Date: 2015-02-27 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humor; Romance; Contemporary; Chick Lit; Comedy; Contemporary Romance; New Adult; Adult; Fiction; Unfinished
Description: Dove Glitch is embarrassed about everything above her knees and below her belly button. When she has to fill a delicate, embarrassing prescription the last thing she needs is a sexy-as-hell (and brand spanking new) pharmacist behind the counter. Johnson Fitzwell’s first day of his dream career also happens to coincide with the exact moment Dove needs her feminine meds filled. His glorious voice is way too loud–as in, he should be counting down the hits with Ryan Seacrest kind of loud. Thanks to Johnson’s handsome face and gorgeous jaw line, Dove dives headlong into her waking nightmare and ask

FIRE DOWN BELOW

Debra Anastasia

Copyright (c) 2015 Debra Anastasia

All rights reserved

Published by Debra Anastasia

Cover art design by Shannon Lumetta

Cover Art Image: Patrick Foto istockphoto

Editing: Jen Matera - The Write Diva’s

Formatting by LJ Anderson - Mayhem Cover Creations

Fire Down Below is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

"I'd like to remove myself from this spam list." ~Teresa Mummert NYT Bestselling Author

"No." ~Jamie McGuire #1 NYT Bestselling Author “Do not read her next book. Trust me.” Colleen Hoover #1 NYT Bestselling Author

"I have not read this book." ~ Aesta's Book Blog

"If this book is anything like her crazy tweets, then we are too scared to read it." ~ The Rock Stars of Romance Book Blog

"Debra is the queen of s@!ts and giggles." ~ Tijan NYT Bestselling Author

"Crap. Why won't you go away?" K.A. Robinson NYT Bestselling Author

"You couldn't pay me enough." Tara Sue Me NYT Bestselling Author

"You can't be serious." JM Darhower USA Today Bestselling Author

"That's a big, tall glass of nope." Angie Lynch CEO and President of Shameless Book Club

"This book is about as cringe-worthy as a raging UTI." Helena Hunting Amazing Author

"This book gave my vagina nightmares for a week. What the hell was Debra thinking?!" ~Leisa Rayven Amazing Author

"I like to read Debra's work on the crapper in case I run out of toilet paper." CJ Roberts NYT Bestselling Author

"I've had the worst gas since I read Debra Anastasia's latest. Rip, full, wretched gas that singes my butt hairs on the way out. A week later I'm still walking funny." Kendall Grey Amazing Author

"This cover gives me vaginal discomfort. Someone pass the Monistat." Tara Sivec USA Today Bestselling Author

“Do not add to your TBR list.” Autumn Reviews

“This book smells like grilled cheese and sadness.” Mary Elizabeth Amazing Author

“Get me the hell out of this death trap! Um…NOPE. Whit is this crap? This is going to hurt. A lot. “ Christina Lee Amazing Author

“I can certainly call is shocking and realistic.” Monica Murphy NYT Bestselling Author

“Penivores and Vagitarians both agree. It made them vomit a little in their mouths.” Georgia Cates NYT Bestselling Author

“I’ve licked assholes with more redeeming qualities than this book.” C.D. Reiss USA Today Bestselling Author

“Never Again. Disappointed! And just like Tony, I don’t like to be disappointed.” Aleatha Romig NYT Bestselling Author

“Enough to cause a burning ring of fire. Please Debra…just stop!” Belle Aurora USA Today Bestselling Author

“How the hell is she publishing this?” Daisy Prescott USA Today Bestselling Author

“The only way fire should be associated with this book is if it was actually on fire. Burning in my fireplace.” Jillian from Read-Love-Blog

“Is she writing about hairy vaginas or explosive diarrhea?” Neda from The Sub Club

“Who is this woman and why is she talking to me?” Tabatha Vargo NYT Bestselling Author

“Who the hell is Debra Anastasia?” Bookish Temptations

“This book caused my anus to grow a steel-plated hymen.” Shay Savage USA Today Bestselling Author

“I’d rather #selfie on the shitter than read this book.” KD Robichaux Amazing Author and blogger

“What’s the fuss about? Deb forgot to send me the ARC! I’m not bitter, I just love Aleatha more.” Kelsey from the Forgotten Korner

“When that burning sensation lingers, get some cream on those fingers…Wait, this is a book?” Natasha is a Book Junkie

"I might read this book if I wasn't so afraid of catching something." Tina Reber NYT Bestselling Author

“Talk about a ‘douchey’ way to promote a book. I hope I didn’t catch anything from this book. I’m feeling itchy. But I can’t NOT pre-order.” Ana’s Attic Book Blog

"It itches so bad." Ella Fox USA Today Bestselling Author

"Can I un-read this? No? Do you have holy water so I can wash my eyes?" King Midian

“You couldn’t pay me enough.” Tara Sue Me NYT Bestselling Author

“A new level of disgusting.” M. Leighton NYT Bestselling Author

“Debra Anastasia writes books?” Raine Miller NYT Bestselling Author

“My love for Debra Anastasia burns stronger than a UTI.” Nancee Cain Amazing Author

“Please do not subject yourself to this ungodly form of torture.” L.B. Simmons Amazing Author

“Save your receipt.” Liv Morris Amazing Author

“This book is filled with the stuff of vagina nightmares.” Season Vining Amazing Author

“I wouldn’t read this book if you paid me a million dollars.” S. Celi Amazing Author

“Is this the gas lady with the flatulence problem that can do the bubble tricks with her vagina?” Totally Booked Blog

This one is for my family. Let’s laugh.

This one is a Hail Mary. Or an Oh Shit. Maybe a How Dare She? Anyone that puts up with this story deserves a medal. Can you believe people actually helped me with this? Amazing.

I’d like to acknowledge the following people and also apologize for adding them to this abomination.

T, J and D the family legacy begins here and I’m sorry about that.

Helena Hunting: I’m addicted to you and I refuse rehab.

Midian: My fireball. You inspire everything all the time.

Shannon: For your name and your friendship and your genius.

Nina: Seriously. PS ILY and your vault.

Erika: International Snogs

Texas K: My stupid is home with you.

Amanda: Baby showers and all the help!

Alice: Filet you very much.

Kiya: From then to now? We got this.

Teresa: I’m having a turkey sandwich

Jamie: The best no I’ve ever received.

Tijan: Your gorgeous heart is my favorite

Pam: Sisters rule

Kelly, Lb, Sara, Lisa M, Beverly C, Denis, Patti, Alicia, Michele, Nancee, Pam, Mom and Dad (S&D) Uncle Ted and Aunt Jo, I adore you all.

To my Omnific Family: My dreams flourish with you.

Jen Matera: From standing on the platform together to now? Who knew cousins could do all this?

Mayhem: Thank you for making this crazy story pretty.

A huge thank you to my family, readers, bloggers and author friends. I’m the luckiest weirdo.

Poughkeepsie Street team is the very best. I love you all!

Crushed Seraphim

Bittersweet Seraphim

Poughkeepsie

Return to Poughkeepsie

Saving Poughkeepsie

Poughkeepsie Begins (coming 2015)

Shackled

Late Night with Andres

The Revenger (coming 2015)

Fire in the Hole (Gynazule Series #2)

Debra Anastasia lives in Maryland mostly wearing her pajamas. She is never going to reveal how many of the things portrayed in this story really happened to her. Her family consists of two kids, a husband, three dogs and the best cat in the world. In her free time she likes to procrastinate.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SNEAK PEEK AT FIRE IN THE HOLE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONNECT WITH DEBRA ANASTASIA

SNEAK PEEK AT HELENA HUNTING'S PUCKED

Dove clutched her second prescription in one week to her chest as she approached the pharmacy counter in Save-Mart. She hated getting any embarrassing drug filled. Specifically, medicines required for parts of her body below her belly button and above her knees.

She even tried ordering personal items online. Her tampons and maxi pads had arrived in a covert brown box on her doorstep. She didn’t even have to look at the UPS deliveryman. Dove had peeked from behind the curtains in her apartment and waited until he was gone before she picked up the package. But her period was unpredictable and she was forgetful, so she had to do the period walk of shame damn near every month. Chocolate, something salty, and a box of hag rags gave her away to any cashier.

Her first UTI had snuck up on her like a hairy little kitten. She never got urinary tract infections, but when she wound up crying from the burning sensation while peeing, she made an appointment with her decidedly female general practitioner. Dove filled her prescription for antibiotics at her friendly Save-Mart pharmacy, comfortingly staffed by discreet ladies. Dove vaguely remembered commenting on her pharmacist’s large belly. Mrs. Pills should be about eight and a half months pregnant as of right now.

When Dove found herself battling a yeast infection due to the powerful antibiotics, she had to make a return trip to her doctor and picked up her current prescription. Now, as she got to the Save-Mart Pharmacy counter again, she waited patiently. She didn’t see Mrs. Pills. From the conversation Dove overheard between the woman’s assistants, she was now both a pharmacist and a happy mom to a healthy baby girl.

Dove didn’t notice the gentleman tucking purple and white bags into uniform alphabetic rows until he noticed her first. She had no time to run with her prescription clearly in view. He unfurled his large frame and his handsome smile at the same time.

Oh crap, kill me. Someone kill me dead. A lot.

“Hello. Dropping off?”

His voice should have been counting down the hits on some radio station. His green eyes flashed with friendliness and maybe a bit of flirtation. Dove swallowed hard and nodded.

After an awkward pause, Mr. Fitzwell, as his nametag claimed, reached between her breasts to pluck the paper from her clenched hands. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow—possibly at her bizarre behavior—and smoothed the paper on the laminate counter. Dove wanted to crap her pants when he announced the name of her drug way louder than Mrs. Pills would ever mention a lady prescription.

“Gynazule®?”

Anything with the sound “gyn” in it would perk up people’s ears. Dove looked over her shoulder. What looked to be an entire football team of boys was gathered around a grandmotherly lady. They were obviously showing her their support in great testosterone-filled numbers. Dove was sure the woman’s problem was a lot more devastating than her own.

All eyes were trained on Dove. She tried to curl her body into itself and turned back to Mr. Gorgeous McLoudypants.

Dove whispered quietly, “Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

Mr. Fitzwell leaned closer to hear her. “Okay.” He seemed to want to engage in some more conversation. “Have you ever used it before? Because it’s a little bit different than your regular VAGINAL cream.” His voice just carried; it was like he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

Dove let her hands grab one another for support. If she didn’t have a wall of teenage meat behind her, she would’ve run. She wasn’t exactly sure because her heart was pumping loudly in her ears, but she thought the supportive boys behind her were snickering.

“No, I… haven’t used it before.” Dove wondered if she could fit in her own purse.

He obviously was quite proud of his extensive knowledge of pharmaceutical products. He decided to spout the difference between “traditional” yeast infection creams and GYNAZULE®.

“You see it’s administered with one dose in an APPLICATOR. It’s unique because it contains adhesive that will stick to your VAGINAL WALLS, as opposed to running DOWN YOUR LEGS. I think it’s called VAGI-GRAB®. But let me check.” Mr. Fitzwell ignored the large crowd and clicked away on his computer.

Don’t check. Good fucks out loud. DON’T check!

Dove thought the blush she felt on her cheeks might actually give her sunburn. She tried to be savvy. She wanted to be an empowered woman who tossed tampons around like confetti to just anyone, but she wasn’t. She could always try.

“Yup. That’s it. VAGI-GRAB®. So, Ms. Glitch, any questions?” He turned his interested, trying-to-be helpful, sexy eyes back to her red, red face.

Dove’s voice got quieter as she tried to think of something—anything—to ask. “Um. Is it unscented?”

Mr. Fitzwell squinted as if he could turn up her volume by making his eyes smaller. “I’m not sure. Are you allergic to any types of VAGINAL medicines?”

Dove’s mouth talking before her head could shut her up. “Uh… I need to use very gentle soaps because I have sensitive… parts.” Her voice was getting higher and higher.

Mr. Fitzwell looked as professional as a brain surgeon. He clearly wanted her to have the correct information. There were definitely stifled chuckles behind her now. Dove was pretty sure her ass was blushing as well. The crack was sweating all on its own, like it was on a super high diving board about to jump.

“Okay, Ms. Glitch GYNAZULE® is not a soap. It will not work if you put it in and then rinse it off in the shower.” He patted the prescription paper to emphasize his words.

Oh God. We’re talking about me being naked, in the shower with cooter cream. Please world, end. Kill me.

“I know it’s not soap. I just… if it’s scented… I can’t do scented. Flowers and stuff like that. Fruit-flavored soaps make… things… burnish.” She could tell from the peeks at his face Mr. Fitzwell had never stepped foot in a bath and lotion store, wanting to try the array of fun fragrances. Nor had he purchased Peppermint Candy shower gel, foamed up his nether regions, and felt like he had dipped them in lava. Dove crossed and uncrossed her legs at the memory.

Mr. Fitzwell seemed concerned. “Okay, just a heads-up. It’s definitely not good to put any fruits or plant life near your genitals.” He made a V with his hands and formed his own pretend vagina in front of his pants.

Dove covered her eyes and tried to defend herself because now she could hear the sickly older woman beating her supporters with a purse.

Dove’s mumbling got louder with her embarrassment. “I don’t put weird things down… there. Just make sure that the cream’s vagina-scented. Just plain. For vaginas.” She kept her eyes on the counter.

Stop saying “vagina,” you screaming asshole!

The assistants were cooing and ogling pictures on the computer. Mrs. Pills had obviously forwarded images of her newborn baby to her coworkers at the perfect time for them not to come to Dove’s aid. Finally, Mr. Fitzwell asked her for her phone number and birth date.

“You can wait right over there; I’ll have this ready in ten minutes. I’m sure the itching is horrendous.”

Dove shuffled to the hard purple chairs and grabbed a magazine off the rack to hide behind. From the questions and directions he asked, Mr. Fitzwell was obviously Mrs. Pill’s temporary replacement for her maternity leave. Dove peered over the top of her magazine at him. He was stunning and from the way smiled, he almost knew it. His jaw was like a stiff, hard cliff somewhere in Ireland. The kind on postcards. His Adam’s apple was like his throat’s erection. Dominant. He had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up and his forearms revealed. Veins and muscles. From doing stuff. All kinds of sexy, manly stuff. The assistants fluffed their hair when he wasn’t looking and pretended to pinch his butt.

After the football team took care of the lovely grandma, Dove was as alone as one could be in a Save-Mart. Mr. Fitzwell looked over the counter while he was working to see if she was still there. Just before Dove could scurry her gaze away, she saw him look at her magazine and raise his eyebrows in surprise. Dove hadn’t thought to check which magazine she was pretending to be reading. She’d just needed a shield to hide behind. She closed it and looked at the cover. It was a copy of Cosmopolitan with large print over most of the cover:

MAKE YOUR ORGASMS LOUDER, HARDER AND LONGER!

Dove dropped the magazine like it was a snake that had bitten her.

Fuck you! Crazy lady magazine!

Dove wanted to cry. This was the worst twenty minutes in her entire existence. After all her semiclandestine feminine product acquisitions, she was facing everything she worked to protect herself against. And the drop-dead gorgeous pharmacist had witnessed it all.

He knew her vagina was sensitive to products and that it was itching. Dove contemplated the magazine again. She wondered if she could actually paper cut herself to death while sitting in the waiting area.

Mr. Fitzwell called her name. “Ms. Glitch? Your GYNAZULE® is ready.”

She grabbed her purse and stomped over to the counter. He was smiling at her, ready to ring up her purchase. “You might want to grab some probiotics to go with this. Fight the infection from the inside and the outside.”

Dove just stood and stared at him. She rarely got angry and certainly not over womanly products with a man, but she’d had enough.

“Listen, Mr. Fitzwell!” She slammed her purse down in front of him, and he blinked in surprise. “For future reference, when a lady hands you a script like that?” She pointed to the crinkly bag he was holding. “Go get one of the assistants to handle it. No one wants to talk about her ‘vaginal walls’ ”—she mimicked his V-shaped hand motion from earlier—“with a dude!”

Dove let out a satisfied breath.

I told him. Good for me.

She didn’t expect his hurt expression and dejected nodding. His loud voice was quiet, finally.

“Of course, ma’am. I’m very sorry.”

He motioned for her to sign the screen in front of her to accept the prescription. She hated the look on his face—like he was a puppy and she had just kicked him. She took the bag from his hands, careful not to touch his beautiful, long fingers. She couldn’t leave him all dejected and dragging.

“It’s okay. I overreacted. I get mean when I’m embarrassed.”

Instead of helping he shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Great job, Fitzwell. Living the dream now, you big fool.” He ran a hand through his perfect hair. He was talking to himself.

Dove bit her lip, and he used her pause to explain himself more. “This is my first day as a pharmacist. I just wanted to be really thorough and make sure you were comfortable with the medicine. I did a great job with that, huh?”

She had been angry with him, but now she had compassion. This was his dream, and she was probably the worst customer to have right out of the gate.

Dove smiled at him. “It’s okay, Mr. Fitzwell. I think you’re going to make a great pharmacist.”

He looked at her doubtfully.

“No, really, you will.” She reached out and patted his hand to solidify her message.

They both felt the spark—an actual, blue, snapping spark. Dove’s wool jacket, combined with the pharmacy rug, had turned her into a walking electrical appliance. They both pulled their hands away from the contact, shaking their fingers.

“Damn!” Mr. Fitzwell stepped a few feet away from the counter and her.

Dove laughed; it was clear nothing here was going to go well.

“Well, I guess you got me back. I hope you feel better soon, Ms. Glitch.” He was smiling at her laughter. At least they could end the experience with a bit of joy. His teeth were pearly white and straight, and there was a hint of a dimple. Her uterus swooned.

“Call me Dove. You already know so much about me.” She held out her hand formally.

He gave her a huge smile and went about the most awkward handshake of her life. He touched her palm with his first finger. When there was no shock, he flicked her finger to get rid of any latent electricity.

“Ow!” She winced. His thumping forefinger made her fingers curl into her hand.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m making a mess of this, but it’s just that I hate shocks.” He finally grasped her hand, but it was before she could completely unclamp her fingers, so he wound up shaking her claw.

“I’m Johnson. Thanks for being my first customer and breaking me in.”

He seemed like he was about to release her hand when she dropped her prescription bag between them. They both reached for it at the same time and clanked foreheads together like drunken sumo wrestlers.

“Damn it!” Dove staggered backward.

Johnson put his hands to his head, wincing in pain. The assistants tried to stop giggling, but lost their battle. Dove scooped up the bag and backed away from the disastrous transaction.

“Well, Johnson, I might remember nothing at all after that whack, but my head won’t forget when you banged me.”

Oh, holy piss cushions. I just said he banged me. Like ‘sex’ bang.

Johnson reached into the little pharmacy refrigerator and pulled out the first bottle he laid his hands on. He pressed it against the slight contusion on his forehead.

He waved in her direction and had clearly missed her verbal faux pas because he was deep in the middle of his own, shouting, “I like to leave a mark when I bang people!” in his too-loud voice.

Dove’s last glimpse of him made her smile for hours. To his forehead, as impromptu first aid, he had a bottle, clearly marked in bold letters: Anal Suppository! Keep Cold!

For days after her horrendous meeting with Mr. Johnson Loudy McSexypus Fitzwell, Dove would stop to just blush from head to toe. Luckily, her yeast infection and UTI cleared up with the meds. She was able to commence life as normal and prayed that her most delicate of organs stayed disease free until Mrs. Pills got back from maternity leave. Dove blushed again at the thought of her own feminine parts.

Back to normal. Officially, on paper, Dove worked as a ticket ripper for the local park’s kiddie carousel. She was also in college to be something but had yet to put down a field as a concentration. As soon as she decided who she was definitely going to be, she changed her mind or failed a test. Deciding meant confidence, and they didn’t sell that on street corners. This was her second year as a senior, and she was shaping up to stack a third year on top of the other two.

Every so often, her guidance counselor would demand a meeting with her. Ms. Jorish dressed in free-flowing dresses and made her own jewelry. Dove was pretty sure Ms. Jorish wore buckets of perfume so she could try to cover the smell of pot smoke that lingered around her like an aura. Their meeting earlier that day had been dismal.

“Dover, please come in, sweetheart. Lovely to see you. Please, have a seat.” Ms. Jorish pushed Dove into a deep beanbag chair.

Dove tried to mumble a correction, “It’s Dove. It’s Dove. Duh-vuh. But all one syllable.”

Ms. Jorish took off her ever-present sunglasses to give Dove a hard stare. “Sweetheart, I need to place you. We have to nail you down. You’re a square peg, and I’ll hammer you into a round hole soon.”

Despite her carefree attitude, Ms. Jorish liked to see her students graduate. Dove’s file was looking grubby and lived in.

“Let’s talk about the journalism, Dover. Have you firmed that up? How many credits do you have left?” Ms. Jorish collapsed in the other beanbag chair. Her hair flew around her head like someone had turned on a high-powered leaf blower for an instant.

Dove looked around the office, wishing she could avoid answering. “Um. I was doing pretty well, but then I failed to give a really good oral…”

She felt an uncomfortable gas bubble trickle up her esophagus, and Dove cursed herself for loving soda. She guzzled it straight from the can and liked it ice cold. Usually, she tried to find a quiet place to release any leftover consequences from her unhealthy addiction. But not today. Dove pinched her lips together, sealing the evil burp inside. Ms. Jorish waited, but when it was obvious Dove wasn’t going to continue her train of thought, the counselor went off on a tangent.

“Oral? Are we talking sex, Dover? Oral sex is sex. I’ll tell you what, so many of the kids nowadays get sucked into giving the oral. They don’t think of the consequences. Not all penii are cleanly. And if you’re too busy having all the sex, you can’t concentrate on your work. God knows what kind of STD you can inhale like a vacuum.”

Dove’s eyes watered as the burp became a painful rock in her throat. Her blush crept up on her, blotchy and obvious.

Please, please don’t talk about sex. Oh God, stop the talking.

To open her mouth would be to unleash a horrific belch, so Dove just sat. Ms. Jorish obviously took the blush and tears in Dove’s eyes as an admission of her promiscuity.

“Hormones’ll drive you crazy, Dover. All you’ll do is think with your vagina.” Ms. Jorish gave a deep, animated voice to Dove’s privates. “More! More!”

Dove’s eyes bugged out. She thought of the thin door to Ms. Jorish’s office.

Please, let the hallway be empty.

Ms. Jorish rolled her head around and returned her voice to normal.

“Tell me, Dover, have you taken up any new hobbies? Is there anything you do besides all the oral?” She leaned forward in her beanbag, squishing it noisily around her bottom.

Too much time had passed for Dove to correct the woman about the sex. She’d wanted to say, “Oral report.!, I did poorly on the oral report!”

Dove attempted to speak without moving her lips. “I’ve learned to knit some scarves. With some pattern.”

Safely keeping the hard burp at the back of her throat, Dove was pleased she had conveyed her thoughts.

Ms. Jorish sat for a few minutes tapping her finger against her lips. “I’ve got it, Dover!” She became exuberant and tried to stand too quickly. The beanbag held firm to the woman’s bottom, and Dove had to watch the bizarre performance of Ms. Jorish crawling and flailing around on the floor for a bit before using her desk to drag herself to her feet. She returned to her conversation as though the spectacle hadn’t happened at all.

“You”—she pointed between Dove’s eyes—“are perfect for a job I just thought of. Sometimes I amaze myself, truly.”

Ms. Jorish held out a hand to help Dove up. Instead of assisting her, it just made it more unmanageable to drag her butt out of the beanbag’s grasp.

Finally, they were eye to eye. “Dover, my brother’s a warden at the Middletown Penitentiary.” The counselor held her hands up and made a square with her fingers. “I see you there as an arts and crafts director. For the inmates. We’ll combine your love of blow jobs with the knitting!” She tossed up her hands in appreciation of her own genius.

Dove wanted to puke or at least oppose this woman’s horrible new plan for her life, but Ms. Jorish was high on her own idea.

She pushed Dove out the door. “Don’t worry sweetheart. I’ll send your info to him tonight. This’ll be perfect.” Just before she closed the door in Dove’s face, she tried to comfort Dove a bit. “Don’t worry, Dover. I won’t tell him about the addiction to fellatio. Just say no to penii for a little while if you can!” The woman’s voice carried and echoed in the hallway.

Dove thanked her lucky stars that it was empty like she had prayed. She leaned against Ms. Jorish’s door and finally released the burp she had been holding down. It was a doozy, and she covered her mouth, worried the counselor would open the door at the noise. As she hurried away from the scene of her bodily-function crime, she rounded the corner to the lobby of the building. She stopped short at the spectacle of thirty other students peering silently up at her from their Downward Dog positions.

The men in the yoga class were smiling in her direction while the women shook their heads in disgust.

Dove mentally reviewed the words they had surely heard Ms. Jorish use just seconds before. And Dove’s loud belch. She covered her mouth and tried to apologize.

“I’m sorry… that I’m alive. I’m… leaving… now.”

She learned later that the gymnasium where the yoga class was usually held was having the floors refinished. They had to meet in the lobby right next to Ms. Jorish’s office for at least a month. And they were quiet motherfuckers.

A fidgety child snapped Dove back to the present moment at her carousel job. He was picking his nose with one hand and holding out his red ticket with the other. She took it carefully from his hand, trying to avoid the boogers, and ripped it in half. In addition to ripping the children’s tickets, her other job at the carousel was to make sure they were buckled on the horses.

It sounded like a wonderful job when she had applied. She loved to be outside, and the park was very pretty. The eccentric old man who owned the ride liked the idea of a ticket taker, but the ride really didn’t need one. The moms and dads bought the tickets not ten steps from where Dove stood, and they could easily buckle their own kids.

The happy kids were often screaming and kicking when it came time to take them off the ride. She had perfected unraveling their chubby little hands from the gold pole that kept the horses from running free. Unfortunately, there were many times she’d had to clean a horse’s tail and intricate saddle when a full diaper had exploded after an excited little tush wiggled in it.

She often found herself with large chunks of empty time on her hands. The owner didn’t mind when she pulled out her phone to tweet. He mistakenly thought Dove was working on her class papers on her “newfangled, super tiny keyboard.” She didn’t bother to correct him because on Twitter, she was someone else.

Dove loved to see her sexy icon on the screen. It was mostly boobs. On Twitter she never burped or mumbled or had vaginal itching.

She was @Lotsa_Vampersex there. And she was witty on the Twitty. She was up to four hundred followers who watched her tweets with baited breath. Lotsa found herself in achingly sexy situations in her pretend life and she tweeted about it often. Dove gave a little tweet just to see them get excited.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Licking an ice pop slowly in my sheer, white teddy.

She was 140 characters of awesome, every single damn time. She scrolled happily through her @’s as the followers trickled in.

Hotdaddy3_6 (@Hotdaddy3):

@Lotsa_Vampersex tell me more Lotsa!

One after another, they reminded her that she mattered, and she liked it. She checked the clock on her cell phone and closed the ride for her brief lunch break. She waved at Marge, the ticket seller, who was knee-deep in a bodice ripper romance book by Debra Anastasia and ignored Dove completely.

Dove found a seat overlooking the pond and took out a yogurt from her large, monogrammed bag. She hated how big it was, but her cute, kitschy lime green lunch sack was home airing out. Her pickle had exploded out of its watery pouch last week, and Dove had no idea how to clean it.

Not every day needs to smell like pickles.

Her large, navy one was big enough to support all the side dishes required for a huge family reunion.

She’d just scooped a big spoonful of vanilla yogurt into her mouth when she felt the wood of the bench creak its disapproval at the added weight of another person. She looked to her left shoulder and almost spit out the contents of her mouth. Her cheeks were full like a chipmunk’s as she took in the sight of her loud, gorgeous, temporary pharmacist.

He smiled at her and exclaimed, “GYNAZULE®!”

He pounded her on the back like an old friend, and Dove had to work to keep her yogurt in her mouth.

“Eating some yogurt? That’s great for your VAGINAL health. Good bacteria and all.” He seemed to take her distressed look as a reprimand and made a face. “Sorry. Vaginal health,” he stage-whispered in a seeming reaction to her tirade at the pharmacy.

She’d recovered enough from her shock and was just about to swallow when Johnson decided to become concerned.

“Are you going to throw up?” He looked intensely into her eyes.

He’s beautiful.

She shook her head furiously.

Just swallow, you dumbass.

“You’re choking? Oh God.” Johnson launched into action with fervor.

He jumped up and stood in front of her. “They taught us this. Stay calm. I know the Heimlich.”

If Dove could have screamed, she would have; instead, she became a floppy rag doll as Johnson yanked her from her sitting position. She tried to wave him off and tell him with her eyes to just give her a motherfucking second to swallow. But he assumed the position behind her and accidentally grabbed her boobs while lining up his hands under her ribs.

She heard his embarrassed but determined voice in her ear. “Sorry about that. Hang on, Gynazule®.”

He was exceptionally forceful, and the Heimlich works for a reason. Dove was forced to expel her yogurt all over her stadium-sized lunch sack. A small crowd of joggers and moms pushing strollers had stopped to watch the struggle with the intense curiosity of rubberneckers.

He was still jerking her all around before she could holler, “Put me down! I was eating! Not choking! Damn it!”

Johnson set her down and whirled her around. “Airway, good. Breathing, good. Circulation, good.” He ignored the crowd and focused on her face. “Are you okay?”

Dove wiped her mouth and slapped her thigh. “Yes. I was swallowing my yogurt. I wasn’t choking. And my name’s Dove, not GYNAZULE®.”

Understanding hit Johnson on the top of his head, and he looked disgusted with himself. “Man, I just can’t get anything right. I’m so sorry, Dove.”

She sighed and turned to the gawkers. “Move along. Haven’t you seen a girl hurl yogurt before?” She motioned at them in anger. “Unless you’re all going help me clean it up?”

The crowd began to disperse. Some were laughing; some looked grossed out. Johnson took a handkerchief from his pocket and headed for her sack. He had every intention of using his fancy linen to clean up her spew.

“No, Fitzwell. Stop.” She grabbed the sack and tossed it in the nearby trashcan. “These things are impossible to clean.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. He looked adorable without his lab coat. His perfectly pleated pants and tie were obviously expensive. She collapsed on the next bench over and held her head in her hands. She felt him sit next to her.

