I like this guy. He’s cowboy cute and a bit rough around the edges, but he’s smart.

  “I’m going to write a story exposing this guy and get it published.”

  He chuckles at me. “You think anyone cares about some redneck with a dusty bar, a laundromat that leaves your clothes dirtier than when you started, and a bunch of run-down apartment buildings?”

  I smile and put on the feminine charm. “Jed, you leave that to me.”

  He eyes me cautiously.

  “What have you got to lose?” Camila chimes in. “As things stand, your business is suffocating, and it’s only going to get worse. If you’re forced to close your doors, you’ll get squat. But do this, the developer will have to come to the table with fair offers if he wants your land. I have a degree in accounting, so I can look at
your books and tell you what a fair price looks like. If you want.”

  Jed flashes a sweet mamma’s-boy smile at Camila. “I’m in.”

  Ha! Put that in your knickers, Merrick, and suck my lady pen!

  Before we take our leave, Jed gives me the names and numbers of twenty-two other business owners in the neighborhood whom he got together to file a joint complaint with the city. It’s just what I need for the story. A list of prospective interviews. Add to that our own personal experiences of dealing with the recent spike in crime, and the people who ignored the problem will be scrambling to fix it.

  I know this isn’t a huge, international story and doesn’t have the tear-jerking element like some of the stuff Merrick does—like the group of children who were lost at sea for fifteen days on some raft over in Indonesia. He was on board the helicopter that found them. How he managed that, I don’t know, but I had so much snot coming out of my nose when I read the article that my nose almost fell off. Couldn’t stop crying. This story isn’t that, but it’s going to help these people. Jed will be the centerpiece: the humble, local barkeep, the honest country boy who’s trying to be a hero for his neighborhood.

  This is exactly why I went to journalism school. And best of all, I don’t need Merrick.

  Suddenly, my body is remembering that dance we had ten feet away. The heat crawls up my neck, fueled partly by rage and partly by something else. What ticks me off most is that I don’t remember ever feeling so hungry to have a man in my bed and inside my body. God, I hope he falls into a volcano, but snags his underwear on a branch and dangles precariously over the lava so he doesn’t die instantly. Just a slow roast for my succulent man pig.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two weeks later…

  I’m standing out front of the Hoof N’ Brew Two in the late afternoon. A group of local news stations just wrapped up an interview with Jed, and now he and Camila are chatting about when they’ll get together to “do numbers.”

  I snort quietly. Yeah. I bet he means “do sex.” Little does he know that while Camila has the mouth of a sailor, she’s not an easy can-o’-woman to open. She’s insanely picky, given her strict upbringing, but it’s seriously cute how Jed has his hands jammed into his jeans pockets while he kicks at pebbles. With the lopsided grin and shaggy, sun-streaked blond hair, he looks like a big kid from the country who’s crushing hard on the girl from the uppity side of the tracks. Of course, Camila is pretty down to earth, but like I said, she’s picky—won’t even look at a guy unless he’s relationship material. Not to say she doesn’t talk a good game or fantasize, but she’s in it for the long haul or not at all.