His super-loud voice was slightly softer as he tried to apologize again. “Why do I do the stupidest stuff around you?”

More than her frustration with him bubbled to the top, and she decided to vent. “You know why? Because I’m a sucking hole of failure. My job? I collect tickets from shit-filled kids. My career? According to my cracked-out guidance counselor, I should be giving blow jobs to felons in jail in between teaching them to knit. I keep being in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, at the wrong freaking time. I suck at being a human.”

She risked a glance at his handsome face. He squinted at the horizon, the sun picking up the blond highlights in his hair. He looked like he might say something that would ease her mind. Instead: “I really think it’s a bad idea to bring knitting needles into jail.”

He turned to look at her in earnest.

“Oh, for crap’s sake. I’m not teaching in jail!” She stomped her feet in front of her, causing little dust clouds to form around her shoes.

He put his hand on hers. “Hey, Dove, I’m kidding.”

And he was. He was smiling at her despite her lousy job. He was smiling at her even though he knew she had vaginal problems.

“Good. Because I may’ve had to beat the crap out of you if you weren’t.” She let him keep his hand in hers, enjoying the attention of a real, non-Twitter man.

The two sat quietly on the park bench, and Dove liked it. If she sat perfectly still, neither could ruin the moment. He seemed to feel the change as well as they watched two squirrels bound about in front of them.

The squirrels were adorable and brave, jumping close to Dove and Johnson—maybe because they were motionless.

Dove wanted to comment on the Disneyesque scene in front of them but kept her words on the tip of her tongue, not wanting to spoil the quiet. The two squirrels sat side by side, each a mirror of the other, munching on acorns in their paws. With their fuzzy faces and sweet, black eyes, they reminded Dove of exactly why she loved the park. Next to her, Johnson sighed in contentment.

The male squirrel dropped his nut and jumped quickly behind the female squirrel.

Oh dear God! Don’t do it. You horny little bastard!

The male squirrel refused to read Dove’s mind and started climbing on the female squirrel.

Dove heard Johnson’s groan of disgust as the male began the motions of copulation. She shook her head.

Fucking figures.

The tender new feelings between Dove and this handsome man were now spoiled with the obscene visual of the hairy rodents humping.

Johnson had to comment. “Wow. Squirrels usually engage in some style of MATING dance.” He looked around the park for other examples to prove his point. “Much like humans, they’re attracted to the smell of the GENITALS and fancy tail motions.”

Dove tried to figure out where she belonged in this conversation that he apparently thought was acceptable small talk. The obscene, public intercourse ended with one final, furry pump. The female never even dropped her nut.

“Well, I guess that was a dinner date.” Dove covered her mouth and shook her head. She prayed for a flock of hungry hawks to swoop in and eat the little Snow White porn stars so she and Mr. Gorgeouspants could just stop talking about nether regions for a minute.

“This time of the year, NUTS are more important than anything else. To a squirrel, that is.” Johnson played with his tie in a way that told Dove he had hardly worn one before.

He seemed to be deep in thought before an idea hit him. “Oh. Your lunch! You had to throw it out because of me! Can I buy you something?”

Dove thought of throwing her cell phone at the Chip ’n’ Dale imposters in front of them. The boy was getting a twinkle in his eye again. His fat-assed girlfriend would never run when she was having a nut chow down. She would take it like the whore she was.

“Um. I have to get back to the ride. My break’s like fifteen minutes.” Dove checked her phone out of habit.

“No. Look, there’s a hot dog stand over there. I’ll be right back.” He was up and crossing the grass purposefully before Dove could tell him to stop. She slid her phone back into her pocket.

Weiner Wonderland was wheeled into the park at ten thirty in the morning and wheeled out at nine thirty at night. Sal never changed his gloves once in all that time. He never left to use the bathroom, either. To the ladies who purchased his hot dogs, he would always hand them over with a sneer. He watched them eat and licked his lips as if they were latching onto his penis instead of processed meat.

Dove never, ever ate a dog from his cart. If she did indulge in a tube steak, it was in her own apartment, on a hot dog bun with nothing on it. Plain, plain, plain. She hated to have any food on her plate touch one another. Soon enough, Johnson was headed back to her with a soda and Sal’s wiener with everything on it.

Sal was wiggling his one, long unibrow, licking his lips in anticipation of her mouth coming in contact with his meat. Dove’s stomach rolled at the thought of even putting the oily hot dog in her hands.

Johnson had a huge gait, like he was stepping over little towns of fairies and it brought him back to her with his prize quickly. Dove looked at the ominous dog. It was sloppy—piled high with relish, mustard, ketchup, and some brown chunks Sal insisted was chili.

“I didn’t know what you like, so I got you everything.” Johnson extended the dog to her.

“That’s a great policy when you’re shopping in a jewelry store. Not so much for Sal and his wieners.” Dove cringed but accepted the meat.

Johnson looked crestfallen. “Look at me—mistake after mistake. I can’t get it right.”

Dove hated to see him dejected. “No, it’s great. I’m starving. Ejecting the contents of my stomach has really brought out the bear in me.”

She lifted the hot dog to her mouth and tried not to smell it. In her peripheral vision, she saw Sal put his gloved hands down his pants. She snapped off a small bite and chewed as quickly as she could.

Johnson popped the top of her soda and held it out to her like a gentleman. She guzzled the cold soda to wash away the traces of the meat down her hatch.

“I’m glad you’re eating, I was afraid I had ruined your lunch.” Johnson rubbed his hands together, smiling at her.

“This is so much better than nothing. No, really. I love penis-shaped meat.” Dove tried to gag down another bite but switched to more soda.

Stop saying penis, you fart fruit.

“You hate it. I’m a jerk. What time do you get off? I need to make this up to you.” He sat down next to her.

Dove wondered if this was the pharmacist asking her on a date. @Lotsa_Vampersex would’ve started gyrating and popping buttons off her shirt.

But Dove was reserved. “I get off around seven. I have to wipe down the horses.”

Johnson looked over at the carousel. “You have to groom the fake horses?”

Dove tried not to look at the oozing hot dog. Sal was dry-humping his hot dog cart. Again.

“No, I have to antibacterial them. Children are filthy.” She bit her lip.

Now she sounded like a child racist. Or an age racist. Or some withered-ovary shrew.

“Children are germ carriers.” He seemed to be trying to continue her odd train of thought.

Dove sought to ease the tension with another bite of the meat. Johnson grimaced as the toppings dripped down her chin. She wiped them off with her sleeve.

Sal’s humping reached a fever pitch. Johnson looked over his shoulder to see what was causing the banging-on-metal noise.

After witnessing the spectacle, he turned back to Dove. She had downed another huge gulp of her drink, hoping whatever corrosive acid in soda that rots teeth in minutes would also kill the festering germs Sal had added to her dog.

“Do you think that vendor’ll be okay?” Johnson ran a hand through his perfect hair.

Dove’s punishment for her turbo drinking was another epic burp. She refused to release it.

Better to have it go out the back than out the mouth.

Dove tried to find a solution. “Yeah, he’ll be all right. He has groinal seizures?”

Did I just say that out loud?

The medical nerd in Johnson perked up. “Really? I wonder if that’s a side effect of any medicines he’s taking.”

He got lost in his contemplation. Marge was waving at Dove with her horrible romance novel. There was a crappy-looking little kid holding a red ticket.

“Well, thanks for the lunch. I’ve got to go do my thing.” Dove thought it’d be rude to throw away the hot dog with only two bites taken out of it.

She juggled her soda so she could hold out her hand.

Johnson stood and gave her a forceful shake. “I’ll be back at seven. Thanks, Dove, for not pressing charges or anything about the whole yogurt incident.”

“You, too. Okay. Later. Bye.” You, too? What the hell am I saying?

Dove rushed back to her spot by the gate and set her gift hot dog from Johnson down on her little folding chair.

The crappy child held his ticket up to her while staring with his big, blue, blinky eyes. He had the chubby cheeks of good health. Dove hated the chubby cheeks; in her experience, those little bastards filled their diapers every third breath.

Without fail, his mother took a shaky, unfocused cell phone picture of Cheeks and waved at him every single time he came around on the ride. Dove didn’t like how the hot dog kept repeating itself, battling with the soda for the dominance of her tongue.

Little Chubs McShitty had indeed honked one off on the horse. Luckily, his pants held in his mess. He began the epic fling, fly, cry when Dove put his little feet by the exit. The mother thanked her and called the awful stench “stinky poopy poos,” which didn’t make it smell any less like a drunk trucker just took a man-sized dump in the direct vicinity. After the little bastard left with his mom, Dove spent the rest of her time tweeting and contemplating her date with Mr. Fitzwell.

I mean, it had to be a date, right?

She decided to tease her Twitter followers:

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Don’t get jealous. I have a date tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll still be dreaming of u.

The ride had very few customers. Dove eventually threw out her hot dog because the flies were starting to make the unappetizing thing look even worse. She tried to avoid looking at Sal because he’d take a limp dog and wiggle it in her direction when he caught her eye.

Never again, Sal. Never again.

Dove dipped into her purse and refreshed her lip gloss and fluffed her hair. It was now six forty-five and Johnson would be back soon. She wished she had time to go back and put her nice underwear on.

Get real, Dove. You haven’t had a date that didn’t involve a keyboard in…

She sighed when she realized she wasn’t exactly sure she was smart enough to do the math on that one.

It’s better this way. No time to get all anal and second-guess myself.

She got a horrible stomach cramp.

Stupid Sal. That hot dog’s going through me like a freight train.

Dove felt the traveling gas bubble that her soda addiction often gave her.

Damn it. I better pop this one off before Johnson shows up. Don’t want it to still be lingering when he arrives.

Another sharp cramp made her grab her stomach.

Oh. No.

She began feeling the feverish chills.

If that fucker gave me food poisoning, I’ll drown him in that hot dog water.

The gas bubble competed with the cramps for mastery of her anus.

This isn’t going to be good.

Dove gave a small push hoping for a tiny fart and was alarmed at the forceful boom from her bottom. She was about to tell Marge that she was going to have to cut out early when she unlocked her phone and Twitter came up on her screen. Out of habit, she checked her replies. The boys were sad she had a date. She loved toying with them.

Johnson’s voice caused her to jump and fart at the same time. She was hoping her little scream of surprise drowned out the unladylike noise.

He was in front of her, finishing his sentence, so she tried to tune in.

“…you do the Twitter? So do I. What’s your handle? I’m new at it. I just picked my birthday and combined them with my favorite drug. I love numbers.”

He was talking and laughing while holding the handle of a huge cooler on wheels.

I sharted when he scared me. Oh my God. Kill me.

Dove tried to pretend that she hadn’t just shit her pants. Johnson hadn’t noticed. He was still happy to have a Twitter connection to her.

“My Twitter is @06201984M358. I know, right? Who can remember that?” He stood there shaking his head.

Dove stood stock-still; she didn’t want to stir anything up. But it was only a matter of time before it was very, very obvious something foul was afoot.

Or ashit.

“Well, sorry I’m a little early. I have a problem with worrying whether or not my clock’s right. Sometimes when I wear these pants, my watch goes a bit slower.”

He smiled to reveal glamorous teeth. When she didn’t respond, he shrugged.

“Do you smell that? Oh God, it’s awful.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Dove gave him the first lie she could think of. “A crappy kid crapped his pants.” She tried to curl her shoulders around her face.

“Well, that’s what crappy kids do. It’s still lingering. That’s one ripe kid.”

Dove felt her panties squish. Another cramp reared its head, wanting to burst out seeing that her digestive system had gotten started.

“He was disgusting. Children are the devil.”

Go away beautiful man. Just walk away.

He raised his eyebrow at her harsh statement. “You’re rough on the kids, huh? Well, anyway. I bought you a new cooler. Look, it has wheels. I noticed how big your last one was, so I upgraded you. You could fit the hugest lunch in here!”

He dragged it around like a dog on a leash. The cooler was humongous. Dove tried not to move.

“Man, that stench is just hanging here like a fiend, right?” Johnson waved his hand in front of his face.

Dove nodded.

“Okay. Well, just wanted to drop this off and apologize again. I better get going. Thanks a lot for being here. At your job. I’m going to run, ’cause honestly, that smell’s making me nauseous.”

Dove nodded and waved. He waited for her to say more, but she just covered her face with her hand. Soon she heard his retreating steps. He didn’t want a date; he wanted to give her the biggest cooler in existence. She’d crapped her pants and acted like a baby-hating, nonverbal, ungrateful, stinky bitch.

This is really where a meteor could fall on my head, and I’d be okay with that. They could even use this cooler as my coffin.

Dove waddled through her locking-up-the-carousel procedures with a wiggle and a squish. She mentally reviewed her options and realized she had very few. She couldn’t drive home sitting in her own mess.

Luckily, she remembered that she had a manatee-patterned beach towel in the trunk of her car. She rolled her new cooler to her car and spent an ungodly time trying to fit it somewhere in her small interior.

I’m going to have to tie this bitch to the roof!

She hefted the huge monster on top of her car and popped the trunk to get the new piece of her outfit.

The cement bathroom at the park was a chilly, drafty, spidery place. The old gentlemen who cleaned it twice a week was not known for getting into all the cracks and crevices. Dove cleaned herself up as best she could and realized quickly there was no salvaging the bottom half of her ensemble. She didn’t want to flush her panties and pants down the toilet. It was one thing to toss a tampon or two down the hatch, but a whole other story to ask the drain to handle a grown woman’s pants.

After quickly running out of options, Dove turned her pants and underwear into the most disgusting sushi roll in the world and tucked it into the little maxi-pad mailbox in the stall.

More like crammed that fucker in.

She wrapped her naked ass in the towel and put her sneakers back on. Dove wrung her hands and shook her head at the thought of the kindly old janitor pulling that nonsense out next time he cleaned the crappers.

She caught herself in the scratched up piece of tin that sufficed as a mirror. Black socks and tennis shoes really completed the I-just-escaped-from-a-mental-hospital chic Dove knew she had nailed. She was glad, at the very least, that her stomach seemed to have settled.

She tried to make her bright, blue beach towel and herself blend into her surroundings.

Be the trees. Be the trees.

A loud, slow wolf whistle rang through the air like a siren. Dove looked around wildly for its source, hoping she was being paranoid and it wasn’t meant for her. But she wasn’t. Sal the Weiner Wonderman was in a frenzy over her towel. Black socks and sneakers were apparently his favorite foot fetish. The humping of the cart began again. But this time with every push of his crazed hips, he moved his cart closer to her.

Hump, push. Hump, push.

She was being pursued by Sal, his unibrow, and his cart. Dove gripped her towel tighter, feeling more naked now than she did when she was actually naked.

She knew she should have tried to secure the cooler while still in her shitty pants because now she had to drive with her hand out the driver’s side window, holding onto the cooler for dear life.

I’m going to get pulled over. I just fucking know it.

Dove drove as slowly as she could and took stops with the gentlest touch of her break. Still, she had to concentrate hard on keeping the cooler from toppling off and becoming a huge road hazard. And she was hungry and it sucked because she knew she was supposed to get food at the store tonight. There was not a damn thing to eat in her cabinets. She had a great idea and rolled into the local McDonald’s.

Their drive-thru sits low; no one will notice me.

Of course, it was a poor plan. She ordered her meal and pulled up to the server’s window. The teenage boy took in the whole scene she presented. He said nothing as he accepted her credit card, but she figured out he had an opinion when he handed her the sack of food.

“Miss, do you want me to put this straight into your cooler, or are you going to take it right to the beach?”

Dove rolled her eyes and tossed the food on her passenger seat. The stupid boy-bitch had a good idea, and when she parked in front of her building, she put the McDonald’s in the cooler and slapped the lid closed. If she could just get up to her apartment without anyone seeing her and without dropping her manatee towel, she’d be golden.

Well, as golden as you can be when you shit your pants.

She managed to get the cooler off the car and drag it into the foyer, manatee towel firmly secure. Dove’s entire social group was contained within the building. The first and last person she had to deal with was Duke. He lived on the ground floor and left his door open. Always.

He didn’t like closing the bathroom door, either, so Dove always made sure she knocked before she went into his apartment to talk to him. She wanted to sneak upstairs quietly, but she found the cooler was too big for her stairwell.

Duke heard her slamming around and called out to her, “Hey! Whoever it is out there, get your ass in here to help me!”

Dove hollered back, “No way! I have to get to my apartment!”

He sounded a bit desperate. “No, please! Hey, Dove. I’m kind of having an emergency. Get in here!”

“Duke, bringing you a fresh roll of toilet paper is not an emergency.” Dove decided to leave the cooler in the foyer until she had pants on.

Cooler wrangling needed pants, for sure.

“No, seriously. I’m having problems with my TV!” He sounded like he was talking from beneath something.

Dove took a few steps and shouted at him, “Take your hand off your nuts and get your own damn remote control! I’m not coming in there because you can’t reach it!”

He was wheezing when he finally got to the point. “My TV’s killing me! It’s on top of me! Help!”

Dove knew he was messing with her, but she had to take a look and make sure. She could just pop her head in and see that he was just being an asshole as usual. She didn’t expect the visual of Duke getting squished into his carpet like a bug. He was supporting the full weight of a huge, flat screen television on his back.

“Oh crap!” She held tight to her towel and grabbed the TV with one hand.

It was enough support for Duke to roll out from under it. In the following seconds, he engaged in more activity than Dove had ever witnessed him doing.

He was actually pretty fucking strong. He claimed to go to the gym daily, but Dove and her friends decided he was just at the dirty bookstore. When the screen was lying flat on the floor, Duke gave a huge sigh and looked her up and down.

“Crapped your pants, huh?” He winked at her.

Dove was mortified. “What? No. No!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. I recognize the towel of shame. I’ve bet and lost a bunch of damn times.” He stood and stretched his arms.

Dove tried to distract him. “You bought a new TV? Where’d you come up with the money for that, Grizzly Adams?”

Duke had been growing a crotch-hair-inspired beard for months. When Dove had asked him about it, he confessed that he kept forgetting to buy shaving cream.

Duke got all excited. “I got it for free! Craigslist!”

Duke pulled a printout from his back pocket and held it for Dove to read:

It told the tale of an angry ex-girlfriend ruining the screen with the paused silhouette of gay porn.

“Jesus, Duke. Oh my God! What the hell are you going to do with it?” Dove handed back the paper like it was made of dog crap.

“I’m going to watch the fuck out of it. I’m not afraid of a little man porn. Just remind me to turn it off when my mom stops by.” Duke disappeared behind the TV to adjust the cords.

“Can you either drop your towel or put something on to help me wrestle this TV into its rightful place?” Duke wiggled his eyebrows at Dove.

“Let me go throw some sweats on.” Dove looked between Duke and her towel. She didn’t completely trust him to not try to yank on it. He didn’t move but proceeded to make loud fart noises to tease her with every step she took.

When Dove returned to his apartment, she plopped her dinner on his table. He was ready for her to help him lift. They managed to get the TV onto the brackets he had prepared. Finally, Duke turned on his masterpiece. It came to life and was horrifically true to the ad. The word silhouette had been kind; it was more a stamp of graphic pornfection.

Duke grimaced. “Dude. That’s pretty harsh.”

Dove shrugged and sat down to eat. Duke stole some of her fries while he programmed his new, garish, one-of-a-kind set.

“So, how was your day?” He answered for her, “Let me guess. Shitty?”

“Will I ever live this down?” Dove took another bite of her hamburger.

“Will I ever live this down?” He pointed at the hard-core screen.

“No. Never. Not at all.” Dove smiled at his stupid new acquisition.

“As I thought.” Duke assumed his usual position on his couch, and Dove occasionally tossed a french fry in his direction.

ESPN had never been so racy before, but Duke seemed pleased that he could still see his game. The Jets’ winning score was prominently displayed on the one of the gentlemen’s butt cheeks. Dove finished her dinner and dragged her new lunchbox into Duke’s living room.

“Can I keep this here? It doesn’t fit up the stairs.” Dove rolled the cooler to its temporary spot as a coffee table.

Duke barely spared her a glance but nodded in her direction. She knew better than to close his door. Now he and his horrible television would be the apartment building’s welcoming committee.

After climbing the stairs, Steve the Cat met Dove at her front door. She had rescued the black and white cat from her parent’s neighborhood. It soon became obvious that the cat wasn’t right in the head. From his lopsided gait, she knew he had most likely been run over by a car. Steve the Cat had the most unnerving habit of staring people directly in the eyes. At first it was adorable, but then it became alarming. Many a night Dove had awoken to find Steve the Cat sitting on her chest, watching her face like it was a shaking mouse. He also liked to pee in shoes. He was an awful pet, but Dove felt responsible. He eyed her sneakers and then stared her in the face in lieu of welcome.

Dove sat down at her computer and logged into her Twitter account. She needed the release and the attention.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Walked home today wearing only a towel ;)

She checked her replies and they were all positive.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Tonight I’m drawing a deep bubble bath and only the very tips of my nipples will peek out. *licking my lips. *

The dirtier she got, the more followers she had pile into her inbox. She was busy thinking about what she could say about her perfectly shaped ass when one of her replies made her choke.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Lotsa! I’m new to the twitter! Your bath sounds wonderful. You may want to moisturize afterward!

The name and bizarre string of numbers tickled something evil in her mind.

Nah, it can’t be.

He continued in the next tweet.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex I’m a Save-Mart pharmacist, so you can trust me. You don’t want to get scaly patches on your skin!

What the hell?

It was him. It was super-sexy cooler giver. He was tweeting with the sexy her.

OH MY GOD!

Dove’s mouth was open for so long she drooled on her keyboard.

Fuckdickles! How did he find me? It’s the sexy me; the men love it.

She wasn’t confident in her skin and bones, but the letters-and-screen her had balls the size of conga drums.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 I always put lotion on… soft and … gentle.

She hit update and held her breath. If it was him, the reply would have to include something else about her health.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Please be careful, if you’re sensitive to fragrances, like a customer I had today, you might get a touch of Vaginitis!

That’s him, all right.

Dove was relieved. He didn’t seem to make any connection between Twitter Dove and the real Dove, and she couldn’t imagine him being devious. She blushed deeply with the thought of her next tweet.

Do I dare?

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 I touch my vaginitis all the time. * heavy pant *

Dove started giggling to herself and bouncing up and down in her seat. His reply was quick.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Vaginitis is inflammation or infection of the vulva and vagina. If you experience any discharge, give me the tweet!

Dove curled her lip in disdain. She couldn’t even twist a reply to that into anything sexy. She clicked on his profile. His next tweet to the world gave out way too much personal information. He had no sense of the anonymity twitter should require.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I am going to dinner at the Olive Garden. With their endless pasta I have no idea how they make money. Have a great night the Twitter!

Dove touched the screen. His picture was a white pill that looked as if it was glued to the wood paneling of her dead grandparents’ rumpus room. She bit her fingernail. He would be at Olive Garden. If she rushed through her shower routine, she could be there conveniently, maybe, at the same time.

If my stomach’s done having its way with me.

Dove gave herself a test and leaned over to pop off a fart. Though it screamed, honked, and chirped like a tiny clown getting choked to death by her ass cheeks, her panties stayed dry.

She had inhaled the McDonald’s meal a good half hour ago, which had to be the best crap-your-pants litmus test that God had ever created.

She farted again. This one sounded like she was slapping an angry duck.

Still dry!

While she flew through her shower and dressing, she was happy her bowels had stopped running her show. She tried to psyche herself up.

I’m a sexy bitch. I can have any man on the Internet. I do have nipples. I will use them.

Her outfit was harder. She wanted to go for sexy but with a hint of casual. Dove said good-bye to Steve the Cat, who stared into her soul as she looked at him.

That cat gives me the creeps.

She locked her door and clumped down the stairs. Duke was leaning against his doorframe, wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whities. He was eating a piece of sausage like a candy bar, and Dove stopped to watch as he cracked down with another chomp.

“Christ almighty. What the hell are you doing?” Dove wrinkled her nose at the smell of his spicy meat.

Duke patted his chest like he was in a yacht club. “Me? I just got finished whacking off. To porn.”

Dove shook her head. “Seriously? The two dudes did it for you?”

“The dudes? No. Hell no. I mean, I like my ass touched as much as the next guy, but they looked like they needed company. So I ordered an orgy on Pay-Per-View.” Duke lifted one leg until he passed gas loudly.

Dove was disgusted. He was pleased.

“Whatever, Shart Shooter. Don’t look all holier than me. I bet and won that time. Where you headed?” He took another snapping bite of his snack.

She hated to tell him. He was notorious for inviting himself along. Many a girls’ night had become unisex evenings when Duke had crawled into Dove’s car with Shannon and Flower, her girlfriends that lived in her apartment building.

She sighed. “Olive Garden.”

Duke reached down and slid his hand in his underwear. “I’m always up for some breadsticking. You gonna be dressed like that?” He motioned to her with his hairy head.

Dove looked down at her outfit. She was going for sexy and breezy.

Duke snickered. “You look like a yoga-inspired hooker-housewife. And a little pregnant.” Duke finished his meat and licked his fingers.

She reconsidered her yoga pants with heels and an empire-waist blouse.

If I take too long, Johnson might be gone.

“Fine, you can come with. Go put clothes on, Stinky McSausageSlobber.” Dove tapped her foot until he appeared alarmingly soon in a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket.

He headed toward the lobby, leaving his apartment door open. Dove heard the distinct moaning of the porn he had obviously left on.

“There are rules for tonight, Duke.” Dove tried to catch up with him on her heels.

“I can’t imagine what rules you’re going to lay down. ’Cause I can poop my pants, that’s a given.” He acted as if he might open her door for her but then slid across the hood of her car instead.

“You’re an asshole.” She wrenched her door open.

Duke immediately adjusted her radio to his favorite station and put his feet on her dashboard.

She turned down the volume. “Listen, I’m trying to meet a guy tonight. So don’t get, like, arrested for humping soup or something.”

Duke smiled and turned the radio back up. “I love that fucking soup.”

The ride to Olive Garden was a short one. There was a small wait in the lobby, where Dove sat on one side and Duke sat on the other. He slid his hands down his pants like he was lounging on his sofa at home.

Dove looked at her phone and checked her Twitter. No more messages from @06201984M358 to her, but he had tweeted again a few minutes earlier.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

At restaurant. The servers here are so efficient. I really know the specials now. That’s my kind of service. The window seat is lovely.

He’s here!

When the pager from the host went off, she tried not to catch Duke’s eye, but he was soon loping next to her.

She tripped twice as she tried to look for Mr. Pill McCoolerson.

If I see him, I’ll drop Duke in a hot second.

Duke ordered before the server could get out her name. Olive Garden always brought out a Kennedy-family style entitlement in Duke.

“Bring me three iced teas. Line those bitches up.” He motioned to where, exactly, on the table he’d like them situated. Dove couldn’t see one of his hands and figured he was keeping his balls warm again.

“I’ll take an ice water, please.” Dove accepted her menu.

Duke didn’t bother looking at his. He tapped his skull. “It’s all up here anyway.”

She spied over the top of her menu to look for Johnson but didn’t see him.

Duke made a horrible face. “Hey, Shitty, I gotta go drop a deuce. This one feels a little too promising to bet on.” He left the table, grabbing his menu on the way. “Need something to read or my ass clams up.”

Dove scratched her forehead with her middle finger. Finally, she spotted Johnson. He was sitting by himself at a table for two. He was eating soup and smiling after each sip from his spoon. He looked alarmingly handsome dressed down. He even had a studded leather band on one wrist. Dove wanted to take it off him with her teeth.

Oops. Lotsa Vampersex popping in here.

She set her menu down and fluffed her hair, checked to make sure her boobs looked nice, and got up from her table.

He was messing with his iPhone and didn’t see her when she was almost to his table. Dove was proud of herself. This crappy day was about to get a fuckton better. She licked her lips and was just about to touch his arm when a bouncy blonde cut in front of her and sat down.

“I’m back, Johnson. The little girl’s room was chilly.” The blonde looked up at Dove, finally noticing her. “Don’t just stand here. My glass of soda is empty. You do like tips, don’t you?”

Dove swallowed. He’s on a date. With this rude girl. Dear world, eat me. Now.

Johnson frowned at his date and looked at Dove. “Gynazu—I mean Dove! You work here, as well?”

He set down his spoon and got to his feet. It was gentlemanly. He looked delicious in the ambient lighting of the chain restaurant.

“You know this… person?” The girl looked like she was trying to swallow her own teeth.

Johnson nodded to Dove and extended his hand to his date. “Beth, this is Dove. Dove, this is Beth.”

Dove closed her eyes and tried not to let the disappointment stab her to death in the middle of the restaurant.

Beth tossed her hair and smirked. “I’m Johnson’s soon-to-be fiancée. As soon as he’s saved up the money to buy me my ring, of course. What do I always say, Johnson?”

Johnson shuffled his feet. “You won’t put less than two carats on your finger.” He shrugged at Dove. “Maybe the new job will help.”

He was embarrassed, and Dove hated Beth. The blonde examined her nails. Dove touched the small diamond she wore on the ring finger of her right hand. Johnson’s gaze dropped to her hand to follow the movement. The tiny engagement ring was Dove’s most prized possession. Her grandmother had been adamant about leaving the symbol of her sixty-two-year marriage with her granddaughter. It was little, but the ring unfailingly sparkled whenever it caught the light.

Johnson’s eyes found Dove’s, and he nodded at her ring respectfully. Dove smiled at him while his girlfriend wasn’t looking.

“Well, where do you know her from?” Beth only addressed Johnson.

Dove didn’t even warrant a glance from the bitch. She watched as Johnson was put in an awkward position. She knew he wouldn’t want to tell Beth she was a customer; he would never purposely compromise her patient confidentially.

She put him out of his misery before he could be imposed upon. “Johnson’s the pharmacist who supplied me with my prescription cream.”

Beth snickered. “ ‘Prescription cream’? That can never be a good thing, right honey?”

Beth looked Dove up and down, wrinkling her nose. Dove hated her choice of stupid outfit even more.

I could look better. I could be fancier.

“So, Johnson, as soon as she’s back to her table, tell me which part of her body’s all fungused up.” Beth gave Dove a sneer.

Johnson sat at the table. “I’d never tell you what her treatment was.”

Beth picked the straw up out of her drink while Duke sidled up next to Dove. Dove didn’t spare him a glance.

“You see? This is why I want you to be a doctor. Pharmacists have to touch things and creams and who knows what her problem is? What if I catch something that you drag home?” Beth looked over at Duke, who stood with his arms crossed while he petted his devil crotch beard.

Duke smiled.

He still had his menu tucked under his arm. “You look familiar. Don’t tell me—it’ll come to me.”

Beth rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Johnson. “See, her boyfriend’s a mountain man. Being a pharmacist is just not going to work out in the long term.”

Johnson looked mortified. He sighed and tried to make light of the situation. “Hey, I love helping people, and I love my job.”

Duke was squinting with one eye and biting his tongue. “Somewhere—I saw you somewhere.”

Beth ignored him. “I know. You love numbers and counting. It’s so normal, Johnson.” Her tone was extremely sarcastic. “I just don’t want to catch anything these kinds of people have.”

She tossed her hair and gave Dove an arrogant stare. Dove hated the way Johnson hung his head. As though Beth was right. The whole restaurant had gone quiet. The little gathering had gotten awkward enough that the other patrons just had to pay attention.

“Listen, I got a cream at the pharmacy for my vagina.”

As if the term for genitals could stop time and sound all on its own, the restaurant became as hushed as a library. A pin dropping would have sounded like a gong.

“My yeasty cooter.” Dove knew her face was as red as the Olive Garden’s signature sauce, but she had to defend this sweet man.

Beth pretended to gag. “Get up Johnson. We’re leaving.”

Johnson looked to Dove and tried to say he was sorry with his eyes. The pair of them rose and Beth grabbed her purse. Johnson pulled out his wallet and dropped an overabundance of bills on the table. To get to the exit, Beth had to get past Dove.

“Move, you skanky thing.” Beth waited, tapping her foot.

Dove felt the eyes of all the people in the place looking at her. Now they all knew she had genital problems.

“No. Up yours. You don’t want him to catch anything? Well, how ‘bout I mainline it for you?” Dove couldn’t believe what she did next.

Inspired by disgusting Duke’s common hand placement, Dove stuffed her hand down the front of her yoga pants. She touched herself. Then, in the most incredible gesture of her life, she touched the end of Beth’s nose with her “infected” hand.

Beth reacted as if she’d been touched by acid. She grabbed the ice water from the neighboring table and poured it quickly on her face.

“Johnson! She touched me with her fuckhole! Johnson!” Beth pushed past Dove and Duke. She ran as fast as her dainty legs would carry her.

Duke busted out laughing so hard he had to squat down. Johnson paused in front of Dove. He looked sad, like he wanted to apologize, but he moved past her and followed Beth out the door. Dove stood quietly, shamed and horrified at herself. She looked at their empty table and tears filled her eyes.

Duke was wheezing and trying to talk. “You wiped pussy juice on her! Oh… my… crap…” He fell onto his back like a stranded turtle. “That was the stupidest cat fight… ever.” He was having trouble breathing.

Dove turned and saw an army of iced teas sitting at her table. She couldn’t stay in the restaurant another second more.

Duke’s laughter threatened to crack the windows of Dove’s little car. “I… can’t… even…” He slapped the dashboard. “I’m… gonna… piss… myself!”

He curled himself into a ball, his shoulders shaking with silent, deep cackles. Dove ignored him as she drove home.

How come I thought he didn’t have a girlfriend? The cooler? The handholding? Fuck men and their mixed signals.

Duke was finally able to sit up, but he couldn’t look at her.

“You sure we don’t have to stop and register your beaver with the police as a deadly weapon?” He laughed at his own comment.

Dove parked the car and got out. “Shut it, King Sausage.” She didn’t bother to hold the apartment door for him and clomped as loudly as she could up her stairs.

While she was unlocking her door, he hollered to her, “It’s okay that I didn’t even get to eat my motherfucking dinner! It was worth it!”

Dove slammed her door behind her. Steve the Cat was sitting right where Dove had left him. His eyes glowed shiny in the dark until she turned on the light. He didn’t even blink when the room was illuminated.

Creepy little wacko.

Dove dropped her purse and went to the kitchen to wash her hands. The implications of her mortification were far reaching.

Obviously, I can never leave this apartment for the rest of my life.

She filled the cat’s dish and set it on the floor. He insisted on Iams Senior dog food. The cat trotted over and started his happy purr-eating.

She stepped out of her heels and collapsed in her computer chair. Despite all her promises to herself, she relived the incident at the restaurant. She blushed all over her body, again.

I attacked his girlfriend. What the hell was I thinking?

She turned to the computer out of habit, and soon, Lotsa’s Twitter homepage comforted her. She could never be embarrassed on Twitter. Johnson’s little pill icon was tucked into her replies. She clicked on it to see if he was tweeting, even though he was most likely antibacterial-ing his girlfriend’s face at this very moment.

What if he’s talking about me?

His boring page replaced her loud one. He had indeed been twittering. He replied to everyone so sweetly; she tried not to picture his green eyes thinking of how best to hand out medical advice.

An @Debra_Anastasia was going back and forth with him about some version of a rash and the cream she had picked up at the store.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Debra_Anastasia No, please don’t use that cream! It could make your rash worse. I highly suggest letting the doctor have a look.

Dove clicked on the woman’s home page. She was a dirty porn author, and God knows what evil she was harvesting, but Johnson was treating her politely. He couldn’t even yell weirdness on Twitter.

The writer replied to him:

Debra Anastasia (@Debra_Anastasia):

@06201984M358 Well, thanks so much, baby. How are you doing tonight?

Dove was dying to know, and she was glad the porn chick was asking the question for her. She loved that she and Johnson were both on Twitter that exact moment.

One minute went by. Two minutes went by.

Maybe he’d moved on.

Four minutes passed, and when Dove refreshed the page, he had responded to porno weirdo.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Debra_Anastasia Did you ever have someone stand up for you?

Dove refreshed again and again. Maybe porn writers didn’t really care how a pharmacist’s night was.

Debra Anastasia (@Debra_Anastasia):

@Johnson Pharm on occasion, did you have to be someone’s knight in shining armor?

Dove could picture this slutty chick using his information to inspire some horrible writing about a chain mail suit with a metal phallic compartment for erections on it.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@ Debra_Anastasia No. Someone stood up for me. She went out of her comfort zone to do it.

Dove’s mouth dropped open.

Could it be me?

Maybe he was talking about Beth yelling at Dove.

Debra Anastasia (@Debra_Anastasia):

@06201984M358 Sounds like a good friend to me. Did you thank her?

Dove thought she might push her Enter button through the keyboard she was hammering it so hard, over and over.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@ Debra_Anastasia No. I didn’t. I should’ve. I bought her a cooler earlier in the day. I should have thanked her.

Dove took a screen shot and printed it immediately.

It was me! He was talking about me and my cooter hand! Me!

She hugged the paper to her chest when the printer spit it out at her. She clicked print ten more times and stacked the beautiful words and pictures together.

@Debra_Anastasia didn’t respond. She was probably masturbating thinking of writing her next sex scene.

Twitter was quiet as the hour got later. Soon, it was only crickets typing with their tiny little cricket dicks. She decided to tweet since she was flushed and happy from Johnson’s Twitter confession. Having her followers boost her ego would only make her feel better. Steve the Cat came out of his litter box and hopped up on her computer desk. He sat as still as a knickknack. Dove stared back. She often had staring contests with Steve the Cat. She’d never caught him blinking. Not once. He easily won this contest as well. Dove composed her tempting tweet.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Sitting here, sucking on a lollipop wishing I had a man to use my lips on instead.

There were no replies. She tried harder.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Stretching my arms above my head, testing the boundaries of my lace bra. I hope my nipples don’t pop out.

Nothing. Her Twitterverse was a void. Lotsa let Dove take the reins for a tweet.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

He thought I was good. He doesn’t hate me.

Dove hugged a printout again, and kissed it for good measure. She hit Notifications. There was one.

From him!

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex He’s a lucky man.

Dove was still hugging the print out. The curser pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Steve the Cat decided to want love, right then. He stepped over Dove’s keyboard and began head-butting her.

“Get out, Steve, stop. Don’t step on the keyboard. Stop!” She picked him up and put him on the floor.

His efforts for affection denied, Steve refused to take no for an answer. After a few jumps and returns, he finally huffed away to stare at her from the kitchen. Dove turned her attention back to the keyboard. Her Twitter account had an update she neither approved of nor typed, but it was there nonetheless.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 F U DIE

“Steve! You flat-headed dingo! You cursed him out!”

Steve the Cat grimaced in her direction. She was sure he had done it on purpose. She quickly tried to do damage control, but before she could reply, Johnson’s tweet to her appeared.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex I apologize for offending you. I’m going to get off the Twitter now. So sorry.

She typed so quickly she didn’t think clearly about her words.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 No! My evil pussy was typing. I wrestled the horrible thing off the keyboard!

There was no taking a tweet back. It laid its ugly, malformed sentiments on her colorful page.

He had a return tweet for her, obviously intrigued by her apparently dexterous genitalia.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Typing with your vagina is an amazing feat. You do it quickly.

Dove shook her head hopelessly. Her horrible luck with this good-looking man had even infected Lotsa. She decided to try to maintain the sexy as best she could.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 I’ve been known to fold my maxi pads into origami swans with my pussy.

What? That’s not sexy. Dove, step away from the computer and light it on fire. Do it now.

Dove was afraid of hitting the refresh button.

Dear God, I’m glad he doesn’t know this is me. I’m flushing my computer down the toilet.

Finally the curiosity made her want to kill Steve the Cat, and she hit the return button.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex On that amazing note, I’m off to bed. Make sure not to overexert your genitalia. If you do, warm compresses should help.

Dove took more screen shots and printed out their exchange. She’d either turn it into a big ball and choke herself with it or make an elaborate scrapbook with cutesy puffy stickers out of their words.

Steve the Cat came out of the litterbox. Again.

“Dude. I swear you crap just because you’re bored.”

Dove decided to scoop his litter. If it wasn’t sparkling clean, he had a tendency to make a mess. She envisioned him inside the little hood of the litter playing with his own dookers like they were Play-Doh. She’d had to bathe him on many, near-deadly occasions.

She shook out an empty Save-Mart bag and thought of Johnson. She had a big cheesy smile on her face as she picked up the scooper. Steve the Cat pushed himself under her armpit and sat in the box. He stared at her like a murderer out of The Godfather.

“Hey, noodle brains, get out of my damn way.” Dove had to scoop out the litter that framed his cat ass.

Steve kept flicking his tail in front of the turd or little pee meatball she was aiming for.

“This is ridiculous. I feel like I’m getting gold from Gringotts! Move your fat ass!”

Steve closed one eye, created a stench, and made a face. The fetor of his latest offering spanked Dove’s nose with its evil.

“Seriously? You’re taking a crap right now? With me all up in your grill? Yuck.” Dove tied off the prizes she was able to scoop from the horrible cat’s treasure chest and tossed them in the garbage can.

This cat is such a jerk. He’s like a feline Duke.

Dove washed her hands and brushed her teeth. After changing into her favorite flannel pajamas, she settled into bed. Steve the Cat jumped on her bed and eyed the lumps her feet made under the covers like they were a colony of rabid mice. Dove tried not to move. If she so much as twitched, his crazy butt would be biting her toes and back-leg flicking her as hard as he could.

“Get down! Go! Get!” Dove tried to shoo him without moving her feet.

She started throwing pillows at him. He took the blows without changing his focus. It was like trying to sleep with a little, hungry shark. Now without the benefit of a pillow, she lay back. The clock glowed the redonkulous time of 5:15 a.m.

At least I can sleep late in the morning.

When Shannon pounced on her bed at seven thirty, after letting herself in with her catsitting, for-emergencies-only key, Dove was dragged from a near dead-like sleep. Steve the Cat was startled, as well. He had maintained a vigil on the feet lumps, settling on her chest with his butt inches from Dove’s mouth. As Dove convulsed, Steve the Cat dug his front nails into her breasts.

She started screaming while slapping at Steve. “My boobs! He’s killing my boobs!”

Shannon tried to be helpful by whacking Steve in the face, but the cat flattened his ears and dug in with his back claws, as well. Dove pulled off her top and bagged the evil cat inside it. He still had his claws poking out of the fabric like a porcupine dressed as a ghost for Halloween.

Dove sat topless in front of her friend. They were good friends, but they weren’t that close. Shannon covered her eyes as Dove hunched her shoulders and tried to cover her tits.

Jesus H. Christ.

The self-censored Shannon was weighing down the comforter, so Dove couldn’t get enough blanket to put her nipples away. She leaned forward and tucked them behind the small corner of fabric she could reach.

And then Duke strolled into her bedroom. He had a horrible habit of walking through doors that were left open. He treated the entire apartment building like his own, personal house. He was wearing just his underwear again, but this time, Duke was snacking on a round piece of breakfast sausage. He stood for a moment, staring at the scene in front of him.

“Hello, ladies. Vanilla lesbianism? Mind if I buff the banana in this chair right here? Cool.” He collapsed in the cutesy chair in front of Dove’s vanity.

“Sausage and boobs, fantastic. Go at it, ladies, I’ve got enough grease on my hands and chest to lube us all up.”

Flower waltzed into the scene, walked up to Duke, and grabbed him by the hair. He dropped his sausage, and Steve the Cat crawled out of Dove’s top just in time to steal it.

Duke cursed. “Shitty fuck. Not the mean one. Douche canoes.”

She steered him from the room, using his head as a handle, and slammed the door. Shannon handed Dove the afghan from the bottom of the bed, and Dove covered her nudity. The three ladies looked at one another.

Dove finally found her voice. “Please tell me this is some antibiotic-induced nightmare and I’m not topless in front of my best friends.”

Shannon wrinkled her nose. “You have a nice rack, if that counts for anything. Today is the 90% off Christmas sale at Save-Mart! Get dressed quick.”

Dove watched her friends and silently cursed her stupidity. The Christmas sale was a time-honored tradition with her nimrod friends. It was the pinnacle of weirdness. And it was at Save-Mart. But she wouldn’t run into him, it was way too early for the pharmacy to be open.

He wouldn’t be there. No way in Hell.

Dove threw on some sweats and an old T-shirt. While she brushed her teeth, she thought about her bizarre friends that lived in the building.

Shannon, her early morning pouncer, was a vibrant girl. She was obsessed with the newest “in” thing. Except that her perception on “in” was “off.”

As soon as the general populace was sick and tired of something, that’s when Shannon would load up on the craze. Currently, Shannon couldn’t get enough of the song “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha. She insisted she brush her teeth with a bottle of alcohol—which wasn’t a great way to maintain oral hygiene on a daily basis, by the fucking way.

Shannon spent way too much time every day cultivating the perfect ensemble to match her not-quite-current trendsetting ways. She had to have the top down on her convertible and “Tik Tok” blaring, no matter the weather or the length of the car ride. She always wanted to look like she was rolling up to a party. Luckily for Shannon she was a quirky pretty that let her get away with weirdness and avoid being called eccentric.

Flower was an anomaly. Dove wasn’t sure they were even friends. The only clear proof she had was that every time she was headed somewhere with Shannon, Flower was in the car, looking morose. Flower was the only Goth Dove had ever spent any time at all with. Though she had long hair with blond roots that peeked through from time to time, Flower’s hair was dyed jet black.

Dove had honestly thought the girl hated her until Shannon cleared it up one day. “Flower makes it a point to speak no more than ten words in a twenty-four hour period.”

At first, it was creepy, but then Dove came to appreciate how concise Flower was. At times it led to some miscommunications, like when Flower told Dove she was a “cutter.” Dove had worried and twisted her hands, Googling any information she could find on the topic of self-mutilation, until she found out that Flower actually worked at a deli. She was a “cutter” of bologna, not her own person.

Dove hated to admit that the 90% off sale at Save-Mart was a highlight of her year. Whether it was the early morning rush to the back of the store or the endless possibilities of things to buy for next to nothing, she didn’t know. But she loved it.

Shannon was hard-core into buying everything she could. Flower gravitated to the broken Christmas decorations that the store would probably give to her for free. Dove had once watched her break an intact animated snowman when she got it home.

When Dove asked why the decorations had to be broken, Flower responded only with the words “mad orgasm.” It didn’t explain anything, but it explained everything at the same time.

Dove was the wheelwoman for the cart, which was harder than it sounded. Their nemeses had always been the “eBay ladies,” who shopped with not one iota of common courtesy. They would make a train out of three carts and try to block the entire seasonal aisle while they scooped up gluttonous amounts of resalable items.

Dove was in charge of horning in with her big purple cart while Shannon slipped through the cracks in their cart train. Shannon would toss things to Dove over the eBay ladies’ heads. If Dove dropped the flung item, Flower would then gather up the pieces like Gollum with the ring.

Today, as they all loaded into Shannon’s car, “Tik Tok” was blaring like it was Friday night six years ago and Dove was surprised to see Duke hop into the back of the car next to Flower.

Dove turned and gave him a “what the fuck are you doing—at least you’re wearing pants, fudge dick” look.

He held up one finger like he had something important to say. After a minute he leaned over and passed the wettest, most ridiculous multi-tonal fart in the world.

“That’s what I say to you.” Duke smiled so his dimples came out to play under his beard.

Flower wasted two of her precious ten words on him. “Cock communist.”

It was freezing, and Shannon pumped the heat all the way up along with the radio’s volume. By the time Shannon was done playing the living shit out of a song, Dove would rather rip her ears off and feed them to a dog than hear the tune again.

Pulling into the Save-Mart parking lot at 7:50 a.m. was insane, as usual. It was almost empty, save the van the asshole eBay ladies drove. Dove and her band of idiots waltzed up to the doors where they stretched and talked smack to one another. The eBay ladies were anxiously smoking their cigarettes.

Duke did a deep leg lunge and let his morning sausage speak its mind out his ass again. He assessed the competition. After watching them like a TV show, he observed out loud for the girls, “See that one right there?” He pointed at her with his middle finger as though she was a dying puppy in a pet shop.

“What’s fucking amazing about her is she just smoked a whole cigarette with one suck. God damn.”

The eBay lady glared at him. The poor teenager tasked with opening the front doors had to know it was 90% off day by the ridiculously wild looks of his soon-to-be customers.

As the first door was unlocked, all six shoppers piled through the small entrance, not waiting for the others to be opened. Shannon began pointing at carts and hopping in the direction of the sale. The eBay ladies were merciless, joyless shoppers, but Shannon and Dove giggled with the thrill of the chase.

They beat the eBay ladies to the first aisle and scored some light-up Santas and a fake tree.

The ladies arrived and sneered in the girls’ direction. Flower was busy crawling along the floor, looking on the bottom shelf for her shattered treasures.

Duke was nowhere to be seen or smelt. As they shopped, their cart became a teetering mass of crazy, tinsel and tree skirts all draping over the side.

Shannon was flushed with her success; she loved decorating the apartment building for the season and would divide the booty into cheap gift bags for the other residents. Later tonight, she and Dove would drop the gifts at the door of everyone who shared their premises. They had also scored some great things for the single mom in apartment 5B to give as presents to her little one next year.

Flower hung back, waiting for the eBay vultures to break more items with their careless shopping.

Shannon reached inside her bra and retrieved her printout from a coupon site. The clandestine shopping was next. Shannon and Dove were pros at finding the “hidden deals.” Save-Mart often had less obvious items that would ring up as 90% off on the big day, as well. The coupon site revealed all the tricks, and Shannon seemed to use the information as her secret weapon. She was ecstatic when she found piles of holiday pajamas. Together the girls decided to give the lot of them to the local women’s shelter. At only $1.49 a set it felt like stealing them.

When the girls passed the As Seen On TV aisle, they spotted Duke. He was engaging in the most bizarre behavior—shaking a weight that looked a whole lot like a giant, snow-white penis. The girls stopped and wrinkled their noses in disgust.

Dove finally confronted him. “Isn’t that, like, illegal to do in public?”

Duke’s voice was shaking with his movements. “No, you sick b-b-bitches. It b-b-builds up my triceps. It’s the W-w-wiggle Weight.”

Shannon threw stuffed Christmas animals at him. “Knock it off. It looks like you’re beating off a polar bear.”

He rolled his eyes and continued with his extremely suggestive maneuvers.

Dove picked up the animals and put them under the cart next to the Christmas lights. “Dude, what’re you trying to accomplish there?”

He stopped, finally, and smiled. “Honestly? With this thing I think I could get my jerk-off muscles so well-developed that I could rub out a spooge with one pump! If that’s not worth $19.95, I don’t know what is.”

Jesus Christmas.

The girls quickly backed out of the aisle, leaving Duke with his perpetual shaker. Both shivered with disgust at the same moment but powered through the revulsion.

Shannon had one more section to scour. It was right by the pharmacy, which Dove was relieved to see was still closed, judging by the huge metal gate covering its window.

“Bitch, why are we in the family planning section?” Dove scanned for the little holly decorations that denoted possible 90% off products on items out of habit.

“There’s one last hidden deal.” Shannon dug through the racks of condoms.

“There are Christmas dick bags?” Dove’s shopping high was wearing off, and she was beginning to feel the consequences of her lack of sleep. “That seems like taking the holiday season too far.”

Shannon was all business. “No. Vibrating cock rings. There’re called ‘Jingle Bells Your Balls.’ ”

Dove stretched her arms above her head and found herself looking at the pharmacy.

He has a girlfriend, you festering sore. So what if he talks to your sexy icon on Twitter?

Shannon tossed an armful of the green and red packages in the cart. “Those will ring up nineteen cents each. Can’t go wrong.”

Dove picked one up. “Yes, with these you totally can go wrong. What the hell are we going to do with cock rings? You don’t have a penis. I don’t have a penis. We don’t even have boyfriends.”

Taking a cock ring package in her hand, Shannon seemed perplexed. “We have to be able to do something with them. Maybe turn them on, drop them in our coffee, and let them do the stirring?”

Dove opened a package and stretched out the latex ring. “I don’t think this material should be boiled, that’s for sure.” She pressed the On button. Both girls raised their eyebrows.

Shannon voiced what they were both thinking. “That’s pretty powerful.”

Dove shrugged and went to click the Off button, but Shannon stole it from her hands. She had a wild look in her eyes—she loved to make her Save-Mart deals useful, and she was insane.

“Maybe we can use them on our lady bits? Here, look how stretchy it is. Maybe we can fit it on our legs!” Shannon knelt like she was Prince Charming and stretched open the hole of the cock ring.

Dove was mortified. “Uh, no. No! I’m not putting a cock ring on in Save-Mart. Back away, you wacko.”

Even though she was small, Shannon was strong, and she held tight to Dove’s leg. “Be quiet. I just want to see if it fits.” She rolled the cock ring up Dove’s unwilling leg like a pair of pantyhose. It was painfully thin by the time Shannon determinedly yanked it up to Dove’s thigh.

Duke arrived to watch the show with his impeccable timing. He had the Wiggle Weight under one arm and was snacking on a freshly peeled Holiday Meat stick.

“You ladies are determined to make me pop a nut today.”

Shannon glanced over her shoulder to give Duke a dirty look. “Is that meat on sale?”

Duke smiled as he snapped off another bite. “Hell yes. I think I got to it just before it turned.”

Trying to take advantage of attacker-Shannon’s distraction, Dove yanked her leg backward.

The cock ring snapped off her leg like the rubber band it was, shot out of Shannon’s evil little hands, and hit someone behind Dove. Before she turned around, she knew it was him. The moaning had a silky quality to it.

Duke laughed around a piece of meat in his mouth. “You fired a cock ring into that dude’s balls!”

Dove peeked over her shoulder, and sure enough, Johnson was grabbing a shelf and trying to avoid touching himself. His cheeks were filled with air and screams. She looked back in the cart at the pile of “Jingle Bells Your Balls” rings.

I wonder if I could fit one over the top of my big, stupid head and choke myself to death.

Duke’s laughing and pointing reached a fevered pitch until all noise from him stopped. His eyes bugged out, and he dropped his meat stick. His other hand grabbed the Wiggle Weight and held it tightly.

Finally, Dove put it all together. “He’s choking! The dumb fuck is choking!”

Remembering her scene in the park with Johnson, she ran to him quickly. He was still buckled at the middle.

“Johnson! Duke’s choking. You need to be the Heimlicher. Be the Heimlicher!” She grabbed his shoulders and dragged him to stand behind Duke.

Despite Johnson’s pained face, he was able to perform the maneuver with success. The hunk of meat flew out of Duke’s mouth like a rocket and slapped Shannon right between the eyes. It stuck there for a second before she reacted and swatted her face free of the regurgitated chunk.

Duke took a few deep breaths. Johnson was still crossing and uncrossing his legs from the pain inflicted by the launched cock ring. The four stood in the middle of their awkward. Flower slunk in, holding a variety of broken Santas in her clutches.

Then Duke began laughing again. “You called him the Heimlicher! I thought he was going to lick my Heim! And I didn’t even know where that was on my body. I was ready to beat him with my Wiggle Weight.”

Johnson shook his head and was finally able to stand up. He didn’t look amused.

Dove asked, “Are you okay? Thanks for saving the nimrod.”

He nodded and seemed to only be able to communicate with medical warnings. “That, uh, pleasure device, is clinically designed for men. You ladies might want to find a massager specially designed for VAGINAL use.”

He made the pretend vagina again with the V of his hands. While hiding her face in the garland, Shannon’s shoulders began shaking. She couldn’t handle the “mature” references.

Dove decided to give her friends a friendly suggestion. “Why don’t you guys go pay for that stuff and then let Flower run you both over with the car?”

Her giggling idiot brigade made their way up to the front of the store. Dove wished she had worn something more suitable for human consumption. She looked like a cracked-out soccer mom.

“I’m sorry about the, um, painful incident. I hope your… situation is hanging well?” Dove made claws out of her hands. Her words made being in her body so much more difficult.

“I’ll be fine. Your friend might need to go to the doctor, just to be on the safe side. So, you’re a big fan of old Christmas?” Johnson had stopped crossing and uncrossing his legs. Dove glanced around. The paraphernalia for sex, sex problems, and sex answers surrounded them.

“We hand it out to people in our building to use next season.” She shrugged. “Some of the people don’t make a lot of money, so we try to help.”

I’m sure I look crazy, violent, and hyper-sexual. Why not be a Christmas addict/hoarder as well?

“That’s sweet. Nice of you.” Johnson put his hands in his pockets. Dove couldn’t help but wonder if he was massaging a sore bag of testicles. Dove looked around, and Johnson shuffled his feet. It seemed neither knew what to say, but she hoped neither wanted to part ways either.

Johnson’s default was always medical. “How’s your infection?”

Die. Die. Kill me.

“It’s… cleared up… nicely.” Dove twisted her hand into her hair.

“Well, I have to get in there and open up. I like to get an early start.” He stepped backward.

Dove followed him until she could escape the sin aisle.

She waved one hand and forced a laugh. “Okay then, don’t forget to ice your nuts. If they hurt.”

Shut up, Dove!

Johnson flaunted his unwieldy inappropriateness by shouting, “Okay, then! You, too!”

He blushed a little and ran his hand through his hair.

He’s nervous around me!

Dove hopped into the next aisle, out of sight so she could do a little dance. She was happy despite her friends’ laughing and taunting on the way home. It wasn’t until the six o’clock news later that evening that Dove’s world impaled itself on her horror.

She watched, slack-jawed, as the newscaster set up the clip.

“…and in other news, a local Save-Mart pharmacist was fired today after the store’s surveillance camera became an internet sensation on the website YouTube. As you can see from this clip…”

The screen filled with the picture of her dumb friends doing stupid things in Save-Mart this morning. By the time Duke got to choking on his stupid meat, Dove bit her nails. Johnson giving Duke the lifesaving maneuver while Duke held the Wiggle Weight looked exactly like they were acting out gay porn. Graphically.

“Oh no. NO!” Dove shouted at her TV.

The newscaster continued, oblivious to Dove’s horror. “The behavior was extremely unprofessional. Save-Mart has issued an apology to anyone who has been offended by the footage. They’re actively trying to remove it from the Internet, but at this point it has gone viral.

From one virus to another, Sam Frung brings us news on the latest outbreak of yeast infections.”

With the remote, Dove turned off the glowing screen. She had single-handedly ruined Johnson’s life.

Dove banged on Duke’s door.

I have to fix this! Johnson can’t lose his job over a fake butt fuck.

There was no answer, just a loud pop. “Duke, you little girl, now that I need you, your door’s finally closed?” Dove put her head against the wood.

“Who is it?” Duke’s voice was three octaves deeper than it should’ve been.

Dove made a face at the door and held up her hands in disbelief. “It’s me, you nimrod! Open up.” Dove tried the knob—it was unlocked.

Normally, she’d be grateful for the closed door and the peace of mind she got from not knowing what Duke was up to. But tonight she needed his crazy ass, so she opened his door. His back was to her, and of course, he was wearing only a pair of underwear. He was standing in front of a snack tray and grunting. The same loud pop she had heard before sounded again. Duke flinched.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dove looked from his back to his porno TV.

Duke had paused the news on the YouTube clip, the chunk of meat hung—defying gravity, thanks to the DVR—just waiting to slap Shannon in the nozzle.

He held what looked like a gun over his head. “I got this free, do-it-yourself piercing kit on Craigslist. Only used once!”

Duke brought it back down to the tray. His massive body was blocking her view as another thwack rocked his apartment.

“I’m trying to pop a hole in my dick. Be quiet.” Duke’s arms tensed and the noise sounded again.

“Sweet shuffling Mary! You freak, knock that off.” Dove wanted to make him stop, but she had no desire to see his junk laid out on its portable—and certainly unsterile—surgical table. “And I’m never eating nachos off that tray again.”

Duke whirled around so quickly Dove barely had time to close her eyes. In the dark she heard a familiar snap. She opened one eye and looked through her lashes. He was snacking on a sausage.

“Lighten up. I’m practicing.” Duke snapped again on his treat.

Dove opened both eyes to see Duke eating a tube of meat with its skin pierced numerous times. The sausage was sporting a lot of genital jewelry.

He held it up and motioned to it like a saleswomen. “The jewelry came with it—again, all only used once.”

He took another bite, barely missing the Prince Albert he had inserted into the tip of the sausage.

“You really are a disgusting version of a person.” Dove tried to wave away the image he was searing into her brain.

“Ah, I can’t do it. Every time I get the gun near my rod, my balls climb into my taint like scared mice. It’s fucking sad. So what can I do you for, Christmas Cock Ring Fling Champion? Did you see that I’m famous?”

He motioned with the sausage toward the screen of his X-rated TV.

“That’s why I’m here. We have to get Johnson his job back. It’s a clear misunderstanding. Obviously they can’t tell what a Neanderthal you are from the surveillance camera. We can fix that in person; I’m sure of it.” Dove sighed and twisted her hands. In general, she hated speaking to people she didn’t know. And hated talking to people about cock rings, ever, as a rule of thumb.

Duke tucked the gun into the waistband of his underwear. “Nah. I’m all good. This fifteen minutes of fame is sure to get me pussy at the bars.”

“Listen, I understand you’re captain of Harry Potter’s Shitditch team and all, but your nasty ass is coming with me to talk to the management. We’re going to set them straight.” Dove took a few steps closer to Duke.

He smiled while his sausage grease-filled beard framed his emotions. “What’s in it for me?”

Dove really didn’t feel like convincing him. It was the right thing to do, and time was of the essence. “Duke, he loves being a pharmacist. He loves numbers. He saved your miserable life.”

Dove moved closer still. Duke took another horrifying bite, the dick jewelry going deep into his mouth.

After a few seconds of careful chewing and one dreadful removal of the silver hoop from his tongue—clean of any leftover spiced meat—he gave her his answer. “It’s still a no. I’m already in my pajamas.” Duke stretched his hand above his head, and a fart popped out. “Whoops. That one tickled my balls. Maybe if you let me sex you up a bit, I’d think about it.”

Dove had to take drastic measures. Duke put on his dirtiest smile as she reached toward his underwear.

She removed the piercing gun from his waistband. “I’ll pierce your dick for you.”

She held it right under his nose. It was the ultimate Clint Eastwood movie standoff.

He cracked first. “All right, Dove. I’ll go with you to meet the manager, and then I want you to pop a hole in my junk.”

She tested the trigger. “I think I’m going to like the hell out of this.”

Dove insisted that Duke put on pants. He followed her up the stairs despite the fact that she kept shooing him away. As Dove got to the door, she found a cat sitting on her welcome mat.

“Hello, kitty. Where do you belong?” Dove squatted down to give the feline a pet.

Duke tried to find a place for his hands, but with no sausage, he seemed a bit lost. “That’s the Anastasias’ cat.” Duke fiddled with Dove’s doorknob.

“The Anastasias?” Dove smiled as the cat leaned into her rubbing hand.

“Yeah, you know. The chick that writes porn? She’s always wearing Daisy Dukes and posing? Mr. Anastasia walks around without a shirt?” Duke rolled his eyes at their obvious lack of decorum.

Dove couldn’t take the cat’s adorableness any longer; she picked him up. His tag said Cletus.

“Well, Cletus, you’re so stinking cute.” She turned her attention back to Duke. “Dude, you never wear pants. You can’t roll your eyes at anyone.”

Duke shrugged and continued his narrative. “When they first moved in, I heard a lot of moaning when I wandered by their door. I thought they liked to have crazy sex. So I stood right outside and had a spankfest with my situation.”

Dove made a disgusted face. “Of course you did. Because being the loitering pervert’s a great pastime.”

“So one day, I asked them if I could join in, and they explained that Mr. Anastasia is Italian. Most of the moaning was coming from having to wax him every day.” Duke looked around Dove and up the stairs.

The clear sound of stiletto heels clacked loudly until the couple in question stood in front of Duke and Dove. Debra Anastasia talked in a very fake, breathy bombshell voice. Mr. Anastasia spent most of his time keeping his abs flexed.

“Oh, good, you found Cletus. I’m so glad. It would be just terrible if he went missing.” Debra Anastasia reached out to take Cletus from Dove, but the cat shied away from the underdressed woman.

Mr. Anastasia spoke up. His face was tense—like he was trying to talk while holding his breath. “Uh, that’s our friend’s cat. We took him for a little while.”

Debra Anastasia found a patch of wall and posed against it like she was in a Whitesnake video circa 1992. Mr. Anastasia joined her and flexed.

Duke smiled at the show and put his hands down his pants. Debra Anastasia spoke in between flipping her ridiculously long, bleached-blonde hair.

“We forgot we have a couples’ retreat. No pussy allowed. Whatever will we do?”

Duke and Mr. Anastasia seemed to think all her gyrating and grinding made perfect sense. Dove was a bit worried that this couple hadn’t legally obtained the cat in question, but Duke seemed to want to help. Dove knew she couldn’t trust her own little serial killer cat with a companion.

“I’ll watch the cat. Does he eat sausage?” Duke pulled his hands out of his pants and held a finger up to the cat. Cletus sweetly licked the sausage remnants that must have always clung to his skin.

Duke stepped a little too close to the heaving, hairless couple and began discussing cat maintenance. Dove slipped into her apartment. Steve the Cat was sitting dead center in the middle of her living room, staring right in her eyes.

“Hello, Creepo.”

Steve the Cat tilted his head, and his pupils got huge. Dove grabbed her purse and car keys, and when she stepped back into the hall to lock up, the porno pair and Duke were gone.

Dove went downstairs to Duke’s apartment. She caught him holding on to the cat’s ear and lining up the piercing gun.

“No! Fuckhead! You can’t pierce the cat.” Duke set down the gun and unwrapped a Slim Jim.

“If there’s a party around, you can’t help but crap on it, can you?” Duke strolled past Dove and left his door wide open.

Dove looked at the sweet cat as it tried to figure out how to ingest the Slim Jim.

“You poor thing. I’ll make him buy you cat food at Save-Mart.” Dove closed the door so at least the cat was contained.

Duke was already sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for her. She got in and started the car. Duke busted into a Slim Jim of his own.

“You hairy toad fucker. That stuff’s nasty. Your toilet must be like a nuclear reactor.” Dove turned on her windshield wipers as a light mist seemed to fracture the glass.

“I’m sorry, Whore Basket. I couldn’t hear you over the noise of you crapping your pants!” Duke took another huge bite and chewed the waxy meat like gum. “This stuff is off the charts. I could eat vats of it.”

“Here’s the deal. We go in, you stand there like the asshole you are, and I explain you aren’t gay lovers with the pharmacist. Sound good?” Dove clicked her blinker on and checked her side mirror.

“All I heard was blah, blah, holding your dick later, blah, blah.” Duke rolled down his window and stuck his face into the night.

Dove pulled up to the stoplight in front of Save-Mart and waited. The red light seemed to broadcast the urgency of her trip inside her car.

Duke pulled his face in and rubbed the rain into his beard like a preening otter.

He was disgusting; watching him function was like watching a dog take a crap. She didn’t want to but couldn’t look away either.

“Is that your shower for the evening?” Dove forced her gaze back to the traffic light.

Duke burped as an answer and quickly rolled up his window so Dove would be trapped with its scent.

“You’re revolting. I hope all that meat gives you an assalanche.” Dove fed the car gas as the light turned green.

After parking, Dove sat in her car and tried to ignore Duke while she psyched herself up to go inside. “You can talk. You can fix this. Duke is a freak. You can do this.” She clenched and unclenched her fists.

“Bitch. Do you think we’ll get arrested or something if we go in there? ’Cause I don’t have time for that tonight.” His whole body clenched as he lifted himself from his seat.

The fart was horrifying, sounding like a guinea pig getting choked to death by two Tasers.

He grabbed Dove in a headlock and dragged her head as close to his butt as he could. “Sniff it, live it, be it!”

Dove made a fist and tried to hammer him in the nuts. He flinched and let her go. She clamored out of the car and took a deep breath. Duke shook his leg before starting to walk toward the store as if he hadn’t arrived with her at all. Dove gave his back the finger and rushed around to close his passenger side door.

“What the hell is wrong with you and doors?” Dove hurried to catch up with him. He looked at her as she arrived at his side.

“I think that sausage I ate while the pharmacist butt-fucked me wasn’t good after all.” He popped off another juicy bit of gas.

“You will not fart in there. Do you hear me? You clamp those cheeks together. I swear to fuck, Duke. I’ll pierce your dick shut.” Dove shook a finger in his ass’s direction.

“You’re a harsh, withered bitch.” Duke yawned and slapped Dove’s butt.

Dove shook her head. As she looked up from the glassy, wet asphalt, she didn’t expect to see Johnson leaving the store. But there he was holding one Save-Mart bag. He met her eyes and then looked down. For a hot minute she thought he’d ignore her completely. His eyes looked so sad.

They all met in the middle. Duke looked from Dove’s face to Johnson’s, and seemed to sense that he needed to leave. He invented a likely excuse.

“I have a crap-a-little-ding-dong fighting to get out. See you in there, pussy lint.”

Dove knew she was blushing.

I’m going to pierce his balls to his nose. I hate him.

Johnson sighed. “More sale items?”

Dove realized he was talking to her. “Uh, no. At least they still let you shop here?”

You vagina cheese. That’s the worst empathy ever.

He looked at the bag he was holding as if noticing it for the first time. “Yeah, I came back to get my things. Turns out I didn’t have much here.”

He held open the bag, and inside there was an open can of Coke spilling its contents on his New Employee Handbook.

He continued. “Mrs. Pills decided to stay at home with her baby. They were going to hire me full time.”

Dove was mortified as he closed the bag like it was a door closing on his dreams. She had to set this right.

“I was coming here to try to say something to someone to get anything done about the YouTube thingy.”

Nice and concise, jerk smoker.

“I’m pretty sure you and your friends are in the clear. Not sure I’d advise going in there tonight, though.” Johnson gave her the nod of a finished conversation.

“No. You. Your job. I’m here to try to get you your job back.” She opened her hands and tried to force understanding into his mind.

“Oh. Thanks, I guess. I tried—the boss isn’t budging. It’s okay. I’d do it again if I had to. Misunderstanding or not, I’d never watch someone choke.” Johnson shifted his bag from one hand to the other.

She wanted to tell him everything right then. Tell him all about her, how stupid she was. How unmotivated she was, how she was the sexy Twitter girl.

I want to talk about me when I should only be worried about him.

“You’re a good person. I’m sorry I crossed your path. I’m like a black cat, a ladder, and a pap smear. I’ll do anything to make this right.” Dove wanted to put her hand on his hand again, like when the squirrels were humping in the park.

Don’t put any more you on this man. You ruin everything.

“Don’t, okay. Just don’t.” He put a hand in his pocket and jangled his keys.

“Of course. I’ll just get Duke and leave. Coming here won’t help you. I make everything worse.” Dove wished her eyes didn’t want to cry so much.

Johnson took his hand out of his pocket and held it in her direction. “No. I meant don’t be sorry we crossed paths.” For a second he looked deeply into Dove’s eyes, and she forgot to breathe.

He broke the magic first. “Your boyfriend’s back. See you around, Gynazule®.”

Before Dove could correct him, Duke was waddling back to her, shouting, “That was one slippery situation. Damn. I barely made it to the crapper. Almost had to drop one off in the urinal.”

Johnson headed deeper into the parking lot. His shoulders were hunched. There was nothing jumpy or excited about his motions. And his loud voice had been an exactly normal tone.

Dove, you fuck stick, you broke his beautiful happy.

“Come on. We’ve got some serious damage control to do.” Dove grabbed Duke’s wrist and dragged him back into the store. She veered to the right and went straight to customer service.

The bored teenager must have thought staring at Dove was the equivalent to saying, “May I help you?”

“Get me your manager.” Dove held her head high and tried to seem older and more self-assured.

The teenager barely registered her request.

“Do it now. My friend here is about to crap his pants. Do you want to smell it?” Dove slapped her hands down on the counter, snapping the life into the girl. “Do you want to smell his shit?”

The teenager disappeared through the swinging doors.

Duke sat down in one of the recharging motorized scooters and pretended it was a motorcycle.

“Hey, Napoleon. You might want to tone down the shit threats.” He pretended to take a sharp curve.

A stiff-walking manager appeared. His nametag proclaimed he was “Preston, Manager-in-training.”

“Can I be of service to you?” He tilted his head one way and then the other. He reminded Dove so much of Steve the Cat it was creepy.

Compose yourself. Make sense. Just don’t stall.

“My friend and I appeared in the YouTube video taken from this store. I’d like to say… I want to make a… There were cock rings… the porn was not the porn of the porn… it was meat and a masturbating weight.” Dove slapped herself in the forehead.

Not working… My mouth sucks ass.

Duke climbed off the scooter. “Jesus fancy pants. You’re a train wreck. Let’s put a bullet in this nightmare.”

Duke leaned down and read the man’s tag. “Preston. Listen Prick-ston, you fired an employee who gave me first aid today. Not only that, but the surveillance video that was leaked to the media had the pharmacy in its range, which is a complete violation of the strict HIPPA patient confidentiality standards you’re required to adhere to.”

Dove opened her mouth and left it hanging as Duke made wonderful, logical sense.

“And another thing, I ate some sausage here today that I do believe was rancid. Honestly, I’m feeling a little sick. I think I might have food poisoning.”

Duke lifted his leg in the air as if he was a dog peeing on a tree. The wet, productive fart sounded like an air horn.

“Now, Prick-ston. What you’re going to do right now is pick up the phone, call the pharmacist, and give him his job back.”

Duke looked at Dove and then reached over and closed her mouth for her. Preston was the manager-in-training for a reason, and he immediately launched into a spiel that would placate a much less motivated, unsatisfied customer.

“Well, sir, of course we’ll refund your money on the sausage. I can’t reinstate the pharmacist without consulting corporate. That decision was made by people much higher up on the food chain than I am.” Preston straightened his clip-on tie, his face getting splotchy and red with the confrontation.

Duke smiled. “Dude, here’s what you need to tell corporate. I’m meeting with my lawyer tomorrow. Tell them to look for paperwork from my attorney. And another thing, I’m coming back here soon. And when I do, I’m bringing sausage. I’m going to the pharmacy where I’ll proceed to eat said meat like a dog—no hands, hardly chewing at all.” Duke made a horrible reenactment of his choking incident. “It might even block my airway. Imagine the bad press when Dove here tearfully tells the ironic, horrific story of Save-Mart firing the one pharmacist who could have saved my young, vital life?”

Duke grabbed Dove’s hand and yanked her toward the door.

“Fix it, Prick-ston. Tell corporate to roll up everything I just told you and smoke it. I’ll be back.”

Duke dragged Dove into the store, mumbling, “Getting my Lincoln Log drilled should be easier than this. Let’s get some more Slim Jims for the cat.”

Dove was still amazed when they pulled in front of the apartment. Duke was holding a bag of Purina and a tube of Magic Beard cream. He was singing a made up song just like he was the same idiot she had always known.

“Dove’s gonna pop my dick

And all the chicks

Are gonna wanna Lick

My dick.”

She put the car in park and had to say something. “Dude. You were like… coherent and impressive at Save-Mart.”

Duke made fake gang signs in her direction. “That’s what she said!”

He got out of the car and waltzed into the apartment complex without holding the door for her. She followed him into his apartment. Cletus was curled up on the couch. Duke grabbed a mug from the kitchen and ripped the bag of food open. He put the now-full mug of food next to the cat. Dove made a face at his half-assed attempt at pussy parenting. He walked over to the snack tray and grabbed the discarded gun.

“You ready, Crappy? A promise is a promise.”

I have to do this for him. He might have gotten Johnson his job back.

Duke started unbuttoning his pants.

“Hold on.” Dove covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “Let me try to control my gag reflex.”

Duke put his hands on his hips. “Dove. You will not back the fuck out. I took a shower like a few days ago. The ball cheese level is very low.”

He laughed as she crinkled her face around the horror of his words.

“That’s not helping.” She held out her hands to show him they were shaking. “Let me at least Google some knowledge on the topic.”

“Okay. I’ll let you off for tonight.” He grabbed the Save-Mart bag and his shave-less hair remover. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. Shaving without having to move my arms? That’s the kind of genius that deserves a fucking medal.”

Dove was backing slowly away from the snack tray when her exit was hindered by the hairless wonders who should’ve been on a couples’ retreat.

Debra Anastasia perched her red heel on the doorframe and posed—again. Dove guessed she was trying to have a heaving bosom, but she just looked like a bear in heat scratching an itch.

Mr. Anastasia cuddled an adorable little kitten to his bare, muscled chest.

“You two found another cat?” Dove wanted to get past the nightmare that was the endlessly trying-too-hard-to-be-sexy, weird couple.

Debra Anastasia twirled her bleached hair around her finger. “Yes. We… found it. Duke, darling, can you watch this little baby for us?” The woman folded her arms under her breasts in an extremely obvious technique to draw attention to her cleavage.

Dove was liking her less and less. The whole breathy, wide-eyed bombshell shit got old quick.

Mr. Anastasia pressed against his wife as he slid into the room. They took a brief pause to hold their position, as if an imaginary photographer was stamping the moment onto film for all time.

He put the little kitten next to Cletus. “This here is TK. Thanks a lot for watching him, too.”

The writhing couple was gone as quickly as they had appeared.

“Those two creep me out. I think they’re stealing these cats.”

Duke shrugged and Dove closed his door behind her. She trudged up the stairs and wished she knew how things were going to turn out for Johnson. She unlocked her door and flipped on her lights. Steve the Cat was nowhere to be seen, which was odd. It could only mean he was in attack mode, which usually only happened when she was unconscious and vulnerable.

Dove kicked off her shoes, knowing she should start on her classwork, but she hated the thought of doing it. Instead, she pulled out her chair and waited as her computer booted up. She sighed and looked up. On her bookshelf, sitting as still as a statue, was Steve.

“Hi, Twat Sandwich. Are you plotting to kill me? Because tonight might be a great night for that.”

Steve didn’t blink but seemed to enjoy glaring at her from his perch like a Supreme Court justice. Dove gave him the finger, and his pupils got larger.

Weirdo.

Her colorful Twitter background mocked her bleak soul. She clicked through her replies and found him. Soon she was at his boring homepage and it made her heart race. He was tweeting. She scrolled to the bottom to read the whole thing through.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Hello the Twitter! Tonight I am dipping into my homebrew a few days early.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I’ll be imbibing in my homemade pumpkin beer that I lovingly created in hopes of celebrating a pharmaceutical job.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Fired from job so I will drink it until I puke!

Dove’s heart broke. He’d been so hopeful until cock rings and butt fucking ruined his career.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I’m opening two at once, so I can toast myself! Here’s to miming anal sex on live TV!

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Here’s to my girlfriend dumping me because she believes what she saw, not what I’m saying!

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Here’s to the nice guy finishing last and getting it up the ass! That sort of rhymes.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

My beer tastes wonderful! The pumpkin flavor brings out the hops!

Dove reached out and touched the screen. He had so many exclamation marks he almost looked excited. But she knew how much he loved counting and having that taken away was not making him happy at all.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Beers number three and four are down the hatch! I like a hairy snatch! I’m the biggest catch!

He was going all Dr. Seuss in his drunken tweeting. That had to be the worst kind of drunk there was.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

The phone is ringing! Where is it? Oh. My pants!

Dove scrolled up quickly. Who was on the phone? She waited and waited. She typed “Who the hell is it?” in Vampersex’s update, but before she could send it, he was back.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

The Twitter! I got my job back! The Twitter! I think I drank too fast. I
may be vomiting now!

Dove was completely boneless. The relief was overwhelming.

Thank fucking God. Christ, sorry about praying with “fucking.” Shit! Sorry about saying “Christ!” Shut up, Dove. God hates you.

Duke was a winner with a wiener, and she had to thank him.

Dove leapt out of her computer chair and took the stairs in her socks. Duke’s door was closed again, but she heard the faint protesting mew of a kitten. Dove opened the door and Duke was down to his tighty-whities already, again.

“Do you repel pants? Do they actually jump off you?” Dove cringed as she noticed his black socks.

“Pants are afraid of my dick.” Duke was holding the new kitten by the scruff of his neck. “Check this out.”

Dove was about to comment on the apparent courage of his banana hammock for sticking around when Duke held TK close to his face. The adorable kitten had wide eyes but was frozen because Duke was replicating its mother’s grasp. Duke opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the kitten’s head.

Dove was horrified. “Duke, you butt knuckle! Spit the cat out! Do you think you’re a reverse lion tamer?”

Duke removed the kitten and started coughing. “Tastes bad, but how cool is that? I was looking at her, thinking, ‘Man, that cat’s head is so tiny—I bet I could fit her in my mouth.’ ”

Duke put the kitten in the crook of his arm. Dove could have sworn she saw Cletus shake his head in disgust, and then he began licking his hindquarters.

“And I tried. And I could! Anyfloozie, are you ready to pop a cap in my junk? In my lovely lady lumps?” Duke pulled out the elastic of his underwear and swooshed the kitten inside them like it was crumbs off the counter.

Dove could only grunt in horror.

He snickered. “Wait for it.” And soon enough, the kitten’s little head peeked out his fly. “I’m like a fucking kangaroo.” Duke hopped like a bunny in his underwear with the kitten’s ears keeping his beat, as well.

Cletus jumped from his couch and padded for the open door, and Dove leaned over to scoop him up before he could make his escape. As she did, a guy sauntered into Duke’s apartment like he owned it and was greeted by the sight of a full-grown man bounding around a room with a cat in his drawers.

Dove noticed his purposefully messy hair, and it looked bewitching. Before she could look in his face, his pants trapped her gaze. The man had an enormous bulge. He wasn’t even wearing tight pants and she could’ve tapped that penis for a vein through the denim of his jeans. Dove leaned against the nearest wall and buried her nose in Cletus’s soft fur. Mr. Mountain Bulge had tattoos and sexy inked all over him.

“Hey, asswipe. Why’s my motherfucking cat in your motherfucking drawers? Are you some sort of pedo-feline perv?” The huge-penis owner stepped up to Duke in a smooth but threatening way.

Duke had not one bit of self-consciousness. “Dude, this is my friends’ kitten. I’m just keeping it warm for them.”

The Schlongadongadingdong with the sex hair made like he was going to turn around and then swung his fist solidly into Duke’s jaw instead.

Duke teetered backward and fell into the recliner. The little kitten did not like its hidey-hole tossed around and flailed its little claws. Duke’s face went white as the little fluffball turned into a ball of razors. Dove was betting his sense of self-preservation kept him from smacking his underwear.

“Crapping Fucker Assholio.” Duke rubbed his jaw.

It reminded her of a horrible B-movie version of Alien as the kitten’s little kitten elbows tented and scratched inside Duke’s tighty-whities. Finally, TK popped her head out of the hole that had just been her jumpy window on the world. The long dicktance runner grabbed the kitten’s head and eased it away from Duke’s crotch. It was an Alice in Wonderland style birth directed by M. Night Shyamalan.

Cletus purred and rubbed against Dove’s face. The tattooed man was soon standing in front of her.

His voice was gentle. “That cat you have? I’ve seen him on some missing posters. Can I have him back?”

Dove wanted to look at his face but his package was too enticing. She held Cletus out to the tattooed pile of sexy. His member was memberizing. Soon, the sexy kitten claimer was gone with both stolen cats. Duke tossed around on the floor, clutching his meat and potatoes. There were tiny red polka-dots where he was bleeding from his time as a cat washing machine.

Dove still had to thank the man. Now seemed like a fucky time.

Oh well.

“D? You got Johnson his job back.” Dove stepped closer as he flopped from one side to the other. “So… uh… thanks for that… stuff you did.” She tried to see his face. “Okay. This whole thing has been weird, so I’m just going to go home. Can I get you anything? No? Okay… I’m leaving and closing the door. And stuff.”

Dove closed the door behind her and trotted up the stairs. Her high from Johnson’s good news was wearing off.

Duke’s apartment is where the Devil takes a dump.

Steve the Cat was sitting on her keyboard. Dove was pretty sure one of his eyes was twitching. It was hard to tell. Staring contests with Steve were like looking at an Escher drawing, it only got more fucked up the longer you looked. Dove moved Steve to the floor and refreshed her screen. Johnson had been busy. And Johnson was drunk off his ass.

The Dr. Seussing was still a driving force in his tweets.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I love it when you call me big poppa

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I want to marry a girl named Floppa

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I’m gone buy a hippa.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I love my life

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

I cut my sandwich with a bologna knife.

The temptation was too much. She had to tweet him or at least tweet the world.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Today I was able to finally make a knot out of a man’s tie using just my tongue and my boobs.

She waited a few minutes. The usual suspects responded to her tweet. She was not motivated to reply, so she just kept refreshing. Then it was him. Talking to her!

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex You are very flexible. And acceptable.

Dove smiled at his rhyming words.

Thank God he got his job back. Now I’ve to keep cool and collected. He must never know this is me.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 I’m so flexible I could suck my own balls. But I don’t have balls.

She hit Send instead of Delete because that’s how her life rolled. The curser seemed to be the Internet giving her the finger.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Sometimes I look at your picture and pretend there’s a real girl behind the letters.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Behind the black and white words, a girl that wears sweaters.

Dove felt like she was branding the words into hope.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Imagine if I was real. What if I wore sweaters?

Steve the Cat made his way into his litter box. He was totally intent on peppering the pulsating, epic moment with the pungent potpourri of his crap.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex If you were real I would ask you on a date. I would try to make you my fate. Touching your hair would be great.

She couldn’t tell him she was the girl who had taken his hopes away or even that she had forced her sausage-loving friend into getting him rehired.

She pictured the girls at the pharmacy pretending to pinch his ass. She had a mouthful of unspent rage as she thought of the way his now ex-girlfriend had treated him.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Imagine if I let you touch my hair and then you let me touch yours?

His twitter was quiet for so long she pictured him doing other things. She imagined Johnson making himself a sandwich and sloppily indulging in the drunk munchies. Her replies filled up with the typical nameless attention from the boys who followed her. She ran her hand over the keyboard and pretended it was his chest and she wasn’t a pants crapper with an attacking cooter.

She sighed and was ready to end her lengthy wait. None of the other twitter boys held a candle to Johnson with his boring screen and his pristine white pill. She hit Return out of habit, and he’d just sent her a tweet.

Oh my God!

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Sorry Vamper! I had to scamper! I hurled into my hamper!

She smiled at his words like they were his face. He was still thinking about her. He sent her another message.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Vamper, will you go on a date with me? You don’t have to mate with me.

Sweet ass pickles!

Super Sexy McLoudy was asking the Twitter-her on a date.

Dove’s fingers reacted so quickly; she knew her heart was typing and not her head.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Yes. I’ll go on a date with you. Check your direct messages for my address.

Sending her address to him, she gasped. She sat back as Steve the Cat emerged from his evil lair, the kitty door swinging like an entrance into an old western salon. He stared right into her pupils as he shook one paw at a time, little bits of his clumping litter scattering like water droplets.

She decided to interact with her cat while she refreshed her message box over and over. “Imagine if I did that. Pinched off a loaf and then did a victory dance when I was done? You would hate that.” Dove could have composed a song to go along with the steady rhythm of her button pushing.

Finally, his direct message appeared.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex I will be there tomorrow at eight. I won’t be late. I am straight.

Dove stared at the screen and shook her head. How, in all that is righteous and holy, would she turn into Vampersex by tomorrow at eight?

Dove woke up alive, which was surprising. She thought for sure she would have died of panic in her sleep.

He wants to date Vamper not you, pussy knuckle.

The running dialog of sheer worry and insurmountable obstacles was making her knees shake. She had until eight p.m. to get it all right or cancel the date.

Canceling the date was the sensible thing. It was what any clear thinking sex imposter would do. After all the pants crapping, squirrel humping, cock ring flinging rigmarole, she was still stupid enough to think she had a chance of being a desirable human girl.

I’m an asshole.

She spoke to Steve, who was staring at her like she was a baby bird teetering on the edge of a nest.

“All right. All I need to do is keep the lights really, really dim. If I put on enough makeup and a bustier and lots and lots of curls… I could be… the sexy. A lot.” Dove took a shaky breath.

Steve’s lips lifted on one side. He did an excellent impression of Elvis.

“Huh. Look, you have a talent after all.” Dove almost felt compelled to pet him. He was sitting on her kitchen counter like he was never supposed to. She smiled at his funny little face and his great, ever-open orbs.

“See, this is a good day. You’re almost cute.”

Dove tilted her head, wondering if she had time to get her camera. She could picture Steve the Cat with a wickedly jaunty misspelled caption underneath him on the Internet.

He curled his lip even higher.

Sooo cute. Awww.

Steve contorted his body into a C shape and suction-cupped his anus to her countertop.

Don’t. No. Yuck. Stop it.

He proceeded to curl up the other side of his lip into what could be best described as a kitty smile and dragged his bunghole along the surface. He was wiping his ass on her counter.

“Yeah. That’s not the greatest omen.” Dove grabbed the antibacterial spray and had to force herself not to squirt it in his freaky, furry face. “I didn’t even know cats did that. Ugh.”

Dove wasn’t sure where to start. She should serve dinner, of course. Shannon probably had a corset from her Lady Gaga obsession phase. Dove trotted down the stairs to see if her good lipstick was still in her glove compartment.

At the landing in front of Duke’s door, there was a small crowd. Shannon, Flower, and Mr. and Debra Anastasia were all peering into Duke’s den of horror. He was regaling them all with tales of Dove’s cooter attack on Johnson’s ex-girlfriend. When they turned to face her, he’d gotten to the point where he couldn’t talk anymore over his own laughter.

The bystanders started a knee-slapping cacophony of stupid sounding laughs—except for Flower, who probably considered any noise a word. She was silently laughing, and her face looked like a frozen Han Solo in her effort to keep quiet. From the hallway, Dove could see Duke standing in front of his frozen porn TV. Oddly enough, she could look right past the explicit outline without even noticing it anymore. Duke pointed at her and laughed again.

“Whatever, dude. You put a kitten down your pants. Your penis probably has rabies.” Dove wanted to get past the nimrods, but their hilarity had spread them out. Mr. Anastasia had started spanking Debra Anastasia in his gusto.

Duke pushed his way out to get in front of Dove. She wished he hadn’t.

“How you like my homemade dick first aid, Cootie Wiper?” Duke started gyrating.

The whole package was fantastic and quite a bit to take in visually. Dove did it in pieces so her mind wouldn’t crack from the weirdness. She stared at his face. His beard was gone, and he looked much younger. He had a sizeable bruise on his newly clean jaw where the tattooed piece of jumbo-sized man meat had coldcocked him.

His chest was bare, save for a pair of suspenders, and he hooked his thumbs in them like a farmer. She felt her stomach bubble as her gaze went lower still. The suspenders were holding up a pair of ginormous granny panties, and there was easily an entire roll of paper towels stuffed in the front, serving as a bandage for his genital wounds.

His thick, black, wool socks were the finishing touch.

Debra Anastasia quit bending over for Mr. Anastasia’s inappropriate public spanking. “I let him borrow my period undies. I don’t need them anymore.” She didn’t elaborate, and Dove was grateful.

Her only reaction to the pretend bombshell was a raised eyebrow. The woman was the absolute wrong size for the panties Duke was wearing.

Debra Anastasia nodded and smiled shyly. “I used to wear them on top of my sweatpants.”

“It was so fucking hot.” Mr. Anastasia growled in her direction.

Dove looked from one weirdo to another. All she wanted was her lipstick, and now she had enough visual and mental pictures for ten years’ worth of nightmares.

She decided to ignore it all and addressed Duke. “Dude, you shaved. Nice. You want me to pop your situation now?”

She was hoping his recent mini-piercings by the adorable kitten would change his mind about their deal.

“Not today. I’ve got too much oozing. But hell yeah, the deal’s on. What’re you up to?”

Her lipstick never seemed so far away in her life. She shook her head. Nothing she could say here in the sanctity of shitheads would be surprising.

“I have a blind date at eight o’clock. I have to be a different, sexy person by then. The only plan I have is heavy lipstick.”

Debra Anastasia pouted and slithered closer to Dove, “Oh, I’ll do your face, sweetheart. I can make you so desirable and different.”

Flower wasted some of her precious words. “I’ll make dinner.”

“You’ll need an outfit;. I’ll drop off my Adam Lambert stuff. I’m just not that into him anymore.” Shannon looked surprised that she had hopped from one obsession to another.

Looking at their plotting faces, Dove had to decide whether or not to put her trust in the band of merry wackos.

Eight o’clock or not at all. Fuck it.

“Have at me. Shannon, I’m leaning toward the Lady Gaga phase.” Dove looked through her eyelashes as everyone collaborated on making her someone else. Dove was surrounded by scary-sounding words like “wild hairs” and “body glitter.”

Soon everyone scattered except for Duke in his giant women’s undergarments.

“Well, Crappy, how well do you expect this blind date to go?” Duke readjusted his large paper towel maxi pad.

Vamper put out; Dove was sure of it.

“It could go all the way. I might have to do it… all.” Dove tried to hold her head high.

He looked her up and down and then nodded. “So what’re ya rocking on the dick mitten? Landing strip? Heart shape? My favorite’s the lightning bolt.”

Dove stared at him like he was a piece of abstract art until she got what he was referring to. “Oh. Oh! My pubic hair? You want to know what shape it’s in?”

Duke wiggled his eyebrows. Despite his crazy attire, he was quite handsome without his Muppet facial hair.

“I don’t do anything. Am I supposed to?” Dove put one hand over her crotch.

“You’re rocking the full monty? A fur bikini? A wheezing wildebeest? Well, I’ll be your fucking Hairy Plotter. Hold up.” Duke waddled around in his homemade craziness and returned quickly with a tube of what looked like lotion. “This here? I used it on my face. Seven minutes and I was slippery like a nipple in oil.”

Duke pantomimed squirting a huge handful into his palm. “Just get naked, put it on your hand, and rub it the fuck in.” He rubbed himself over and over.

“Duke! Snap out of it.” Dove rolled her eyes as he snickered at her.

“Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention. I went ahead and did my balls and my ass crack, too.” Duke started doing deep knee bends.

Please don’t tell me why.

“I was hoping to decrease my shit-taking time—cut down on resistance and such.”

Dove stuck her fingers in her ears and sang, “La, la, la.”

Duke moved closer and shouted the rest. “My sac is like a set of fresh mozzarella balls!” He tossed the lotion at her, and Dove quickly caught the tube. “Seriously, bitch, don’t make a man face a jungle. It’s 2015 after all.”

Duke ended the conversation by waltzing back through his open door.

Dove stood in her apartment building with forces orbiting around her. Debra Anastasia was setting up her beautification, Shannon was getting the whore clothes, and God knew what Flower considered a suitable dinner for a date.

Okay. I need an action plan.

Dove clomped back upstairs, her favorite lipstick left to melt in the glove compartment of her car. Steve froze mid step on the carpet when Dove opened the door. She felt like she had walked in on a burglar. She shut the door and found a yellow tablet to write the ingredients she would need to turn her into Vamper:

It was a ridiculous amount of things to accomplish. The one she was sure of was putting Steve the Cat in the closet. He loved staring into flashlights. Dove had no idea why, but she had drained the batteries on quite a few so he would stop attacking the things that moved under her comforter.

She set Duke’s slippery nipple cream in the bathroom and went to find the Anastasias’ apartment. The door was wide open when she got to the fifth floor, so she knocked hesitantly. Debra Anastasia stumbled out of the bedroom, tucking her boobs back into her bra top. Mr. Anastasia was nowhere to be seen.

Dove was mortified. “Is it a bad time?”

Debra Anastasia puffed up her lips in what she must’ve thought was a sexy kissy face.

“No… it’s been a great… time.” She motioned for Dove to sit on a chaise longue. Dove sat down because where the hell else could she get turned into a new person? She noticed the entire apartment was furnished with only chaise longues and huge bowls of grapes.

Debra Anastasia sure acted like she knew what she was doing. Lotions, powders, and metal devices caked with old mascara encased her face. It seemed to take hours. Dove could hear Mr. Anastasia moaning from another room. She decided soon after he shouted, “Luscious Bumpkins!” that she wouldn’t even try to make small talk or empathic comments concerning the woman’s hairless husband while Debra Anastasia rolled Dove’s locks in ancient Velcro rollers.

Soon, Dove was being ushered out the door without the hope of glancing in a mirror. Mr. Anastasia appeared in time to pose against the living room wall. He made a painful-looking face, and soon, his abs were more defined. As if the tightening of his muscles were her summons, Debra Anastasia teetered over to her man on her red high heels. They arranged themselves around each other and froze as if Dove had a camera to take their picture. She didn’t, so she mumbled thanks and tried to make it down the stairs before she could hear another of Mr. Anastasia’s cries of pleasure. She wasn’t fast enough.

“Titillating Gumdrops!”

Dove found Flower waiting outside her apartment. Flower was staring at her Doc Martins and in a very slow-motion move; she looked up at Dove.

“Jesus!” Flower’s eyes were wide and her mouth stayed open.

Dove wanted to ask, “Bad Jesus or good Jesus?”, but Flower had already used almost half her allotted words on Dove’s predicament. She felt guilty asking for more.

Flower’s eyebrows answered the question anyway, crinkling like magic carpets surfing in a hurricane. Dove took the folded-over brown grocery bag from Flower’s hand when it was obvious the faux Goth wasn’t capable of shaking herself from the shock.

“Thanks, Flower. For whatever’s in here.” Dove walked past her and into her home. Steve froze and stared right into Dove’s eyes, again. This time his perch was dangling precariously off the light fixture above her table. He dropped to the table and did a perfect impression of a Halloween decoration, hissing at Dove.

“What? God, stop that!”

Her voice enraged the cat. She set the bag down in the kitchen. He hopped to his tiptoes and bounced while adding spitting to his hissing.

The curlers!

Dove remembered belatedly that Steve hated when she put anything on her head. She backed away from the furious animal and closed herself in the bathroom. I’ll just pull these things out, and he’ll calm the fuck down. She slapped the light on and screamed at her own reflection. And screamed and screamed.

Debra Anastasia had used Dove’s face as a canvas to recreate an eerie rendition of the Chucky doll.

Dove screamed again. Steve was closer, hissing at the bathroom door, sounding like a suitcase full of snakes. Thanks to Debra Anastasia, Dove had liver lips and numerous freckles, and her hair was trapped in large–and-in-charge Velcro rollers. She wasn’t even sure that there was a company that still made these types of rollers. Her first impulse was to remove the curlers, but the simple-looking devices were cemented into her hair. Any which way she twisted them, they embedded themselves deeper in her locks like determined ticks.

Her mouth moved from one side to the other as she contemplated different ways to kill Debra Anastasia.

Okay, so the rollers aren’t coming out. Don’t panic!

Despite her very counselor-like internal pep talk, Dove did go ahead and panic. It involved hand flapping, heavy breathing, and the tossing around of things in her bathroom. The glimpses of her horrified Chucky dollified face had her sticking her bottom teeth out at her reflection like an angry bulldog.

After accomplishing not a fucking thing, she attempted to wash off her horrible makeup. She scrubbed and scrubbed and wiped her wet skin dry with a hand towel. She looked in the mirror. The makeup had not budged. She washed again. Still, it didn’t move.

“Debra Anastasia!” Dove hollered at her ceiling in her frustration. “What the hell did you put on me? Some orgy-strength porno body makeup? I hate you!”

There has to be a way to get back to boring.

She opened up her medicine cabinet and found her jar of oily makeup remover. It felt like smearing wet candles on her face, but it had always worked for stubborn mascara in the past.

I guess I’ll put the cooter cream on and at least get that done with while the Pond’s soaks the fuck in.

She put a dollop of the stinky shave-less hair cream in her palm and quickly covered her cracks and folds. She also noticed her crotch hair was out of fucking control. Dove gave her hands a brief rinse and wrapped a towel around her waist. There was a knock on the door that caused Dove’s heart to fall out of her ass.

Shannon’s inane singing put her at ease. And Dove waddled around her pussy nonsense and cracked the door open.

Shannon looked in and screamed, “Fucking shit!”

Dove rolled her creepy eyes. “Shut up, slut fart, it’s me.”

Shannon took a step back and covered her mouth. “What the hell is that funk?”

“It’s my private area. Just give me the clothes.” Dove stuck her hand out the crack.

Shannon passed her a Save-Mart bag, which held the makings of a Lady Gaga outfit. “Your meat curtains smell like a dirty, dead whore that fucked a dirty, dead gorilla.”

Dove slammed her door without saying thank you or good-bye. Between her legs was starting to feel… active.

What the hell am I thinking? I can’t use this stuff. My skin is too sensitive.

Dove waddled back into the bathroom.

Fuck waiting seven minutes. I’m wiping this bitch off now.

She wet the hand towel and followed the instructions, wiping forcefully.

It’s still hairy. I think I should’ve used tons more cream. I was too sparing. And I should have used gloves.

Dove’s hands were starting to numb up alarmingly. She wiped quicker. Some of the hair was coming out. But mostly it wasn’t.

It looks like a tiny, drunk leprechaun scalped parts of my cooter. There’s no hair on the towel… Where’s it going? Did it melt? Am I melting my pussy hair? GOOD GOD!

She wiped some more. Finally, there was a little give. Some of her skin was showing through.

I wonder what a hairless ass crack feels like? I wonder if my lady bits will always smell like another woman’s business? I think I have some Yeti blood in my veins to grow the mullet style tuffs of cooter hair I have. I need to hang tight and dream. I will hope for a stripper pussy of power.

Dove couldn’t take the burning anymore and flipped on the tub water. She got inside the porcelain and spread her legs under the pounding water. She had to adjust the temperature from her bizarre position. With another quick scrub, there was a little less hair condemning her privates to their 1975 impersonation.

Okay it’s like six thirty, and he said he would be here at eight. Plenty of time to make sense of this nightmare.

It wasn’t until she had toweled off that she realized her skin hadn’t given up punishing her yet. She could feel her pussy lips starting to swell like she had overdosed on lip plumper. Like she had fucked a gang of angry bees.

Shit.

Dove ran two beach towels under the ice-cold water from the tap and fashioned a soggy, heavy, woman diaper. Finally, her cooter stopped burning and simmered down to a smolder. She waddled topless in front of the sink to look in the mirror. She was able to scrub the rest of Debra Whore Anastasia’s makeup off using the kitchen scrubber. Her face was bright red and unnaturally shiny.

Give up, ball funk. There’s no way to fix this.

Dove waddled like a John Wayne-flavored sumo wrestler to her computer. She hated how heavy her heart felt. It was a defeat—truly admitting Lotsa was just pretend; even a tiny part of Dove couldn’t be confident and sexy. She logged onto her Twitter and sent a tweet in his direction.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Listen lover, I have to cancel tonight’s rendezvous.

Dove waited, refreshing with steady regularity. Her vagina flared up again, so she slosh-slogged over to the freezer, grabbed her full ice bucket, and tipped its contents down the front of the beach towels.

Damn it! The ice is fire. Stupid! Stupid!

She whipped off the towels, ice clattering to the floor, and hiked a leg onto the nearby counter. She pulled the spray faucet out of its holder and cracked the temperature to hot. She thought her privates would never be warm again until she squirted them from the tap.

Too hot!

The water sprayed haphazardly around her kitchen as Dove fumbled with the handle that determined her vagina’s experience. She backed away from all the temptations of the water. Wet and exposed to the air felt the least like there was a tribe of Girl Scouts earning their campfire patches between her legs. She waddled back to her Twitter, walking like a human crab, and refreshed the page.

Nothing.

She clicked on his home page. He hadn’t tweeted all day.

Of course. He was drunk off his ass; he won’t remember.

The thought of him forgetting made her eyes fill up.

I’m a sniveling cocksmoker. I’m trying to cancel.

Just to be sure, she tweeted to her whole Twitter world.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Please ReTweet, @06201984M358 Your date is canceled. I won’t
be here.

Dutifully and generously, her followers displayed her message in their Twitter feeds.

Now what the hell do I do? I mean, he’s not coming. Right? Right?

No one answered her internal dilemma, but Steve the Cat meowed loudly from the closet. His flashlight had lost its appeal. Dove had no choice but to keep him entertained until the rollers were out of her hair.

She dug deep into her stash of cat toys and pulled out a Ziploc baggie of her sister’s homegrown catnip. She troll-stomped to the closet door and opened it with a squeak. Dove tossed the handful of catnip in and quickly closed the door before Steve’s eyes could dilate enough for him to navigate the real world. She swore she heard him inhale his sweet drugs.

It’d take about twenty-five minutes for Steve to caress and lick the fresh, green leaves, and then he would start sticking his creepily long paw arm under the door. This move would culminate in Steve trying to drag himself through that crack like a zombie. There would be hell to pay for drugging him.

Dove vacillated, naked, between two different possibilities. Johnson could come or he could not come. Common sense said, “No way in hell.”

Her hoping, stupid, and mortified heart forced her to make preparations anyway. She lit a few candles and tried to dress. She started with pants, but it felt like the manufacturer of her jeans had used jellyfish skin for the crotch material. She had to switch to a soft, breezy skirt that looked like she had robbed it off a dead hippie.

Shit. But it’s not like he’s coming. Right? Right?

She reached into the bag of clothes Shannon had brought and found her Lady Gaga inspired corset. Dove spent too much time trying to Gumby her arms enough to affix the closures at her back.

This is not working.

Dove yanked her corset around so she could do up the hooks on her belly instead. The cups her boobs were supposed to fill were standing pert and perky on her back while she clipped the tiny hooks into the teeny loops.

She had bent her head so intently as she worked that she had the spins when she finally clasped the last one and looked up into the mirror. The fabric was excruciatingly tight across her middle. Dove yanked and pulled and pushed until the cups that were meant to be her boobs’ destination lined up with their soon-to-be residents.

She wrangled her tits into the cups. It was like trying to pipe Jello into an ant’s anus, but eventually she was cinched tight. Dove tried the rollers again. No luck. They weren’t coming out, and it made her a little sick to her stomach thinking about what it would take to remove them.

As she stepped into the living room to turn off the lights and invite the darkness in to hopefully make her sexier, she saw Steve’s disembodied paw clawing at the world. Having pity on the black arm with white puffball paw, Dove opened the door and found Steve tangled in one of her shoelaces, cracked out on his catnip high. In her struggle to free him and his struggle to kill the fuck out of her, Dove bent at the waist and fought with the cotton laces.

If she’d at least squatted, she might have prevented it, but she was trying to act like a lady and also trying not to move her throbbing pussy skin one iota.

She leaned one millimeter too many, and the metal underwire of the corset collapsed its iron grasp on her breasts. The pressure squeezed and pushed the cups into one pointy bucket. Dove’s tits were smooshed together to fill up the wacky space. She had a bucket of boobs.

She untangled Steve, who thanked her by hissing at her rollers and tearing around the apartment.

Duke’s loud voice carried and horrified with the same gusto. “Sure! That address is right here. Girl’s name isn’t Lotsa though, it’s…”

Dove grabbed a transparent leopard print scarf she’d had hanging in her closet since junior high. It was exactly the type of thing an old woman would secure around her brand new permanent to keep it fresh from the salon.

Dove covered her giant roller head and greasy face and whirled to face the soon-to-be-open door.

The spare key Duke used to get in and feed Steve when she was away made loud, successful noises in her keyhole. Dove’s eyes grew wide as the door swung open.

Johnson. He’s early.

The loud pharmacist looked stunning. He had on jeans, a white button–down, and a freaking blazer. He was holding flowers and a six-pack of beer. Duke had annoyingly put on real clothes, so she was by far the weirdest thing in the room.

She knew it was crazy. That was a given. She had a balloon-sized head covered by a scarf while rocking a uniboob. Her cat was orbiting her, while hissing, at top speed.

It just figures at this point. There’s a rain cloud fucking me up the ass. Don’t panic, she told herself.

Her brain ran around, scraping at her skull and trying to get out of the horror instead.

Be someone else!

The two men stood, stunned stupid by her elaborate costume. Both jumped when Dove opened her mouth to speak.

“I’m Lotsa Vampersex!” She’d increased her volume and cranked up the pitch of her voice in an effort to disguise herself.

Duke recovered first. “Hey, are you, like, hosting Voldemort’s half-dead body or are you just into freakier stuff than I thought?”

Johnson took a brave step forward.

I have to get rid of Duke. He’ll ruin everything. Well, everything’s already ruined, but for fuck’s sake, he’ll attach my real name to this for Johnson in a second.

She kept up her high-pitched screeching. “I’ll buy your crazy ass sausage at Sam’s Club if you leave. Now!”

Steve, alarmed by the intrusion, assumed his Halloween stance and hopped on his toes like a cartoon.

Johnson nodded at Duke like they were soldiers leaving one another in an unguarded foxhole during war.

Duke winked at Dove. “I fucking love sausage. You’re on, Closet Freak.” And he secured the door closed, locking beautiful Johnson in the room with his perceived Lotsa Vampersex.

The only noise was the sound of Steve’s paws hitting the ground.

Be invisible.

Dove hated that she was here, her apartment smelled like a rotting walrus pussy from her cooter cream. But she loved that Johnson had come, after all. She had a million things to tell him, but she had to say that she was sick or something to get him to leave. She needed to explain her crazy outfit. She just didn’t know how much she could say in the high-pitched voice.

Johnson cleared his throat and spoke. “Lotsa? I, um, I woke this morning to find our conversation on the Twitter. And I’m here to say I’m not coming. Well, I’m here to say I’m here, but I’m leaving. I wanted to warn you. I know you speak to many men on the Twitter and I’m worried that you would invite one to your accommodations. There are unsavory people in the world, Lotsa.”

Steve the Cat stopped his circling to stand on his hind legs. His hissing turned into exaggerated moaning, and his pupils were huge from the catnip. Both Dove and Johnson turned to look at the phenomenal display.

“Is your cat okay? I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Johnson raised his eyebrows.

Dove reminded herself to retain the unearthly squeal. “He’s stupid.”

Fantastic. Very witty. Hate your own fucking cat. That’s sexy.

“Okay…” Johnson continued. “I just… brought beer because I hated to deliver this advice without at least an offering.”

He held out the flowers in her direction. They were obviously purchased at a local grocery store. Dove was afraid he would step too close and see through her sheer scarf, so she waved them away. Johnson frowned at his flowers and shrugged. Unaccepted flowers had nowhere to go.

He continued his explanation. “I brought the flowers because I felt it was only right, considering the amount of time I fixated on your profile picture.”

The awkward implication of his masturbation strangled the conversation to death. They stood together while Dove wondered how obvious the dust bunnies were under her couch. She swallowed and was relieved to notice her sense of smell seemed to be numbed by the chemical aroma of her harsh hair remover. Maybe his was, too.

“So, just to clarify…” Johnson had recovered and was wrapping up their date. “Please don’t invite me over to your apartment, because I might come. And next time, it might not be me. And that wouldn’t be safe.” He set the beer down on her coffee table.

He seemed to want to come in for a hug or at least a dicey air kiss, but Dove began the only evasive maneuver she had; she began a high-pitched scream-singing.

Steve the Cat dropped to his four feet as if Dove’s voice was a command and launched himself at Johnson’s torso. Johnson tripped over his own feet and tumbled onto his ass. The cat crawled his prone body like an expensive cat tree, digging into Johnson’s flesh.

His scream harmonized with Dove’s horrendous singing. She felt awful that he was being mauled by her shithead cat and rushed over to peel Steve off his victim.

Steve turned his fury on Dove’s huge head. In the melee, the cat pulled her scarf clean off. The abandoned camouflage lumped up next to the panting Johnson like a snakeskin.

Dove waddled off to put her clawful cat in the closet. Johnson had pushed himself into a sitting position and was looking unabashedly at her naked face.

Dove began wringing her hands.

This is not how this is supposed to happen. Oh my God. Now instead of thinking I’m sexy he’ll just think—

Johnson’s face contorted as he connected the farce to the woman in front of him. “Gynazule®? Dove Gynazule®?”

—I’m a liar.

“Dove Gynazule®?”

The disbelief of seeing a familiar person in an unusual setting registered on Johnson’s face.

Dove dropped her gaze and twisted her fingers together. She stared at the scarf on the floor and tried to use the force of her mind to levitate it back on her head. It didn’t work.

An indescribable amount of time passed. The only noise was the disturbing growling that Steve was making from the closet. He sounded like a rabid dog. Dove had no excuses, no explanations. She tried once to meet Johnson’s eyes but only made it as far as his fantastic Adam’s apple before she returned to staring at the scarf.

After a shuffling of clothes, Johnson stood up. Dove tried not to feel her heart lurch at the disappointment of his leaving as she stood in her stupid, all-encompassing, shame.

His loud voice made her jump. “Is this a prank? Is there a camera here? Is this what you people do for fun? Film me? Because I’m quite sure you humiliated me enough at Save-Mart when I lost my job.”

Dove’s hands started to tremble. She was caught red-cootered and greasy-faced in a lie.

She started four sentences at once. “I am— You must— Let’s not— Hairy-assed bitch.”

The beautiful pharmacist held up a hand. Dove stared at the tips of his fingers, trying to be respectful, hoping it would pass for eye contact.

“You know what? I don’t even want to hear your excuses. I can’t believe I thought you were different. Well, I guess you are, aren’t you? You’re good at pretending to be different, but you’re the same as the rest of them.”

Johnson nodded as though Dove had answered a question and then shook his head like he had made a decision.

Dove thought her truth. You vag flap, he’s too beautiful to even look at you. Die in a fire.

Her heart and hope followed him to the door like an excited puppy unable to comprehend the blow that would come soon enough. Dove covered her mouth and fought back tears.

I’m ugly enough at this fucking second without a snotty nose.

He took one last glance over his shoulder that she wasn’t expecting. His green eyes met her brown ones. He was hurt—disappointed, even. He thought he was the butt of a joke.

She uncovered her mouth and hazarded putting her awful words into his reality. She had to try something. His shoulders were slumped, and even if she made a fool of herself, he needed to have his dignity back when he walked out her door for the first and last time.

“I put a bunch of horrible hair-removing cream on my pussy. That’s why it smells so bad in here. I wanted to be her. Lotsa is who I want to be, and I never, ever am. I’m the one girl out of a thousand that gets crapped on by a seagull while waiting in line for a tour of the Statue of Liberty. I’m the girl that trips and has her boob fall out of her top in front of the mechanics when I’m vacuuming my car at the gas station. I’m the girl that says yes to an amazing man and tries to be anything but herself when he comes to her door. Me sucking at life has nothing to do with you.”

His hand had halted on the knob. His eyebrows knit together like he was waiting for a punch line or a secret camera crew to pop out of the bedroom.

Dove continued. “You walk out of here proud. This isn’t me punking you. This is you crashing into my orbit of awful. Staying far away from me will change all your luck back to the way it was. Perfect and girlfriended and expensive-shirted.”

Dove hammered the growling closet door with a very non-PETA-approved fist. Steve was startled silent.

If the cat had still been making a racket, Johnson might not have heard her last remark. “I wish I could get away from me.” Dove waddled in his direction.

After he left, she wanted to slide the bolt lock so not even Duke could sausage his way into her own personal, smelly hell.

Johnson didn’t move, but Dove had said her piece. She waited an arm’s length away, expecting the whole room to register the lack of him soon enough.

Johnson still didn’t move. He stood so still Dove was afraid to breathe.

“What’s going on between your legs? Are you okay?” His voice was still too loud.

She was so close there was no need to enunciate with such gusto.

Are we going to talk about my coochie? Ah, what the hell. It’s not like I can make things worse.

“I used some Magic Beard. It’s been a while since I had a date. I just tried to make everything hairless. Hairless is the new sexy, I guess. So I hear, anyway.” She shrugged and wiggled.

His mentioning her woman parts made them feel bigger. Her mound felt like the size of a Volkswagen.

“Do you have any aloe? Maybe take a shower and wash gently. Then apply the aloe.”

He’s trying to help me. Help the lying, crying, asshole me.

“You have sensitive parts—vagina-flavored, remember? You need to treat your skin sweetly. Not punish it just because you have a date.”

Dove went to put a nervous hand through her hair and smacked into a huge Velcro roller.

“Damn it!”

Johnson reached out and touched her elbow. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Dove stepped backward. “Don’t be nice to me, okay? Just go. I’m not worth your time. Just go.”

“Do you have a black belt in beating yourself up? Why don’t you go shower.” Johnson was close to the front door.

Dove got it. The man wanted to leave without her dramatics. It must be sheer embarrassment to sneak out of her place. She nodded and headed into the bathroom, locking the door behind her with a click.

The hot water pampered some of her sins. Between her legs rebelled at the water at first but was then soothed. Dove ran some water through her rollers, but they were stuck tight. She begged her ears to not listen for the closing of the front door, but they did as they wished, ignoring her demands.

Dove squeaked the hot water off and wrapped herself in her fuzzy, old Rudolph Christmas robe. He had to be gone by now. Her shower was so loud; he must’ve slipped out.

She wiped away the thin cloud that clung to the mirror. She could see her own disappointed face looking back at her. At least her face was clean. It was highly probable that she was going to have to cut these rollers out of her fucking hair, and that sucked dynamite-laced donkey nuts. She opened her medicine cabinet and pulled out her aloe vera. With skin as pale and bloated corpse-ish as hers, sunburns happened way too frequently. She winced as she smeared the cool gel on her bright red, partially hairless skin.

Well, at least Johnson had been right; the relief was almost instant. Dove let out a defeated sigh and opened the bathroom door. A huge mushroom of thick humidity led the way, and it had to clear before she saw him appear like a mirage before her. He was sitting on her couch, drinking his beer. Steve the Cat was happily licking Johnson’s offered finger like a trained dog.

Dove’s mouth dropped open. “You’re still here?”

Johnson took another sip of his beer and set it down on her coffee table. “Well, I couldn’t lock the door behind me and I wasn’t going to leave you unprotected.” He shrugged and smiled. “I used a whole roll of paper towels to clean up the puddles in the kitchen.”

His smiling made his tendency for loud vagina talk extremely unimportant.

Don’t get your hopes up. You lying, baboon-ass cooter.

“Well, uh, thanks.” Dove waited to see what was next. She wished she had a nice silky robe like Hugh Heifer instead of her cartoon fleece one. She fiddled with the rope tie.

“Are you leaving the rollers in on purpose?” He was concerned again.

Dove bit her lip. Her womb wanted to hump his face.

Inappropriate horn bag.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to cut them out.” She inched toward her bedroom, wondering what the hell she was going to do. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight because he might leave, but she wanted to look less like a ten-year-old on Christmas morning.

He stood and unbuttoned his shirt’s first button. Then the second button.

Chest hair. Fucking lovely chest hair in my apartment, and I’m naked under my robe. It’s almost sex!

He’s speaking again. Concentrate.

“It’d be a shame to cut your lovely hair. May I take a look?”

He was stepping toward her!

Don’t moan or fart. Don’t moan or fart.

Johnson stood right in front of her, reaching for her topmost roller. She had to look at his mouth—it was right in front of her eyes.

He’s breathing on me! Breathing! It smells like beer!

Dove moaned.

Fuck.

She took a step back and the old hardwood floor did a perfect impression of a creaky fart when it experienced her weight.

Of course.

“That was the floor. I don’t have gas right now.” Dove closed her eyes. Great, let him know you do have gas on occasion.

His chest hair bounced as he chuckled.

Chest hair. Beer breath. Hump him.

“You see, that’s what I like about you. You never try to be perfect. So many girls are busy trying not to eat, keeping their hair just so, making sure their boyfriend is a doctor. Not you.” He bit his bottom lip as his hands worked in her hair.

He likes my gas!

Johnson’s teeth were so white and straight Dove wanted to lick them.

“How about we sit down? This looks like one hell of a process.” Johnson sat on the couch and put a pillow on the floor between his feet. He motioned for her to sit between his legs.

Well, hot damn. I’d fight a dragon to get my ass on that pillow.

He opened a beer and passed it to Dove. She toasted him over her shoulder and tried to swallow all her doubts and self-hatred.

Johnson started the soft, methodical process of unwinding her hair from the rollers. Dove took the remote control from the coffee table and tuned the TV into the cable company’s music-only channel.

She’d never been a beer fan, but Johnson’s homebrew was blowing her mind. It was fresh and coated her tongue with a sweet pumpkin taste. She told him how much she liked it.

“Thanks. Home brewing my beer really tickles my chemistry bone.” Johnson set a newly freed roller on the coffee table. He tossed the damp lock of hair so it landed on her forehead.

His bone. Johnson’s dick. His penis is almost touching my neck. We’re basically neck fucking.

Dove tried to take her mind away from his man meat, but it was like her brain was paralyzed by dick osmosis. Johnson’s feet were big, which meant…

He has a monster cock.

Johnson talked loudly about all the measurements and numbers involved in the beer she was drinking. He loved numbers, and Dove thought it was endearing.

She finished her beer and felt a pleasant buzz. There were now three rollers on the table. His fingers were so nimble and gentle she had to sigh loudly.

“Am I boring you? I’m sorry.” Johnson rubbed her shoulders in a friendly gesture that made her want to put her boobs in his hands.

“No, I was just thinking how much I like hearing you talk about numbers. It’s soothing.” Dove was tempted to lean her head back in a friendly way and clamp on his cock like a toothless, sucking pit bull.

Johnson was a talker, and Dove was good at asking questions. When he got excited or was enunciating particularly loudly, his thighs would tense and touch her ears. Dove wanted to wear his thighs as earrings forever. Their banter was much easier when she couldn’t see him. She pretended they spoke this way every day.

Finally, all the rollers were lined up on her coffee table. An alarming number of hairs were attached as well, which made Dove curse Debra Anastasia all over again.

“Well, your hair is free from its prison.” Johnson set his hands on his spectacular—Dove was betting—knees. His hands were tempting her right next to her face.

I just want to lick his knuckle.

Her tongue even slipped out of her mouth a little while she eyed the prize. Just before she went the fuck ahead and extended her moist mouth muscle, he took his hands away. Her mouth mourned the prospective taste of him until his hands massaged her still-damp locks. He was trying to be sweet, she was sure, like petting a kitten whose tail you had accidentally stepped on.

But he was pulling on knots and making her wince. She wanted to hang in there and take it like a man, accept his affection. But when he got to one of the baby hairs close to her ear, he pulled it out by its roots and she yipped.

“I’m sorry. Last thing you need is me making your scalp any worse.” He took his beautiful, painful hands away.

Dove sat between his legs for a few more seconds, trying to come up with any feasible reason she could stay there.

I want to sniff his balls. Just once.

She crawled away from her perfect little nest, and he offered his hands to help her stand. Dove caught her reflection in the mirror above her mantle and smiled. Her hair looked awesome. She had Bond-girl height, and the dampness brought out her dirty-blond waves. Johnson stood as well.

“I best be going. I guess I should say thanks?” He ran a hand through his mop of aphrodisiac follicles.

Don’t leave. Don’t ever leave. Let’s boil eggs. Let’s get overly comfortable. YOU TAKE A DUMP WHILE I TAKE A SHOWER!

“Okay then, thanks for dropping by. I’m sorry it was me here when you showed up.” Dove absentmindedly began poking the reindeer on her robe in the eye.

Johnson nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get moving. Do you mind if I keep the empties? I recycle them.”

I bet his dick is like a tree. I want to be a tree hugger but with my pussy.

“Sure. Have at them,” Dove said instead.

She helped Johnson put the bottles back into their convenient carrying case. At the door, Johnson waved at her, even though he was close. She stupidly waved back. He walked along her hallway and down the stairs. Even his footsteps were loud. Loud and sexy.

Dove leaned against her doorjamb and sighed. Then it hit her that they had no other plans. He didn’t say he’d call. He didn’t set up a date. He didn’t even have her phone number, for crap’s sake.

Shit.

He was just placating the weirdo. Of course.

He’s too kind to leave a freak floundering.

Her self-doubt crawled up her legs and gave her a junk punch.

Mr. Anastasia came running down the stairs. He was wearing a sarong and cowboy boots. He nodded at her as though he was dressed in a business suit and she was wearing clothes instead of her holiday robe.

Debra Anastasia flounced down the stairs like a southern belle in a dress that was made for a toddler instead of a grown-ass woman. She seemed to be trying to convince Mr. Anastasia of something. Dove wanted to get physical with the bitch who had defiled her face and hair so close to her important date with Johnson, but Debra Anastasia only had eyes for her husband.

She squeezed her cleavage together and pouted. “Baby, I can’t help it. I worry. You know how I am.” The whore licked her falsely plump lips and continued. “The guy said he was going to use a cat on her! A cat! You know how I feel about pussy cats. I think he is going to hit it with a cane or something. We need to save it. Please?”

Dove cleared her throat and the Anastasias gave her their attention. “Hey, here’s an idea. Stop catnapping people’s fucking pets. You’re both freaks. Go upstairs, put Krazy Glue on your genitals, and hump.”

Debra Anastasia looked Dove up and down. The porn writer totally disregarded Dove’s words. “Wow, see? I told you the rollers would do wonders for your hair. And look at your face.” Debra Anastasia came close and squeezed Dove’s cheeks together. “You look like you’re in love. Your date will be pleased. Do you want to borrow any of my clothes? Will he be here soon?”

The whore was clueless. She had no idea what Dove had been through, but she was smiling widely. Dove hated that her heart liked the compliment she had just received.

She sighed and lied like a fucking liar. “No, he’ll be here any minute. I better go get dressed.”

Through her closed door, Dove heard Mr. Anastasia succumb to his wife’s charms, agreeing to go find the cat that was somehow being tortured. Dove looked at her computer. She felt like a stalker. She felt like an addict, but she logged on to her Twitter.

She smiled with every part of her body when she saw Johnson had tweeted.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

Was with a girl who is refreshingly real.

Me? Me? Please be talking about me.

Dove hazarded a reply, her fingers shaking the whole time.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Refreshing is good right?

Her heart was pounding. It couldn’t be good to want something this bad. Want someone this bad. I’m just me. Oh God. I’m me, and he’s him.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Refreshing like a cool dose of Aloe on a raw vagina.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Thank you for not running away.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Thank you for being you when I showed up. Anyone else would’ve been disappointing.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Night

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@ Lotsa_Vampersex Sweet dreams.

Dove immediately printed four copies of their Twitter conversation. She hugged them to her chest and sat on the couch next to the dent he’d made while he untangled her hair.

She looked to her left and then to her right. Confident that she was genuinely alone, Dove leaned over and buried her face in the dent his butt had made, giggling because she was hoping to have a supersonic sniffer and smell the imprint his balls had left on her couch.

Duke polished off the last bit of his Slim Jim and studied the grease on the tips of his fingers. He had two important choices regarding the oily substance: he could lick it off or massage it into his balls. After the ran-sac-ing—he snorted—his man bags had taken from the kitten, he figured they deserved love. Touching a ball sac was always pleasurable, so after he had indulged in his testicle moisturizer, he let his hand linger.

“My balls are still a little sore. How’re you guys holding up?” Duke nodded at the two gay men trapped in their glorious passion on his TV.

He liked to talk to them as if they were people in the room. “Bobbin” was the kneeling guy’s name, and “Fordicks” was the standing man’s name.

“Looking good boys, gotta say.” While touching his scrotum, Duke accidentally rubbed one of his kitten wounds. The spices in the Slim Jim residue forced his lovely balls to try to masquerade as a uterus as they quickly crawled inside his body.

He hopped off his sofa and went to the fridge. Duke stuck a water bottle with a squeeze top down his pants and squirted the icy relief on his punctures.

“Son of a Hairy Bitch!” Duke stood with his legs apart and swung his nut sac back and forth to try to ease the ache.

The beauty of going commando was that when he got up enough momentum, his balls would slap his own taint. Eventually his thigh muscles began to groan and he had to stop his ball meat calisthenics.

“So what the fuck am I going to do tonight?” Duke asked Bobbin and Fordicks.

They didn’t answer, so he decided to burden them with his current concern. “If I ever met a girl that’s, like, a total vegetarian, do you think she’d mind getting tea-bagged with my spicy, carnivore-perfumed nuts?”

Fordicks looked a bit concerned, but he was just seconds from blowing his load, so he always looked worried anyway. Duke walked to his screen and gave the endlessly pre-ejaculating man’s rump a football-style slap.

“You poor bastard. Come on already! Get it? Get it?”

Duke found his remote and sat back down. He gave Bobbin and Fordicks some color as he turned on SportsCenter. Some inane blather came out of the newscaster’s mouth, and Duke got bored. God, he hated being bored. The screen went to commercial, and an ad for Petco bounced into his universe.

There was an adorable array of animals tromping across Bobbin’s stomach. Duke gave a half smile, imagining the kitten in his underwear. Before it had shredded his genitals, that kitten was sort of cute.

“Maybe I need a pet? Yeah! I fucking need a pet!” Duke left the TV on and went to take a leak. As his stream made a loud, pleasing noise, he reached over his shoulder and scratched his back. He winced as his fingers found a painful lump. He wiggled his dribble off the tip of his penis and left it out to dry as he tried to see his back in his mirror.

It was a fucking pimple, and it was just out of his reach. He let his shirt cover the blemish. Duke had unusually smooth skin, so the pimple was unwelcome. It was full enough that he thought he could really do some damage if he could just squeeze it.

His arms were too short. He tried backing into the corner of a wall, but instead of popping the pimple, it just made it angry.

“Fuck you, zit. I’m getting the heavy artillery.” Duke plodded over to his dishwasher and pulled out his barbecue tongs.

He went to the mirror and tried to use the utensil like an extension of his determined hands. No luck. His perspective was off—the mirror image was humping his groove. With no other options, he decided to bust in on Dove’s freaky ass and have her do the deed for him. He jabbed his legs into his sweatpants and slung the elastic band below his still tender nut sac.

He dwelled on the getup she’d been wearing when he last saw her and had to stop and laugh. Her date, the pharmacist, hadn’t even recognized Duke from the sausage extraction at Save-Mart because he’d shaved his beard. But Duke couldn’t imagine how the dick could mistake Dove for anyone but Dove. She was kind of beautiful. Her hair was super hairy and looked awesome when she left it down. And he wasn’t telling anyone but her tits were pretty titty, too. She wasn’t a model or anything, but she was cute. Pretty cute. Beautiful cute.

He arrived at her door and knocked so hard and furiously that people from the neighboring apartments opened their doors at the same time Dove opened hers. She looked normal, and she was smiling. Duke gave the finger to the other residents as he handed Dove the tongs.

“Hey, girl, I have massive zit I need you to pop.” Duke gave her a big smile.

“Your dick’s out again.” Dove shielded her eyes.

“It was air drying. You need to let a dick breathe. Underwear is jail.” He tucked his yak and two lemmings back into their holster—his sweatpants. “It’s gone. No, really this time.”

Dove squinted toward his crotch with one eye, and when she saw he wasn’t lying, she relaxed. “I’m not popping your pimple. You let Johnson in! I wasn’t ready.”

“You definitely weren’t ready. The voice? The scarf?” Duke had to hang onto her doorknob so he wouldn’t fall over while he laughed, remembering.

Dove stood behind the door and tried to push it closed. Duke was a strong fucker.

“Stop, no. I’ll stop laughing.” It took him another minute or so to wind down.

Dove rolled her eyes. “I already have to pierce your man business. I’m not touching any skin eruptions. Yuck.”

Duke stared at her.

“No. No. Quit looking at me. Go pop your own problems.” Dove couldn’t close her door, so she turned her back on him.

He followed her in and made his way to her bathroom with his tongs.

Dove stopped and looked at her reflection again. Damn, my hair looks good.

Duke made some grunting noises. She didn’t even want to know what he was straining with. She heard a familiar motorized sound and a victorious shout.

“Take that, you fucker! Hey, Lotsa, your electric toothbrush did the trick!”

The bathroom door opened again and Duke walked out, wearing only a sock like he was a member of Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I have something I have to ask you, but can I take a shower first?”

He spun around to show her the gore and she quickly closed her eyes. Dove figured her date with Johnson had changed her because even though Duke was standing there with her expensive toothbrush, she was calm.

Duke took her silence as acceptance and walked back into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. He tossed his sock into the hallway, and she heard the shower curtain pull open.

Shit. The crotch hair is still in the tub.

In all her excitement, she totally forgot to clean the wayward hairs.

“Holy tit fungus! Did you give Sasquatch an autopsy in here? God almighty, girl.” He waddled back into the hallway, this time holding his privates with both hands. “You balded the dick mitten. Nice. Let me see it.”

He looked at her like she might drop trou simply because he suggested it.

“I would rather lick a monkey’s armpit than show you my vagina.” Dove gave him the finger.

“You know what I love best about a naked muff hole? It looks just like a camel’s dangly lips.” Duke extended his own lips to make them appear gummy and slack.

“Go to your room, Duke.” Dove pointed to the door.

Duke ignored her and turned his bare ass in her direction. He released a very fresh-from-the-source-sounding fart.

“Whoops, I think I’m taking a shit, too.” He did close the door on his way back in, but his voice was loud and clear as he shouted, “Fire in the hole!”

She looked at Steve the Cat, who—as always—was looking back. “I hate Duke.” Steve closed one eye. Instead of looking like a wink, the cat appeared to be aiming a gun. Dove shook her head and logged on to her Twitter. Johnson had sent her a message. Again.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex My hands still smell like your conditioner.

Dove wanted to type “My couch still smells like your balls,” but she didn’t think it would come across as romantic as she intended. She totally forgot about Duke honking off a dump in her apartment as she stared dreamily at the screen. She hit refresh as she tried to come up with a response.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Unless, of course, you have an oily scalp, in which case I’m smelling your skin’s juices.

The image his tweet painted in her mind was poisoned even further by Duke’s back pimple explosion.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 That’s my conditioner, not my skin you smell.

Well, this is some wicked awkward flirting.

Duke turned on the shower and sang about being hot.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex I bet your skin’s oil smells wonderful, too.

Dove was trying to concentrate on his words, his amazing words about her oily skin, but Duke was out of the shower and parading around in just his T-shirt.

“Put your pants back on. Dear God.” Dove wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“I backed up your shitter. Where’s your plunger?” Duke tied his sweatpants around his waist, the knot just above his penis, the legs dangling to cover his more sensitive parts.

“I don’t have one,” Dove responded with frustration.

God, I just want to say something sexy to Johnson. I don’t want to think about plumbing. I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 I secrete oil when I find a man attractive. I’m oily now.

Dove hit enter out of habit and then slapped her forehead.

Oh, yeah that’s hot. Great.

“Who doesn’t have a plunger? What sort of rabbit poop crapper are you? God damn it. It’s downright insulting to those of us with more robust digestive systems.” Duke looked honestly upset.

“Seriously? You could’ve taken your shit downstairs in your own fucking place.” Dove stood to usher him and his stupidity out the door.

“No, I have a question for you. I didn’t come up here only to witness the slaughter of your Hairy Babushka. Don’t throw me out yet.” Duke grabbed the back of her couch and clung to it.

Dove sighed and sat down. “Ask then.” She kept looking over her shoulder at the Twitter screen, but she couldn’t see it from this distance.

Duke vaulted over the back of the couch and landed in Johnson’s dent with his naked butt.

Well there goes all my couch sniffing. Ass bag.

“I need you to drive me to Petco. I want a pet.” He had a big, happy smile.

“No. No way in hell. And Petco is closed this time of night.” Dove looked at her own pet. He was looking at Duke, and the hair behind his neck was sticking up.

Well, I could give him that shithead.

As if Steve had heard her thought, he looked at her and yawned, showing his large, intimidating teeth.

Duke was blathering on and on about how much he missed the stolen cats. Dove didn’t clue him into the fact that Debra Anastasia and her unfortunate husband were off looking for another pussy.

“Duke, owning a pet will require you to keep your door shut. Even when you’re taking a dump. Even when you are doing the expert drum solo on Rock Band naked.” Dove shivered as she recalled that particular sight.

As if he hadn’t heard a thing she said, he continued. “I want a wolf. I think that would be awesome. I could get a shirt with two wolves, and then when people comment that the shirt’s not an authentic Three Wolves shirt, I’d whistle and call my other fucking wolf. It’ll be epic.”

Dove looked at her fingernails, thinking about painting them red because red fingernails were sexy. She pictured running them through Johnson’s thick, luscious, pointy locks.

She tried to dissuade Duke. “A wolf will rip your face off. And they don’t sell wolves at Petco. They sell, like, hamsters and chipmunks.”

Duke looked perplexed and thoughtful until he released wet-sounding gas.

“And now I’m going to have to burn my couch.” Dove stood and headed for the door.

Duke hopped up, and there seemed to be an extra bounce in his step, causing the legs of his sweatpants to swing from side to side. Dove looked at the ceiling.

“Okay, fine, I’ll get a big fucking spider or a snake. Or both! And let them battle it out. Survival of the fittest. That would be awesome.”

Dove managed to corral him into the hallway. Steve the Cat walked with her to see him out.

“Guess what, Duke? If you get a pet, I’ll buy that Sam’s Club sausage I promised you and a plunger. And I will flush every piece down the crapper. And if it gets stuck? I’ll plunge it.” Dove leaned against her doorjamb and watched his reaction.

“Now you’re just being cruel. Not the sausage.” Duke’s eyes looked a little moist.

Apparently Steve the Cat didn’t like manly shows of emotion. He vaulted at Duke’s hairy leg. He dug his claws in deeply, like he was hanging on for dear life from a tree branch thirteen stories high. Dove recognized the C shape of the cat’s body from the counter top incident and watched as Steve suction-cupped his butt to Duke’s bare skin.

Duke hopped around, swatting at the cat. Dove let him jump around for a few seconds before she peeled her horrible cat away from her neighbor. She stepped into the hallway and tossed Steve back in her apartment and shut the door.

Duke was assessing the damage. “Look at my gams? Damn it, Dove, that cat’s crazy. I think he was sucking on me.”

Dove focused on the back of Duke’s thigh and saw a telltale bruise. She started to point and giggle.

“What? What!” Duke followed her pointing finger.

“Steve did that with his anus.” Dove slid down the door, laughing.

“Your cat gave me a hickey with his ass? That’s not even funny. That’s disgusting.” Duke was angry until he started laughing with her. “It’ll make the guys at the gym jealous when I tell them a pussy gave me a love bite.”

Dove gave him advice and direction. “See, sometimes you get a pet and it’s a jerk, like mine. You get a snake and it might squeeze your dick off. Now go get your plunger and get rid of your butt loaf in my bathroom, you fucking caveman.”

Duke trotted down the hall, bare-assed.

“And put the pants on, for the love of God!” Dove shouted after him.

She sat with her back against the door, waiting for her foul neighbor to clean his mess.

When the apartment building had a new resident, there was always an uproar. The quietest, most hushed murmur of an uproar possible. Ever since ol’ Mrs. Tushpants went to meet her maker and her relatives had a yard sale of her old, dead belongings, the landlord had been advertising in full swing. So when the advertisements had been taken down, it was time to speculate about who might be moving in.

Dove was leaving for work when Duke called from his lair of porn and sausage, “Hey Crappa Pants! Come check me out!”

Dove hated that he knew way too much about her now. He knew she had a big girl boner for Johnson, he knew she’d tried to remove her crotch hair and had crapped her pants. It was Shameful with a capital Shit.

She looked in and he was, predictably, on the couch. He was wrapped in about three blankets that looked more like maxi pads than bedding.

“Check this shit out! Ol’ Mrs. Tushpants had a pile of these Marriage Mender blankets.”

Dove figured they must have the capacity to vibrate or at least smother someone to death but, no.

“They filter farts! How fucking clever is that? Check it out.” Duke leaned a little and made a face. The resulting flatulence sounded like an angry squirrel getting tossed off a ten-story building with a water balloon tied around his neck.

“Now sniff, baby! Sniff.” Dove immediately covered her mouth. She still had stinkmares from when he clogged her toilet.

“I’m not sniffing anything that comes out of your body on purpose. I have work.” Dove shook her head and turned to leave.

“No, really. I’m worried. When was the last time you saw the Anastasias?” Duke’s voice had a tiny bit of serious concern, so Dove gave him another second of consideration.

“The last time I saw them was a week ago in the hallway. The night of my date with Johnson.” She took a few careful steps inside. “Debra Anastasia had convinced Mr. Anastasia to try to save some cat from a candy cane or something.”

Duke patted the seat next to his blanket-mummified form. She stupidly sat. He snaked an arm around her neck and held her tight. Soon enough, what sounded like machine gunfire erupted from under his comforter. “Sniff it! Sniff!”

She had no choice, she had to smell. He had her in a headlock for too long to go without breathing.

Surprisingly there was no smell.

“Clean as a baby’s ass, right?” Duke snorted.

Dove pounded him on his leg until he let her go. “I don’t think that’s the expression you’re looking for, Mt. AssVolcano.”

“These blankets are filters! I swear on my stash of Slim Jims that is the best invention ever. Besides Craigslist, of course.” Duke took his thick arm from around her neck.

“Of course,” Dove agreed.

“Mrs. Tushpants was dead under these blankets for three weeks and nobody smelled her rotting corpse. Powerful, huh?” Duke looked proud. “Her kids let me have these bastards for free at the yard sale. Can you believe it?”

“Yes. Yes, I can believe it. God, you’re vile.” Dove looked him up and down.

“There’s only one downfall. If you have to get up to take a piss…”

He flounced his blanket like a skirt, and the aroma the blankets had not had a chance to filter yet hit her right between her gag reflex and her repulsion.

“Duke, you cockbag. I better not smell like your ass crack all day.” Dove scurried for the door.

Duke waddled after her and hollered, “You owe my dick a hole, and when you get home, we’re going to look for the Anastasias!”

As Dove headed for the front glass doors there was a man on the other side who held the door open. Dove thanked him and gave a quick sniff of her shoulder to make sure she had left Duke’s fart behind. The man propped the door open behind her and headed for the Hertz truck that was parked awkwardly in front of the entrance to the building.

The new tenant!

And he’s a gentleman!

Dove noticed his left hand glistened with a gold band, and her interest dropped one hundred notches, but she was still nosy.

“So, are you moving in?” Dove tried to look like she was casually leaning against a lamppost. But there was no lamppost, so it looked more like she had injured her back or one of her legs was shorter than the other.

“No, I’m Josh. Preston needed a little help moving in. He has a huge rock collection that’s a bitch to move.” Josh nodded in the direction of the full truck bed.

Preston climbed from the bowels of the truck like a monkey running from a giant banana costume. “Le Fuck! Zat is da biggest le spider in the monde entire!”

The man’s hair was wild; it looked mostly like a wig. He jumped into Josh’s arms.

His friend shook his head and set the panicked Frenchman on his feet. “Preston’s such a kidder.”

Josh proceeded to lift the closest box. The weight was tremendous, judging from the bulging veins in his neck. The bottom gave out on the cardboard, and a rock the size of a tricycle fell out. Apparently “huge rock collection” was an extremely literal description. Preston fell to his knees and ran his hands over the surface like a mother with an injured child.

Dove wished Josh luck and was thankful that she was not a friend of Preston’s freaky ass. She could swear he was the manager from Save-Mart, whom Duke had convinced to give Johnson his job back, but she didn’t think that man had had an accent.

Dove unlocked her door and started her car. She would be at least ten minutes late to open the carousel. Shannon appeared in her rear view mirror all 2009 Sopranos style, and Dove screamed from the depths of her soul. Shannon covered her mouth, and Dove had to try to pretend she was fine when the moving men showed concern while biting Shannon’s hand.

“Don’t move, Dove. Don’t move the car; don’t breathe. I can’t believe it.” Shannon put her head on the seat divider like a hopeless golden retriever. Dove followed the direction of Shannon’s attention to see that she was indeed watching the Frenchman with a look of longing on her face.

“Dove, turn up your music—just not too loud.”

Dove shrugged and did what she was told. The Ke$ha song that had melded with everyone’s DNA as they had heard it so much came alive.

Again.

Shannon leaned across and hit Pause on the music player. “Can you believe it? I can’t imagine a destiny more important than this one.”

Dove had no idea what Shannon was talking about but nodded like she understood. She would be twelve minutes late if she left right this second. Flower creepily got in the passenger seat and nodded at Dove. Like a hitchhiker with a broken thumb, Dove knew Flower wanted a ride to the park. Shannon continued as if no one else had entered the car.

“You’re not seeing it!” She slapped the back of Dove’s headrest. Another rock fell out of the box poor Josh had been lifting. This one was even bigger than the last. Preston gave his buddy a dirty look and started a very realistic impression of an angry chicken.

“He looks just like Mick Jagger! I don’t have to kick him to the curb!” Shannon bounced like she was on a trampoline and pointed at Preston.

Flower turned to Shannon. “Mick Jagger looks like a melted bicycle seat. You ass.”

Shannon pouted and jumped out of the car. It was a habit Dove couldn’t break now; she counted Flower’s words. Dove had no idea why she worried whenever Flower wasted all her words at once. Though she wasn’t certain the “a” counted. Maybe only words that would be capitalized in a title counted.

“I think Jagger is hot.” Dove shrugged, put her car in gear, and took a silent Flower to the park. They both got out, and Dove rushed to open the gates. There was a line of ten children with their annoyed mothers close at hand. Nearby, a picnic table was decorated with streamers, and her stomach fell. It was a planned party, and she was late. Her boss was going to kill her.

When the carousel had private parties, the kids got to ride nonstop for two hours or until they hurled. It was actually part of the contract the parents happily signed. A sad-faced clown sat nearby making the same tired balloon “animal” for any request a child could imagine. Mostly, it looked like a long penis with a set of plump balls. Kid asked for a robot? Got a dick. Kid asked for a bunny? A penisloon was the treat. The clown didn’t talk much. The first time she hosted a party with the fool, she thought he was a mime.

When she’d remembered that clowns and mimes were different, she’d asked him, “What animal is that?” and gestured to the ridiculously pink erect balloon.

The clown had taken a swig from his flask, mumbled, and pointed at his crotch. Dove had decided not to ask any more questions.

The food was provided by Wiener Wonderland, and Sal loved to tie one of the balloons to the front of his hot dog cart like a ship’s masthead. When one of the mothers wandered close, he would hump his cart and the balloon would press against the unsuspecting lady. His disgusting gruel always ensured there would be fewer kiddies toward the end of the party riding the horses.

Fucking wacko.

The worst part of the day was the music that was piped from the ticket booth. The fifteen-second theme song from Spongebob Squarepants was on a loop for the entire two hours allotted to the party. It was like the torture they used in war—except with balloons.

Dove set the full carousel to start and triple set the timer so the partying little soon-to-be-pukers would get their money’s worth.

She looked at her phone to check her Twitter. She had been a lot less sexy since her date with Johnson, and her follower numbers had dropped. She had one important tweet from the pharmacist.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Are you working today? I can drop by for lunch.

Dove whooped and hollered happily. She looked up and saw the frowning mothers. They didn’t approve of her taking her attention from their precious monsters. Dove typed quickly before sliding her phone in her pocket:

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 Here all day

She didn’t dare take a peek at her phone until the pukers-to-be were stuffing Sal’s hot dogs and cake into their portable mess makers.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex Good news. I love the Twitter, easier than a phone!

Dove kept checking the parking lot and scanning the horizons, waiting for Johnson to turn up.

Duke passed Shannon twice as she spent the morning hiding behind a shrub that wasn’t exactly shielding her very well. She was watching the new neighbor.

Duke wandered into the parking lot in his underwear¸ munching on what looked like dog treats. He stood next to Shannon’s “hiding” place.

“Hey, Freak Show. Are you giving that bush some shrubilingus?” Duke scratched his balls lovingly.

“Shut up. I’m watching… him.” Shannon sighed.

Preston ambled back into their line of sight.

Duke shook his head. “No shit. That’s Prick-ston from Save-Mart. He’s a fucker.”

Duke walked right over to his new neighbor.

“So, from Save-Mart to my apartment building. Are you following me, Prick-ston?” Duke took his hand out of his underwear and held it out to Preston.

Preston made his best full-of-disgust face. Duke left his hand there like a dog load no one wanted to clean up.

“I vill not be shaking your de main.” Preston leaned down to pick up a box of rocks.

“Dude, why are you pretending to be French?” Duke put his hand back on his balls.

Shannon tsk-tsked unhappily from the landscaping.

Preston’s voice got deeper with his indignation. “I am le Français. Feel my French.”

Duke liked things properly labeled, and Preston was resisting any lasting title. “You wouldn’t shake my hand, so I’m feeling my own French, thank you very much.”

“Le Americans de suck ass.” Preston left in a huff.

Duke sat down on one of Preston’s boxes of rocks. When the Frenchman returned, Duke had come to a decision.

“I don’t like you. At Save-Mart, you didn’t have an accent. Now you’re here with the crappiest pretend French I’ve ever heard. I’m not sure I’ll be letting you move in.” He popped another snack in his mouth and chewed.

Shannon launched herself at Duke like a rabid bobcat. “You dumbass. Get back in your apartment and shut your crazy mouth.”

Duke caught her, ignoring her words. He was too busy wiggling his eyebrows at Preston as Shannon jumped around in his lap.

Preston shook his head at the scene and did a deep knee bend to pick up the last box that Duke wasn’t sitting on.

“You Americans—so inelegant.” Preston lifted the box. Duke was betting that all the heavy labor caused the loud, embarrassing gas Preston released.

Shannon grabbed Duke by the ear and dragged him back into the building. “Look what you did, you stupid fuck! You made him fart.”

Duke was already laughing too hard to talk back to her. Shannon closed Duke’s door as the slightly stinky, and possibly faux, Frenchman made his way up the stairs.

“Le fuck. Dis box is le lourd,” Duke heard the asshole through the door.

When Duke opened his door to see if she was gone, Shannon sat on the stairs, looking as if love was enveloping her like a virus or a rash.

Dove kept checking the parking lot as she loaded the kids on the carousel again. Her phone vibrated with an update. After snapping the last belt in place, she clicked the ride on for the pre-set time, the shortest one. As much as it was likely one kid might hurl, she wanted to reduce the spinning for a little while.

The tweets were real-time updates on Johnson, and she smiled at them.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex pulling onto the main road.

Dove scrolled through three more.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex stopped at red light.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex turning into the parking lot.

She shook her head. He loved the Twitter. She tweeted back:

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

@06201984M358 You aren’t supposed to drive and tweet, it’s not safe.

He returned her message quickly.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex No, it’s okay, I’m jogging.

With that Johnson jogged into view, his white coat flapping in the breeze. He slowed down to a walk as he saw her at the carousel and began his crazy gait with his wide-spaced, ginormous steps.

Dove leaned against the control panel so she could steady her shaking knees. She couldn’t believe a man that good-looking was coming to spend time with her. The auto switch kept trying to end the ride for the children, but Dove’s lovesick butt wouldn’t budge, so the children kept going around and around.

Finally, Johnson was next to her. She had to convince herself to look at his face.

Oh God, what if I have a pimple? What if the hair on my upper lip is visible in broad daylight?

Every panicky thought she’d ever had danced across her mind like a drunken old man at a Dave Matthews concert.

“Hey, Dove.” Johnson smiled, and Dove died.

Nibble his noble nose.

“Hey, Johnson.” Dove was thrilled she said the words in her normal tone of voice. But she had a nagging feeling she was forgetting something. She looked down and reassured herself that she was indeed wearing pants. She did her best to shrug her shoulders and be sexy.

Johnson watched her, perplexed and then intense. He slowly brought his hand close to her face.

He’s going to touch me. I’m going to gnaw off his hand and keep it in my pussy.

She smiled again, and despite the Spongebob music, she could hear her own heartbeat.

Johnson moved so quickly she had no time to react. He slapped her dead center on her forehead.

Hard.

“Sweet Jesus!” Dove’s butt reeled from the force of the surprise blow. The little switch on the control panel was no match and broke clean off. The carousel was now on an endless, infinite cycle of rotation.

Johnson held up his hand to reveal the bloody remnants of a mosquito. “He was going to take a bite out of your head!”

Dove rubbed her skin and closed one eye.

God, my butt hurts. What the hell happened to my ass? Oh well.

Johnson was there, in the flesh. Dove tried to act a little cooler. He looked over her shoulder, and Dove wondered if there was a hotter, sexier, sweeter girl in the distance.

“Those kids aren’t looking so great.” Johnson knitted his luxurious eyebrows together.

Dove didn’t turn around. His green eyes were finally having sex with her brown ones. Their pupils were lined up.

“Those kids are monsters.” Dove licked her lips and then bit her bottom lip. That had to be awesome.

Wait, that comment made me sound like a Disney villain.

“I mean they’re monstrously cute,” Dove amended.

Johnson stopped having eye sex with her and twirled her around to face the carousel.

All of the kids were crying. Most were green.

She whirled back to the control panel and screamed, “Holy Jesus, they’re all going to die!”

Dove began to hyperventilate as she scrambled around and found the broken switch. When she jammed the metal back in the hole, she got lightly electrocuted. Her throat made a sound like a mating moose she wasn’t even sure was possible to be emitted by a human.

Dove pulled her hand back when the surge stopped. Johnson was watching her in disbelief, but she couldn’t just stand by as the kids died of dizziness—she had to do something. She took a running jump at the spinning ride.

She bounced painfully off one of the poles and landed hard on her ass on the asphalt.

Ouch!

The panic hit her hard. The parents were clamoring and crawling over the protective fence. Dove stood up again and took another running start. This time she made it onto the circular platform.

What the hell she was going to do now she didn’t know.

Maybe throw them off the ride, really hard, so they land on the grass?

She swung to the nearest boy. She assessed him while he cried at her. The kid had a really fat ass, and she wasn’t entirely sure she could fling him far enough.

No matter how chunky, I have to try.

She went to unclasp his belt. The woozies were hitting her hard.

Damn.

The boy had more sense than she did. He didn’t trust her half as far as she thought she could throw him, and he began hitting her. Dove took slugs to the face as she tried to concentrate on the buckle.

Chunker made a horrible face that reminded Dove so much of Steve coughing up a hairball, but before she could put it all together, the boy hurled chunks of Sal’s hot dogs right at her.

As soon as the centrifugal force had cleared the mess from her eyes, Dove was ready to hit the kid back. She had readied her bitch slap when all of a sudden the carousel lost its momentum. Spongebob’s theme song dweedled off pathetically.

Dove dropped her beating hand and glared at Pukey. She could hear the fire trucks in the distance. Her college finally paid off when she recalled a poem by John Donne:

“And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.”

Of course the parents had dialed 911. That made sense. It also, surely, made her fired. Like a horrible game of dominoes, one kid after another followed in Pukey’s pukesteps and puked.

It was revolting. Parents climbed aboard and cursed Dove up and down as they removed their over-whirled children from the Horses of Hell.

Dove nodded to each as if they were telling her what a nice day it was outside.

Please let Johnson have run away. Please tell me he didn’t see this.

But as the parents rushed from the ride, threatening to sue, the magnificent-looking pharmacist climbed aboard her shame wagon.

Dove looked at her feet as the fire trucks roared into the parking lot.

“Are you okay?” He set his expensive shoes in a pile of regurgitated hot dogs as though she needed saving and the vomit didn’t matter.

Dove could only nod.

This thing is going to take forever to clean.

The parents had packed up and driven away with their stirred, not shaken, offspring. The firemen moved slowly, realizing there was no longer any danger.

“I wonder what made the ride stop.” She talked to his shoes because she could never look at his face again.

“I turned it off at the fuse box. Sorry I didn’t find it sooner.” Johnson reached out and took her horrible, stupid hand.

“Wow. I didn’t even think about that. I panicked. I should be kept away from kids—like matches or flame throwers.” Dove hated how her heart wagged its tail at the sight of their hands wrapped around one another.

“Hey, gorgeous, I thought you were brave. Like, really brave.” His other hand came up to tilt her chin. “Look at me.”

Dove’s eyes followed her heart’s religion and looked at his face. He was smiling. At her.

“Not everyone’s great in a tough situation. You got shocked and then jumped on a moving ride. I think that’s commendable.” Johnson kept his eyes on hers but waved a firefighter over. He dropped her hand and asked in his ridiculously loud voice, “Do you think you guys could hose down this ride? The children got sick.”

Dove’s mouth dropped open.

That would be awesome.

The mere thought of the time it would take to clean the hot dog chunks off the horses’ manes made her shiver.

When the firefighters agreed, Dove actually hopped and clapped. Johnson held his hand out to her and led her from the defiled horses. Together, they watched the carousel get hosed off. By the time they were done, the fire fighters had the ride looking brand-new. It looked marvelous. It was almost romantic to stand next to Johnson and watch her mistakes be washed away.

Dove thanked the men quietly. They were already telling jokes about her mishap. Her cell phone rang loudly, and she cringed when she saw it was her boss. She nodded and squinted her eyes as he thoroughly fired her, using every curse ever invented.

She shrugged when she hung up. Johnson rubbed her back and went in for a comforting hug. Dove stopped him with her hand.

“No, I’m the Vominator here.” She wanted that hug more than a shower, and that was saying something.

“Hey, pharmacist here. Bodily fluids don’t scare me. Neither do yeast infections or wild hair-remover rashes.” He moved her hand and leaned down to give her a long hug.

He’s hugging me.

Me.

Duke didn’t trust the new tenant in the apartment building. Like, at all. Prick-ston was about as French as Duke’s left fucking nut. He often found himself wandering in front of Preston’s door and glaring at its blatant generic-ness. And it pissed him off. During his glaring sessions, he ran into Shannon plenty of times.

This was one of those times.

“Hey, Stalky, how many times did he flush the crapper today?” Duke used his loudest voice until Shannon started throwing the gravel from the fake hallway plant at him.

The dusty old plant was her perch—as though she were a fucking vulture stalking a chipmunk that was choking on a piece of gum.

Shannon was frantic as she retorted, “Shut up! God, you’re such a walking nose hair. Why are you up here? Huh? I don’t think one stalker is allowed to call another stalker a stalker.” Shannon bit one of the fake leaves to try to prove how fierce she was.

Duke reached under his T-shirt to scratch his chest slowly. He wished he had a set of nut nipples. Nipples made of nuts. He forgot to answer the shrieking little chick while he ruminated on how awesome nut nipples would be.

Maybe he could get a nipple transplant. He could ask the dorky pharmacist that Dove was so worked up over about it. Duke decided to add “Ball Donator” to his driver’s license. If he was going to dream big, he was going to have to give big. Big balls.

Shannon was hissing at him. He realized he had slipped his hands down his pants again. He gave his genitals a little smirk. He came when they called him.

“I don’t know why you’re twisted up over this wacko. I want to throw all his rocks at him.” Duke threw imaginary, huge rocks at Preston’s door.

Shannon couldn’t take the threat of violence against her new crush and left her hiding spot to jump on Duke’s back. He laughed loudly as she beat him with her little, angry fists. When she bit his neck, he started yelling. Duke flattened himself against Preston’s door and slapped it repeatedly with a flat hand. Shannon bit him harder.

When Preston opened the door, he was ready for a fight, holding a hefty-looking frying pan over his head. Preston’s eyes were all bugged out, and he was wearing a tank top and what looked like a pair of pantaloons.

“Hey, Slut Nugget.” Duke wanted to set this faker straight.

Shannon sighed and went all boneless. She slid off his back and thankfully stopped fucking biting him like a baby vampire.

“Vat are zue two doing out le here?” Preston didn’t drop his whack-some-poor-bastard-in-the-head-with-a-frying-pan stance.

Shannon tried to recover. “Why hello, Preston. I love your little French pants. I was stopping Duke here from doing a ring and run.”

Duke turned and gave her a dirty look. She was small and quick and punched him right in the junk.

“That’s how we treat ring and runners around here, asshole. Now get downstairs and I won’t call the cops.”

He couldn’t talk because his nuts were trying to complete the nipple transplant all on their own. Before he could unleash a tirade on her paparazzi techniques, he noticed Shannon had stepped out of Preston’s line of sight to do some elaborate begging with hand gestures.

He rolled his eyes at her and waddle-humped down to his apartment. Shannon was due a bitch slap, but God help him, he would never hit a woman—even if she was a lovesick freak job. He sat on his couch until his testicles crawled down from the back of his eyeballs and rested gingerly between his legs. They were like wild animals at this point. They hardly trusted him at all anymore.

A noise in the hallway that sounded like sex and hairlessness brought him to his feet. He was still a little wobbly but managed to catch Debra and Mr. Anastasia making out right next to his door. Duke settled in to watch, but it wasn’t quite as much fun because they were wearing a lot of clothes.

Debra Anastasia smiled when she saw him and stopped Mr. Anastasia with one long-nailed finger.

“Hey, Duke, what’s going on?” She turned and wiggled her ass in Mr. Anastasia’s lap.

“I was worried about you two. I haven’t heard any heavy panting next to my door in a while.” Duke raised his eyebrows to show his concern.

The couple was head to toe in Healthy Water gear. Pants, hats, bandanas, visors, tote bags—the whole shebang.

“Well, I was trying to rescue a cat. But when we plugged the address into the GPS, we were directed to a rapper’s house. He’s such a great host.” She looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Wasn’t he wonderful?”

Mr. Anastasia nodded and explained. “When we got there, he had a huge party going on, so we had a few drinks. One thing led to another, and we wound up spending the week at his house.”

Debra Anastasia reached into the tote and handed Duke a bottle of Healthy Water. “We are part of his street team now! We couldn’t be happier or sexier.”

She leaned back for a lingering, totally-inappropriate-for-company kiss from her mister.

God, I love these two.

“So what happened to the cat you were looking for?” Duke cracked opened the bottle and took a swig. It was horrible, but he gagged it down.

Mr. Anastasia spoke up. “There was no actual cat. False alarm. And the rapper and I are such good friends now I’m going to start suggesting new flavors for the water. That one is the prototype for beer. Then here”—the man held up another one—“is the vagina flavored. Debra Anastasia is my muse for that one. And the last is sushi water.”

He opened both bottles and looked perplexed. “Crap, I can’t figure out which one is which.”

Debra Anastasia put a demure hand in front of her lips, blushing. “I didn’t get to shower at the rapper’s, so I wasn’t smelling my freshest when he took the flavor sample.” She powered through the awkward small talk by talking about a different pussy. “I think there was a cat. I tried to contact the author about it, but she deleted her Twitter account so she could avoid my messages. She’s from a different country or something. I don’t think they know how important animals are and that they shouldn’t be used against their will for sex acts.”

Duke took the vagina- or sushi-flavored water Mr. Anastasia handed him and wished the couple a happy evening. He spent some quality time trying to decide what sushi roll Debra Anastasia’s genitals might closely resemble. Dove knocked on his doorjamb soon after he had taken his last sip and decided on California rolls for dinner.

“What’s up, Crotch Fest?” Duke burped and the repeating flavor changed his dinner order to a rainbow roll.

“I’m here to pierce your dick, Slimestein. Flop your meat out.” Dove looked sick to her stomach. “I ran into the stupid-assed Anastasias, so I take it the search party to sex toy shops is no longer necessary.”

“Yeah, about that. Shannon punched me in my dick about an hour ago, so I’m gonna pass for today.” Duke rubbed his nuts again.

“Well, we’ll consider that your anesthesia.” Dove slammed his door behind her and found his piercing gun. “I’m sick of waiting to do this. It’s now or never.”

She opened up one of his dinner trays while wearing a roll of duct tape as a very unattractive bracelet. She patted the table and then disappeared into his fridge.

As she rattled around in his icebox, she hissed over her shoulder, “Put your penis on the tray, Asstronut.”

One of Duke’s very strict rules was to take his dick out any time a woman demanded it of him. He reached deep and put his favorite friend carefully on the fake wood.

She turned and cringed. “Jesus, dicks are so fucking ugly. Why you think putting your grandmother’s jewelry on it will make it more fetching is beyond me.”

Duke covered his dick’s ears and snarled back at Dove, “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

After rolling her eyes, she popped the top on the beer she had rescued from the fridge. It was icy cold. He licked his lips and held out his hand for the liquid courage she wielded, but Dove slapped his big hand away.

“This isn’t for drinking.” Very methodically she pulled strips of tape off the roll and tore them free with her teeth. He wasn’t sure what she was up to until she grabbed a urologist’s handful of his genitals and roped it off.

“Wait, crazy girl. Why are taping my dick to this tray?” Duke was seriously glad he had no nut hair as the silver tape pinned him down.

“I’ve been having nightmares about you flinching and shit. So, in order to do this, I need to make sure you can’t get away.” She ripped off another strip with an exceedingly loud noise.

“You’ve been dreaming about my man meat? Excellent.” Duke had to admire the extreme dedication she was taking to hold him in place. Just the tip of his penis was protruding from the bindings. It was purple and looked like it was begging for air.

“I think my dick’s dying.” Duke pointed to the absurdly colored flesh.

Dove was too focused to care about his complaints. “Where do you want me to stick you?”

Duke farted four times in a row.

“You fucker. That smells awful. Good God.” Dove backed up and coughed.

“It’s nerve gas. I pass wind when I’m nervous.” Duke farted five more times in quick succession.

Dove gritted her teeth and waded back into his evil air. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Duke clenched his ass to try to stop the next barrage, but that just changed the octave from deep baritone to teakettle scream.

“Sorry. Again.”

She gave him a dirty look and got on her knees to see her target better.

“Okay, I’m just going to pop this fucker in your pee hole.” She poured the beer all over his duct tape and bits of visible genital skin.

“Hairy Mother of God! That’s a cold bitch.” Duke jerked back and took the entire tray with him as he tried to retract from the unpleasant sensations she was offering.

“Shut up. Put the tray down.” Dove meant business and was wielding the free piercing gun like it was loaded with bullets instead of a metal stud.

“Don’t pop me in my pee-er. I need that fucking hole for shit.” He pointed to the top of his shaft. “Right here, so when I slide into a pussy, it will hit her moneymaker.”

“Just don’t even talk about what you want to do with it. I’m already going to slam my head in a wall until I forget I did this for you.” Dove lined up her shot.

“The adhesive on this tape is starting to burn.” Duke tried to peel it off. “Plus my dick’s shrinking because he’s scared. You need to talk to him.”

Dove glared at him. She was having difficulty grabbing enough flesh around her makeshift penis jail. Plus, the gun was designed for earlobes, which were more dangly.

“Okay. Dear Duke’s junk, you suck. After all the masturbation, I’m surprised he hasn’t pulled you clean off entirely. Love, Dove.” She had a nice pinch of skin in her hands.

“I said nicely, you evil, sharting shrew.” Duke gave up separating his farts. They stopped having individual identities altogether and became one solid, never-ending ass scream.

Dove stopped and stared at him, obviously waiting for the awful background noise he was creating to dwindle down.

Duke shrugged and shouted over the din, “Nerve gas doesn’t stop.”

Amidst the noise and Dove’s angry face, he couldn’t help but notice that his endless fart smelled kind of good. As soon as Dove was done getting his junk pimped-out, he was ordering Moo Shoo pork to go with his Debra Anastasia flavored sushi.

“Soon, I’ll be taking a dump. I can only keep nerve gas up for so long.” Duke made the hand gesture for her to wrap it up.

The farting background got even louder and meatier as Dove lined up the gun with his skin.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was his acrid fartnado. Dove sometimes had horrifying allergies, and the amount of air coming from Duke’s ass was kicking up quite a bit of dust. As she counted down her intentions and tried to build up her bravery, Duke stood still, his ass endlessly scream-farting. And yet, after all her good intentions and dick nightmares, Dove sneezed violently as she pressed the trigger.

Duke’s screams tangoed with his fartnado, and Dove realized that the whole procedure had gone horribly wrong. Duke was flailing around with his dick taped relentlessly to the fake wood. She couldn’t stop sneezing, feeling like a buttload of pepper had flown up her nose.

From the pathetic research she had done on the computer, she knew that she had to keep the wound clean. From hours of watching M*A*S*H with her father during her childhood, she knew the best cleaner for any wound was booze. She sneezed her way over to the fridge and grabbed Duke’s vodka from the fridge.

She chased Duke around, splashing his farting, bleeding, and cursing body with icy cold vodka. When he turned to face her, his eyes were rolled back into his head, and he looked like an angry bull.

Dove attempted to see his wound under his hands, but the blood was so much she just fainted like a boneless asshole onto the floor.

The last person Duke ever wanted to see was Prick-ston, but the Faux-man strolled into the scene of the accident like he was paying rent for it.

“Le stupid American. Pénis is wasted on you. Viens ici.” Preston motioned for Duke to come barreling over. “The la pute stupide bit your dick?”

Duke tried to beat the tray off himself while Preston tsk-tsked at the injury.

“I vill call ze 911 for your le pecker.” Preston picked up Duke’s cell phone and slapped him across the face to quiet his screams as the line connected.

“Yes, can I please have an ambulance sent to the Brushever Apartments? There is a white male with a violent penis injury.” Preston nodded at whatever he heard on the phone.

Duke growled around his pain. “Faker. I knew you were a faker. That was perfect English.”

Preston rolled his eyes and told the dispatcher that he would wait for the rig by the front doors.

Dove moaned from the floor. “Not the dick nightmare again. God, it felt real this time.”

Duke peeked over the couch and hissed at her over his nerve gas, “Oh, it’s real. And you fucking sneezed!” He went back to screaming horror-movie-girl style, and Dove fell back to the floor, limp.

The paramedics attended to Dove first because she was unconscious—no matter how many times Duke hollered, “She’s fine!”

The girl with the hair-trigger finger woke to the smelling salts and immediately pointed to Duke. “His man business needs attention.”

The paramedics decided it would be best to remove the tape and tray at the hospital and loaded the very ungainly contraption carefully into the ambulance. The lights and sirens, which had not quieted during the ruckus, had drawn a crowd. Duke found himself waving to all sorts of neighbors.

“Yup, that’s my penis. Taped to a tray. Get a load of it.” Thankfully, the paramedics had mercy on him and gave him a powerful painkiller en route to the hospital. Through the fog, Duke was assured that his girlfriend was in the car behind them, being driven to the hospital.

“Don’t worry, the Frenchman is driving.”

Duke tried to scream, “He’s not fucking French!”

But his new, rubbery lips just made more spittle. Soon the world faded to black, and he was pretty sure his heartbeat was only located in his dick.

Dove pretended to pass out again. Preston wasn’t one to be fooled.

“Americans and their penises. Always taping them to trays. You all le suck.”

“Can I talk you into letting me out here? I’m not his girlfriend. We’re barely acquaintances.” Dove pulled her hair in front of her face like Cousin It.

“Oh, no, ma cherie, you have hell to pay. You will talk penises to cops, le robbers, people’s moms. It is as you deserve. Maybe you vill learn a much-needed lesson, yes?” Preston turned on his radio and tried to drown out the noise of the ambulance in front of them.

It was very French and had a lot of backbeat. Dove hoped Preston might forget which side of the road he was supposed to be on and kill them both before they could get to the hospital.

Answering the questions of clear-thinking, possibly sober, human beings was making Dove’s phantom penis hurt.

What am I going to say? Oh God, will they call the police on me?

Dove was pretty sure what she had been forced to do to Duke was illegal in at least a few states. Maybe all of them. Who the fuck knew the piercing laws anyway? Preston seemed to be personally affronted by the whole situation. He came around to Dove’s side of the car and opened her door. After an awkward period of time, it was obvious Dove was going to be far from normal about getting out. Without saying a word, Preston tried to pull her out.

Equally silent, Dove did the best impression of rigor mortis she bet the fake Frenchman had ever seen.

Preston was as determined to deliver her to Duke’s side as Dove was to get into his glove box and die there. Finally, after a ridiculous amount of wrestling time, Preston stopped.

“Get out.”

Dove hung her head and climbed out of her penis-popping-free cocoon. She didn’t want the police to add trespassing to her long list of genitalia misdemeanors. Or felonies.

Oh God.

She tried to bolt, but Preston was expecting that and grabbed her arm.

She tried to soften him up with small talk. “You’d make one hell of a bounty hunter. Ever think of taking up a career in that?”

Dove tried to duck and jive, but she only managed to dance stiffly with no music playing while Preston maintained his hold. When they walked into the emergency waiting room, a nurse with an official-looking clipboard and a normal-looking face commented, “Oh, good. The girlfriend. Please have a seat. We need to go over a few things before we operate.”

Preston stood behind Dove and pushed her into a chair. The waiting room was packed. There were very few chairs available at all, so Dove had an audience for her responses. After stating her name and some basic information, the nurse got to the good stuff.

“So, did your boyfriend partake in any hallucinogenic drugs during your sexual deviant role playing?” The nurse’s voice was very loud, and she was excellent at enunciating.

Dove put her hand over her mouth. Her blush was more like a fifth-degree burn, and it covered her whole body.

She looked at her shoes and squeaked out an answer. “No drugs.”

The nurse nodded and checked off a box.

What the hell was on that clipboard?

“Can you please list all the orifices you penetrated on his body to gain sexual gratification during your role play in your alternative lifestyle?” The nurse was only half interested in Dove; she must have had a very interesting day if these questions didn’t fluff her feathers at all.

Dove, on the other hand, felt the eyes of everyone in the waiting room. Mothers ushered their children to the far side of the room, giving up their precious seats to protect their children’s innocence.

Dear God, I’ve become a monster. Look away. Look away.

“Just his, ya know, man dangler.” She bit her lip.

By trying to avoid saying the clinical, appropriate name of Duke’s penis, she was now aware that “man dangler” prompted inappropriate giggling. Out of her own mouth.

Oh, no. Not the giggling.

Dove had next to no coping mechanisms when it came to social interactions gone awry. When all else failed—the running, the hiding, the dying—all that was left was the giggling.

The moment she thought about trying not to laugh, it became one hundred times worse. Soon she wasn’t giggling; she was cackling, which turned to snorting, which then evolved into wheezing breathing that made the nurse look alarmed.

The nurse got stern. “What are you on? Tell me now.”

This of course was the worst time to melt to the ground, laughing even harder than before. Dove smacked the floor, trying to catch a breath, after she did indeed end up there. The nurse checked her pupils.

She was able to spit out a few words to try to explain her situation. “I’m… not… on drugs… I’m just… awkward.”

The tears started then. The hysterical, crying laughter was so complete the people sitting around just had to laugh, even though they were not in on the joke.

Dove flopped on her back and took deep breaths, trying to calm herself when she was suddenly very, very sober.

Johnson loomed over her, looking completely confused. “Dove, are you okay?”

Before she could answer, the nurse filled him in. “Oh, she’s here because she mauled her boyfriend’s penis in a sadistic, possibly satanic, ritual.”

Dove’s world crapped its pants. Shit the bed. Waffled in its cone.

Because Johnson looked like someone had slapped his beautiful face.

Dove thought he looked beautiful, even upside down. If she closed one eye, she could even take Preston out of the picture, just like Photoshop. Johnson leaned down with a tight expression. Dove accepted his helping hand and tried to make her body lighter than it was. She didn’t want him to guess her weight like a carnival barker.

The rude nurse was still grilling Dove, saying mortifying words like “penis,” “urethra,” and “testicular trauma.” Each embarrassing health textbook word reflected on Johnson’s face. Like they were little rocks thrown by cruel, naked trolls.

Dove’s tongue became thick and stupid. She tried to use American Sign Language to explain the reason she’d been rolling around on the floor of the hospital. As her fingers tangled themselves in a hard knot, she remembered she didn’t actually know how to form words with her hands. Her little pinky was turning purple, which reminded her of Duke’s penis when it was peeking out from under the duct tape on the tray. Johnson nodded at her mess of nimrod fingers and worked them out of their Twister style position for her.

“Listen, Dove, as long as you’re okay, you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, you’re not here for a GYNECOLOGICAL emergency or anything? As your pharmacist, I could tell the doctors what medication you were taking for your past INFECTION.”

Dove twisted and looked at the crowd. They were stone cold quiet and watching intently. This spectacle would be witnessed by many. If she just went ahead and took off her clothes, she could re-create one of her least favorite nightmares.

Preston spoke up. “Le twit did not injure her le pussy. She’s… how you say it? Dumb ass. Yes. Oui. An ass that’s dumb. She was playing with his le pecker? Elle est mauvaise.”

She looked at her shoes and tried to melt. Or spontaneously combust. Surely mortification could ignite her insides.

Johnson was too handsome. He would never be with her. She knew this, and tears filled her eyes. She tried to take a peek at him, to remember what he looked like this close to her. Before the restraining order he would surely file because she was freaking crazy took effect. He was all blurry, so she dropped her gaze. Johnson’s shoes moved closer to Preston’s.

His loud voice spoke harshly, but Dove couldn’t understand a word he said. “Si jamais tu reparles de cette fille de cette façon, je te casserai la gueule jusqu’à ce que tu pleures comme la mauviette que tu es.”

Preston’s shoes stepped backward as if he’d been burnt. “You are le bossy and le stupid, pharmacist.”

“And you’ve never had an accent at Save-Mart.”

Dove remembered that Preston was the manager the day she and Duke had arrived in Save-Mart to bargain for Johnson’s job back. She looked at the fake Frenchman and shook her head, the one bit of sign language she was actually sure of. The last thing she needed now was Johnson finding out how Duke bullied Preston and Save-Mart. The brisk head motion set her tears free.

Preston sneered at Dove, obviously remembering all too well the coup that she had been involved in. “Dis girl you are fond of? Did you know she came with that big, pulsating le buttloaf and blackmailed me and my company into giving you your job back?”

Even the nosy nurse fell silent as Preston laid the accusation out like a picnic blanket in the waiting room.

Oh fuck.

After a moment, it was like the revelation in a soap opera complete with gasps and tsk-tsk noises in the waiting room. She had to say something. She had to try to hold her head up but her neck was a wet noodle. This was life for Dove. Disappointment and pussy rashes. Hot pharmacists handing out yeast infection medicine.

A tear fell on her shoes, and she sniffled. Wiping her eyes, she tried to speak loud enough to make a difference. She needed to lasso some meaningful words, but they weren’t her friends, never would be.

“His penis. Yes, I tried to pierce it. I sneezed and it went sideways; then I passed out.” Dove cringed at her own voice.

His long fingers grasped her hands that were trying to choke each other to death. Then one of his hands came all the way up to her face and tilted it until she had to look at him.

“Close your eyes.” Johnson reached into his pocket with his free hand.

She did as he asked but shamefully wondered if her tongue was long enough to reach his hand.

Just a quick lick.

He was cupping it gently, like her chin was a boob. It was a boob chin. Dove wished she had a pimple down there to simulate a nipple, knowing this touch would be their last. She didn’t even wonder what he was doing while her eyes were closed. She could feel the stares of the spectators; there might even be polka dots from where they were burning holes into the fabric of her shirt. Her heart was stupid, just like Preston said she was. It insisted on being happy, wagging its tail and focusing on the fact that he was touching her.

“Okay, open them.” Johnson’s delicious, minty breath baptized her face.

She tried to drink it as she sexily—she hoped—fluttered her eyes open. He had a keychain flashlight inches from her pupil.

He went from one eye to the other. “Equal and reactive. How are you feeling? Did you hit your head when you fell?”

Preston walked away, muttering “flaccid” and “le Americans and their le blackmail.”

This close to Johnson’s face, she had to tell him the truth and let him know she’d never wanted to hurt his feelings. She looked in his green eyes and let him mesmerize her.

“You. I saw you on the video—you know where you got slapped in the nuts with the cock ring?” She bit her lip.

Probably could have left the cock ring out.

Johnson nodded. Despite the murmurs from the crowd, she continued. “Well, they said you lost your job, and I couldn’t let that happen. You love being a pharmacist, and you saved Duke’s sausage-eating life. It wasn’t gay porn. I mean gay porn has cock rings, maybe, it’s not like I’ve seen a lot.”

Sometimes when Dove closed her eyes at night she saw the image that was burned into Duke’s TV like a negative on the inside of her eyelids. She was pretty sure Fordicks had a shadowy outline of a cock ring.

That’s neither here nor there, asshole. Stop talking about porn and cocks.

“And I suck at talking, obviously.”

Someone in the chairs had the nerve to shout out, “Amen!”

She resisted the urge to turn around and glare at them. Johnson was still listening. Granted, his eyebrows were raised in alarm, but he was still here. Still touching her boob chin.

“So I asked Duke to come with me. And to get him to do that, I had to give him something.” Dove took a moment to swallow.

She leaned her head a little heavier on Johnson’s hand. Trying to hug his palm with her boob chin.

The nosy nurse piped in with her ideas. “Bondage? Oral sex? Flatulence for deviant gratification?”

Dove knew her cheeks where red as the nurse dreamed up some serious weirdness.

What kind of hospital is this?

“I agreed to pierce his horrible pecker if he helped you out. And he did. God damn it. I was so shocked, but he spoke when I couldn’t, and Save-Mart gave you your job back. So I owed him. He put a smile on your face, inadvertently, so for that I was grateful. So grateful that I tried to pierce his junk with a free gun he got off Craigslist.” Dove tried to feel encouraged as Johnson’s eyebrows went from alarmed to puzzled.

The crowd piped up with disgusted noises.

She reached around his hand, careful not to knock it out of the way, and wiped her eyes. The next moment was everything.

What would he do? Could he even possibly think of speaking to her again?

He dropped his terrific hand and sighed. He turned to leave, not saying a single word. Dove’s hands were shaking, so she let them fight with each other again. She looked at the floor. The tear from earlier had created its own little path and rolled off the side of her shoe.

She was sure she’d get over his leaving her here, maybe someday, a million years from now, but she kept her gaze down. She didn’t want to have the memory of his back as he left her in disgust.

“Is Duke your boyfriend?” He was speaking. To her.

She looked up, and he was still there, facing the door but not gone.

“No. I wouldn’t screw Duke with someone else’s ten foot pole.”

The peanut gallery laughed.

And then he turned.

And then he walked to her.

She held her breath. Johnson was so close, all green eyes and chiseled jaw and perfect scruff. He spoke too loudly, of course, but she loved his words.

“I would like to be your boyfriend, then, if that’s okay with you?” Johnson’s lips were moving, so the words had to have come from him.

She could only nod now. Her bout of coherent verbalization was as dead as the nerves in the tip of Duke’s penis. Johnson had just a half smile as he embraced her. She didn’t trust herself to move, afraid she would punch him in the nuts or turn her head the wrong way and bonk her nose against his. He put his hand in her hair and came so close it was as if he was going to kiss her. She watched as his lips got closer. She went cross-eyed for a bit and then had to look in his eyes.

“Breathe, Dove.”

This time his voice was a whisper, and it was the sexiest thing ever put in her ears. She also realized her lungs were dying the slow death of her numb shock. She took a breath and she could smell his cologne. Old Spice. She recognized it from her grandfather’s bathroom. She might have to hump the bottle the next time she took a piss at his nursing home.

She gasped as Johnson grabbed her firmly and twisted her into a dip.

This is it. He’s going to kiss me. Like a fucking movie star. Or a cartoon character. Like Minnie and Mickey. Oh God.

He licked his lips, and the whole waiting room was on their feet, clapping and hooting. She’d blush, but all her blood was in her pussy, she was sure of it. She said a silent prayer that her mouth wouldn’t taste like ass he leaned in and kissed her softly. And his lips. And his taste. He was beautiful.

He kissed her right here, where she thought she might die of shame earlier. He kissed her deeper, and she finally had the courage to wrap her arms around his neck. She was smooth, for once, when it mattered most. She wanted to dig up the tile floor, bronze it, and wear it as a necklace that said: He’s Kissing Me.

And as he lifted her and set her back on her feet, she put her fingertips to her lips as if she could trap his kiss there. He put his arm around her like they’d been dating since third grade. She snuggled into him and wanted to bite his nipple like bubble gum, but she didn’t.

Johnson looked the nurse up and down, “Where’s your hospital ID?”

The nurse looked flustered. “I… uh… I inserted it anally into a patient.”

Johnson and Dove shared a puzzled look. As if asking for her credentials had broken some good luck charm, another nurse—with ID—came onto the scene.

“Mrs. Duffington. You made it out here again? I swear I’m calling the doctor right now to change your meds. These hallucinations are getting more and more vivid.” The real nurse turned to Dove and Johnson. “I hope she didn’t fool you. These meds she’s taking compel her to ask the most inappropriate questions. Honestly. Let’s go, Mrs. Duffington.” The fake nurse relinquished her stolen clipboard.

Dove might have noticed that the delusional patient had a hospital gown stuffed into a pair of scrub pants if she hadn’t been so mortified about being in the hospital in conjunction with Duke’s dick.

Johnson’s laughter was loud, as usual, but because he was hugging her she moved, too.

I can’t believe I died of shame and went to heaven. Today is the best day of my life.

Duke couldn’t help but be proud of his large, pointy, always-erect penis, but it hurt like a motherfucker’s motherfucker.

And he was bored. The nurses were frightened of him—mostly because he kept begging them for dick drugs. He flipped through the TV channels at an alarming rate. At this point, he was just trying to break it. He missed Bobbin and Fordicks.

Dicks. Ouch.

So the piercing had been a shitty idea. It wasn’t his first and definitely would not be his last.

A woman wandered into his room with a clipboard. “I’m Mrs. Duffington. So, you’re here about your penis injury, is that correct?”

“And you’re here to pinch it? Or are you one of those bitches that insists on checking my butt every ten minutes for hemorrhoids? Cause the next bastard that puts their nose in the crack of my ass is getting a special fucking delivery of something my bowels have been cooking up.” Duke popped a warning fart as a threat.

“No need to be rude, sir. I’ll just need an accounting of how this incident happened. They are considering pressing charges against your girlfriend, who—by the way—was just kissing another man in the waiting room.” Mrs. Duffington was all business with a splash of gossip.

“Why are your tits saggy?” Duke pointed emphatically at the nurse’s misplaced—in his opinion—nipples. “That shirt looks like a fucking hospital gown. Nurses wear bras, and you don’t have one on.” He squinted his eyes the way he liked to when he was on to a faker.

Mrs. Duffington gathered her wayward breasts closer with her clipboard.

“How dare you!” She started backing out of the hospital room, trying to look more offended than caught.

“Oh, the hell you’ll get away, you dirty bitch. You want a book report on my wanker?” Duke threw everything he could reach at the wall to call attention to his room. First, the remote, then his fork, and finally his food tray—complete with hospital slop—all took a flying ride. When he tried to hurl his call button, only the wire attaching it to his bed thwarted him.

Pressing the button, his voice boomed and echoed about the nurses’ station down the hall. “Pecker pervert! Call penis 911! Pecker pervert with wild tits! Help!”

The real nurses responded quickly. Mrs. Duffington looked guilty but also a little pleased with the genital talk.

“What kind of place is this? I feel like I’m in the fucking zoo with the monkeys eating bugs out of each other’s asses! Get this nutball back to her cage. Son of a hairy nut sling. What does a man need to do to get a little penis privacy around here?”

After a scuffle, in which Mrs. Duffington launched into a very demeaning tirade on the size of Duke’s bandage, the nurses were able to clear his room of the intruder.

Duke scowled at the orderly who came in to clean up the mess he’d made. He hated the hospital room. No one ever remembered to close the goddamned door and sometimes—just some fucking times—he didn’t want the crack of his ass to have an interested audience. His choice to close the door had been taken away.

He fiddled with his bandage as he tried to pretend the news about Dove kissing a dude in the waiting room didn’t make his chest burn a little. It wasn’t like he wanted her to be his girlfriend. It wasn’t like he looked forward to the times she came home from her horrible job and collapsed on his couch, exhausted and easy to tease.

It wasn’t like that at all.

He flicked the top of his penis wrap like he was playing tiddlywinks.

Oops.

“Fucking ducks.” Duke squirmed and tried to get away from himself.

There was a knock on his door.

“Smash a giant cactus up your asshole!” he yelled in an attempt to scare away the visitor.

The door opened anyway. “Listen, I probably deserve to do that to myself while you watch. I’m sorry I disfigured your man meat.”

And there she was, the girl he didn’t give a damn about, looking awkward as usual, except she was blushing and touching her lips. She was so fucking obvious. She might as well wear a shirt that said, “Someone just kissed the hell out of me.”

He was willing to bet the day after the pharmacist plowed his nerdy self into Dove, she would walk around cuddling her pussy like a teddy bear. The quick flash of her creamy skin under the pharmacist’s hands in his imagination made Duke’s toes curl and his teeth clench with jealousy. He shook his head at his own stupidity. She was like a sister to him. A sister who probably would laugh just as much as pant if he got her in bed.

Awww. Fuck.

He shook it off and tried to mock her. “You were just afraid you’d make my dick so irresistible you’d have to fight your way through the throng of women waiting to hump it just to get to your crappy apartment.”

“Oh, you like girls? I thought your TV had convinced you to switch teams. Dick jewelry is a porn thing. Right?” She sat in the horrible vinyl chair.

Duke shook his head imperceptibly. “So you had sex in the waiting room?”

She squirmed and touched her lips again, and then she leaned forward as if he was her best girlfriend.

“Oh my God! Johnson was here delivering drugs to the hospital pharmacy, and he was worried that you and I were together.” She added a disbelieving laugh that tore Duke’s heart open at the seams a little bit.

She continued. “So of course I told him I wouldn’t screw you with someone else’s ten foot pole.”

Duke gave her the laugh she was expecting but couldn’t meet her eyes.

“And then he asked if I would be his girlfriend, and I said yes!” She had gotten squeaky in her excitement and clapped her hands together. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I mean, I like him and he likes me back? I didn’t think it was possible, like, ever.” She sighed.

“I’m glad to hear that, Dick Pickler. When do you have your first date?” Duke made an effort to pick his nose, keeping everything light and disgusting—just like she would expect.

“He’s going to tweet me later. He’s beautiful and loud and beautiful. I just can’t imagine how I’ll ever manage to be perfect enough for him. I’ll die trying, though.” Dove made her hands into useless claws, surely picturing all the ways she could fall short of perfection.

“You know, you’re pretty amaz—” Duke stopped himself as Dove’s phone alerted her to something more important than him.

He finished his sentence in his stupid head. You’re pretty amazing flopping around in your pajamas on a Saturday, eating your cereal at my table because you hate to hear yourself chew and my TV is always on. You’re already perfect at being you.

“It’s him. He’s tweeting while running again. It’s so adorable! He says, ‘Is asking your girlfriend for a date on the Twitter appropriate?’ What should I say?” Dove looked up and bit her bottom lip, composing the perfect response in her head.

“How can I say ‘Fuck yeah!’ without saying ‘Fuck yeah!’?” Dove typed as she talked. “Absolutely. What time and what should I wear?” She batted her eyelashes at her phone and totally ignored Duke as she stared at her screen. They both jumped when it vibrated and rang.

“Oh! He said, ‘Four o’clock post meridiem, Eastern Standard Time. Please wear all black.’ I’m going to just throw up; I can’t wait!” Dove typed in her response and pocketed her phone. “I’m betting he’s taking me to a Goth concert. I better ask Flower for advice, which I hate to do because, you know, the ten words. Hmm, I wonder if she can write instead? He’s so smart! Post meridiem? Seriously, that’s so sexy.”

She was talking a mile a minute as she stood. Her thighs made a ripping noise as her heated skin unmolded from the crappy fabric of the chair. Duke didn’t even have the heart to crack a fart joke.

“Sounds like he’s taking you to a fucking funeral. What Goth concert starts at four? Those bastards don’t even get out of their coffins before ten post meridiem.”

Dove reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a plastic daisy. “Got this for you. Well, I stole it from the waiting room. Plastic flowers are tacky; I’m sure they won’t even know it’s gone.”

She walked closer and popped the green stem in his dick cast like it was a vase. He didn’t like that his genitals were now pushing up daisies.

Dove kissed his cheek and patted his arm. “Sorry I sneezed. I hope you’ve learned your cock’s lesson. I guess I still owe you one.”

Duke watched her turn and go. She was bouncy and happy. Her pharmacist had acted like a man and done everything Duke should’ve done months ago. Why did he think she’d always be single and around to watch him eat sausage?

Le fuck.

Dove did her happy nerd dance all the way down the hall to her apartment. Even the creepy Anastasias couldn’t sog down her delighted intellectual maxi pad. Debra Anastasia was wearing an obscene nurse getup. Mr. Anastasia was wearing what looked like medical tape fashioned in honor of Borat’s bathing suit.

Dove grabbed her stomach and pretended to have a mad case of diarrhea to avoid the two freaks. “Sorry, got the shits. Later!”

Debra Anastasia pushed more weirdness into the conversation by ignoring Dove. “We’re going to visit Duke’s dick. We’ve heard you mutilated it.” Debra Anastasia shook her head like Dove had pissed on some ancient eternal flame.

“He wanted it. Listen, I have to get in my place.” Dove futzed with her keys, but she kept forgetting which one opened her door every damn day.

Debra Anastasia reached into her purse and pulled out a variety of sex toys. One by one she handed them to Mr. Anastasia, who tucked each into his medical tape as if it were a naughty tool belt. Last, but definitely not least, was a cat-o’-nine-tails.

“Wait! I made a card, and I’m trying to get everyone to sign it.” Mrs. Anastasia pulled out a photoshopped nightmare.

The front of the card pictured a huge phallus with a spike through its tip. As Dove accepted the card and a pen from the overly prepared porn writer, she was reluctant to see the thoughtful message but read it anyway.

It was signed by a buttload of people. Debra Anastasia had left her two-lipped mark. Mr. Anastasia left a mark that could only have been inked by his perfectly healthy penis.

“You guys didn’t want to just sign your names?” Dove wanted to light the card on fire like the abomination it was. Just for touching it, she wished her hands would curl up and blow away like ash à la the Wicked Witch of the East feet.

God, that part of the movie was freaky.

Debra Anastasia smiled widely despite her crappy poetry that called Dove a bitch. “See? Those are my vagina lips.” She pointed to the obvious mark.

Yuck.

“That way Duke can cut out my and Mr. Anastasia’s spectacular parts and watch us have sex. Sort of. It’s like portable, low-tech porn.”

Dove looked incredulously from Mr. Anastasia to his wife and back again. There were times she thought the man looked like he wanted to run screaming, but then Debra Anastasia would seem to sense it, too, and manipulate her fun bags in such a way that her husband would just smile.

I bet Debra Anastasia has a suction button or something on her pussy. Why else would that poor man stay with her?

Dove hastily signed her name under the word Sorry. She noticed that Preston had signed it, as well:

The Frenchman had made a little heart after his name, so maybe it was an apology in French? Who knew? Who cared?

Johnson is taking me on a date!

Dove felt her boobs heave in excitement, and she shoved the card at the Anastasias. As an afterthought—an evil, evil afterthought—she added, “You guys should go visit a patient named Mrs. Duffington. She told me she was a big fan of your writing.”

When Dove finally unlocked her door and stumbled into her apartment, she felt a little tiny bit guilty—mostly for Mr. Anastasia. She forgot all about them, however, when she spied Steve the Cat licking his privates just inside the door.

Dove decided to try a new tactic: maybe if she treated him like a cute cat, he would act like one.

“Stevie-boy, quit doing your laundry! Mommy’s got a date! With Johnson! Remember what his balls tasted like? Well maybe by the end of tonight, we’ll both know!”

It was like trying to talk to a very angry senior about why he was not going to get his AARP discount—not successful. Dove giggled a little, but it sounded false. She stepped carefully around Steve, who had stopped his licking to listen to her weird baby voice but remained spread eagle.

“Close your legs, freak show, no matter how many times you lick them, your nuts will never grow back.” The cat seemed pleased that she had returned to her normal tone of voice.

It was time to get dressed. In all black. Dove pictured Johnson in Goth attire, and it was insanely hot. Guyliner and black polish—maybe leather pants? It was all a fabulous win for her womanly parts. Her pussy was so excited she half expected it to crawl down her leg and put on its own pep rally, bonfire and all.

“Go Team Bodily Holes!” Dove laughed again.

She was stupid with happiness. But she had to call Flower to arrange her outfit. Dove dialed the number and waited. Would the woman waste a word to say hello to a caller? Hopefully Flower utilized her Caller ID because a run of telemarketers would sap her word bank for a day.

After the third ring, Dove could hear the phone line was open—no more ringing. Dove waited and was surprised when Flower slammed the phone against a hard surface three times. Dove rubbed her now-throbbing eardrum. So this was how Flower said hello on the phone. Dove wasn’t worried about the telemarketers anymore. She explained her dilemma and waited. There were two more loud slaps before the call was disconnected.

Was that a yes? No?

Dove shrugged and made her way up to Flower’s apartment. It would be her first time in the silentish Goth’s home, and she was a little worried. She was expecting décor consisting mainly of broken Christmas decorations from the Save-Mart 90% off sale. When Flower opened her door, Dove wasn’t sure she should be pleased that she was right on the money. Armless Frostys, broken animated deer, and a glorious fake tree shaped more like a bush filled every corner of Flower’s apartment.

“Great place.” Dove tried to force the sarcasm out of her voice.

“I will make you a Goth Princess.” Flower disappeared behind a wall of old Christmas cards. Dove was scanning over 2001, 1998, 2007… all wishing the recipient the best year ever when Flower burst back into the living room, holding a very large dress covered with a Hefty bag.

God, I hope the Hefty bag isn’t the dress.

It wasn’t. Flower lifted the plastic to reveal an intricate black lace gown.

“Is that a wedding dress?” Dove couldn’t believe how long the train was.

“For a graveyard.” Flower hung the dress from a Frosty’s good arm and went on a hunt for the matching shoes.

Dove approached the dress. It was stunning but also as huge as a parade float.

Flower knows Goth; I have to trust her. And all ten words have been used, so I’m fucked for asking questions.

When Flower returned with knee-high combat boots, Dove’s slight apprehension grew even larger. Flower slipped from the room; Dove had to assume it was to give her privacy to try on the gown. Dove fought her way into the fabric and tried not to panic when she got stuck. In her rush to get from one outfit to the next, she’d forgotten to undo a row of buttons—she wasn’t a my-boobs-are-hanging-out-and-that’s-great-for-me kind of girl. She gasped when Flower returned without giving her a verbal warning like a normal person would do. But Flower was efficient, and soon she was buttoned into the material. After she stuffed her feet in the loud, squeaky boots, Dove glanced at her watch.

Oh my shit! It’s 3:45 post meridiem! Johnson will be here soon.

Dove wanted to pee, crap, and orgasm at the same time. She waved away Flower’s art box full of black makeup.

“Sorry. Thank you; I can’t. He’ll be here soon.”

Dove told Flower how thankful she was and that she’d be careful with the dress. She had more questions that the silent girl could no longer answer: Do you know of any concerts in the area? Will there be a bloody sacrifice? Does using a tampon mean you’re not a virgin anymore?

But there was no time. Dove squeaked and squeaked down the stairs and let herself back into the apartment. Steve was not pleased by her large dress and decided to hop on the train. He rode the black lace like a surfboard as Dove hurried to fix her hair and apply some lip-gloss. She had tears in her eyes when she saw how gorgeous she looked.

Thank you, creepy Flower. I bet no other girl will be dressed like me!

It was 3:58 post meridiem, and Dove kept forgetting to breathe. He would be on time; numbers mattered so much to him. She slipped out of the boots and hazarded a guess that her heels would be okay.

OH MY GOD! There’s a knock on the door!

“It’s him. It’s him!” she told her stupid cat, who was now asleep on her train.

Internally she chastised herself. He’s going to think you’re a shut-in who never gets visitors. For fuck’s sake, open the door.

She kept bolting and unbolting the freaking lock like a nimrod. Finally, her brain and hands worked together by accident, and she pulled the door open. The hallway light outlined his crisp, stylish suit. His green eyes sought her shit-brown ones, and he smiled the minute they were having eye sex.

He’s so beautiful.

“You’re pretty,” Dove choked out by way of greeting.

His smile was sincere as he replied, “I have nothing on you.”

Dove was a puddle of hormones and stupidity as Johnson took in the sight of her whole getup.

“Wow, Dove! You really like to dress up for a funeral.” Johnson held the crook of his arm out to her.

She knew from movies, books, and normal people that she was supposed to thread her arm in his. She just prayed to God he was kidding about the funeral and that she didn’t accidentally punch him in the nuts.

She flicked her train a few times to try to remove Steve. He sat up and made his I’m-taking-a-dump-in-Gringotts-face, and Dove pulled the material out from under his horrible ass like a tablecloth laden with place settings. Miraculously, Steve was deposited perfectly into his normal sitting position.

“That’s quite a trick. Shall we?” Johnson waited with one eyebrow raised.

Let’s screw instead. I don’t even care if the cat watches and the Anastasias beat me over the head with one of their giant dildos.

“We shall.” Dove didn’t punch any nuts and gracefully pulled her long train out the door.

She was going on her date with Johnson Fitzwell, Steve hadn’t shit on her, she didn’t look like the evil Chucky doll, and her pussy was in good working condition. There was not one single thing that could make this night any less than perfect.

Dove wanted there to be paparazzi, maybe some satellites trained on her.

Please let me run into everyone I’ve ever met in my life on the way to his fuck hot vehicle of awesome.

He was all dressed up and leaning down to whisper little things to her.

Things! That were little! To her!

She didn’t even care what words they were. She wanted to eat them, shit them out, and wear them as a necklace. She loved his moving mouth.

He walked her to his black minivan, and Dove instantly amended her mental picture of his ride, remembering their time in the parking lot right after he was fired. He held her door open like a knight, or a movie star, or an old dude. She wanted to screw him three times quickly in succession to thank him. He waited until she was in the passenger seat before grabbing her long train and stuffing it around her like she was a glass vase he was about to mail.

“Will you be able to fasten the belt?” Johnson asked.

Belt? What belt. Oh God, he’s into that weird fetish stuff. Excellent. He can stuff me like a turkey at Thanksgiving. Then eat me. Dove’s eyes and brain went all soft at the thought of Johnson between her legs.

“The seatbelt?” He ignored her and fastened the gray belt around her, leaning over her until he could find the locking mechanism.

His lips were just a hard sneeze away from hers. After she heard the click, he didn’t move. The lips hovered there like a Star Wars spaceship ready to land.

“Invade me, Scottie!”

She was even getting her nerd movies mixed up. She held her breath as the lips she was focusing on smirked.

“Did you just call me ‘Scottie’?” The lips moved closer.

“I’m a piss wad.” She was stone still.

Was he mad? Was he jealous? Did he finally wake up and realize she was the biggest fucking loser that ever lost at anything?

“You’re nervous.” He breathed on her, and she wished he were a flower she could pick and put in her pants.

“I’m nervous.” They were so close it was like they were married and he was reaching for the remote—that she would keep in her vagina, naturally.

Then he touched her face, and the close lips were kissing her again. She had relived their hospital kiss a thousand billion times, but she hadn’t remembered anything. Her memory of the miracle of his kiss was faulty. The pharmacist could kiss the lips off her. She would be perfectly happy with just nub lips. She could have just teeth—a fucking permanent smile.

She freed her stupid hand from where it was tangled in her dress and slid it into his hair.

Oh God, the hair is so hairy. I want to deep throat a hairball of this man’s sex hair.

He broke off the kiss, which was good because otherwise she would have just kissed him until they exploded. He walked around the van and slid into the driver’s seat. Dove had turned her panting down to quiet gagging.

She felt compelled to explain. “I have a lot of pent-up passion.” She made a joke of her ridiculous horny hair grab. She was embarrassed that her rock-hard nipples wanted to drive the van.

Instead of laughing or saying something like, “Yeah, I could tell,” Johnson stopped. He opened his mouth just a little and he bit his lip—as if what she’d said had tempted him.

He shook his head and started to drive. She was too busy watching his muscles work and his face slide from one expression to another to give a flying fart what the man was saying. When they pulled into the parking lot of Muffens Funeral Parlor, it took Dove a minute to realize they weren’t at a concert.

“You weren’t kidding? We’re going to a funeral?” Dove couldn’t close her mouth.

She hated dead bodies; her tongue insisted on saying stupid, callous things at funerals. She dropped her gaze to her wedding dress.

Oh my flippity fuckmare.

“Weren’t you listening while I was explaining?” Johnson didn’t look mad, just amused.

“I was too busy thinking about your lips to pay attention to your words.”

Whoa! Said that one out loud.

He smiled at her, and she felt the thrill of it braid her short, patchy pussy hair.

“Mr. Florknot was a patient at Save-Mart, and today is his funeral.” Johnson motioned with his long-fingered hand.

Jesus, I bet he never needs a fork to get that last pickle out of the jar. My G-spot will be the pickle, of course.

“Oh, you were close to him?” Dove tried to pat some of her dress down so she could face him a little more. She twisted, turned, and torqued until her right boob popped out of her gown.

Johnson noticed. “Well, hello, little friend.”

“My tit!” Dove stuffed the offending mammary back into the cup.

Fuck my boob.

Dove had imagined the first time she would show her milky chunks to Johnson as a beautiful moment filled with silk, Cinderella’s fucking birds, and opera singing. Now he had seen it smooshed like play dough.

Johnson cleared his throat and continued their conversation like it hadn’t gotten a little porny. “No, actually, I never met him. He was Mrs. Pills’ customer. He took heart medication every day, and I noticed his refill hadn’t been picked up. When I called the number on his account, I got the nursing home; they told me he had passed on. The receptionist mentioned that Mr. Florknot didn’t have any family. So I thought maybe we could give him somebody for today.”

Dove blinked a few times. “That’s the kindest thing, Johnson Fitzwell.”

He shrugged and laughed a little. “It was a stupid idea. Who takes a girl to a funeral as their first date?”

Dove fought through her gown so she could find his hand and hold it. She wanted to lick it, too, but restrained herself. “You do. It would be my honor to go to this old fart’s funeral with you. Except pretend I said that like a person with a heart.”

Johnson lifted their clasped hands and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. Just like a French sexpot with a huge, dangly dick.

Sigh.

After she stopped pretending her middle finger was her vagina, Dove decided to let Johnson in on her new concern.

“I, um, thought we might be going to a Goth concert. For a funeral, I might have worn some yoga pants with heels, not a black wedding dress.”

Johnson reached in his pocket and pulled out…

His dick!

No, it was a pocketknife.

Damn it.

“I think I might be able to make some adjustments… if that would be okay?” Johnson got out of the van and walked around so he could open her door.

He helped her from the van and spread the dress out to its full glory. Then he began to methodically cut it from her body. Dove had a passing thought of Flower getting pissed, but she was all out of her words for the day, so what could she say? First, the hem was shortened with a rip and a tear. Then he spun her so he could hack off the train.

He has his knife near my ass crack. Yes. Yes!

Lastly, he trimmed the sleeves to make the dress a pretty—if a bit edgy—sleeveless, tea length number.

Oh my God!

If that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world, Dove didn’t know what was because the dress modification involved her body, his hands, and semi-intimate touching.

Johnson slid the knife blade carefully back into the apparatus and put it in his pocket. The whole thing worked for him as well because soon Dove was pressed against the side of the van, being kissed and groped by the pharmacist of her dreams, tweets, and random alone-time showers.

She grabbed his hip and inadvertently hit the car alarm. As it whooped, Johnson laughed on her lips. The alarm was loud and grating, but he refused to stop kissing her. Dove found the fuck hair again, and her whole body vibrated with his moan.

A loud banging on the hood of the van caught their attention. A priest was shaking his finger at them and probably condemning them both to hell. Johnson stepped away from her to put the key in the ignition and stop the noise.

The priest’s angry words crisped up like bacon in a pan. “…enough noise to wake the dead. Bad enough I have to go through the motions of a funeral for Myron Florknot—who was as mean as a snake, by the way. Now I have to deal with overheated sex addicts. Everybody is a sex addict now. You know why that is, little lady?”

The priest had stepped clear over the bounds of her personal space. Dove was grateful when Johnson wrapped his arm around her sinning body.

Dove shrugged in Johnson’s direction. “Dick? Maybe they like the dick?”

She covered her mouth the minute she said it. Johnson laughed like a middle schooler as the priest turned an angry purple. “They put crack in condoms, that’s why!”

Dove bit her lip. She used to hate talking about genitals, and it happened so often lately.

The priest shooed them like flies. “Okay, get lost. I have a funeral to run.” The priest hopped into the hearse. The tires squealed as he drove Mr. Florknot’s casket to the back of the church.

Johnson and Dove didn’t even have words; they just shrugged and headed sheepishly inside. As they sat in the fancy funeral chairs, it became painful obvious they would be the only ones attending. The priest wheeled in Mr. Florknot’s casket himself and gave Johnson and Dove a sneer.

The Priest set a breakneck speed for his service. The man could’ve easily put an auctioneer to shame. By the time Dove had taken four deep breaths, the service was over.

Johnson stood to pay his respects, but the priest had already kicked the casket’s wheel lock off. As he hurried by, pushing the casket like an Olympic bobsledder, he shouted his next plans to the sex addicts. “Burying him in Oaks Cemetery!”

Johnson and Dove wanted to move slowly, sign something, light a candle, but as they made their way to the entrance, they heard the priest taking off in the hearse like it was a rocket.

Johnson made huge eyes at Dove, and together they booked it to the minivan. Johnson turned on the hazards as Dove threw the remnants of Flower’s dress into the side door. She tossed herself in the passenger seat. Keeping up with the hearse was going to be a chore, for sure. Dove held the oh-shit! handle as Johnson careened around the turns. Dove spotted the black death car in the distance. They were catching up.

“There. There, to the left!”

Johnson couldn’t take his eyes off the road as he threaded through the other cars, pressing his luck with the yellow lights.

“Aren’t funeral processions supposed to be slow?”

The car chase commenced for a blistering fifteen minutes before Johnson finally squealed to a stop next to the gravesite. The priest was visibly sweating. He was halfway through a prayer that Dove was pretty sure wasn’t from the Bible.

Johnson leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Is he reciting the Chipotle menu?”

And sure enough, the priest was eulogizing the virtues of guacamole and peppers. After a hasty “Amen,” the two sex addicts were left alone at the cemetery.

“Wow,” Dove commented.

Johnson shook his head. “That had to be the worst funeral I’ve ever been to.”

“I feel like I’m watching those squirrels screw again. Weird and wrong. Could Mr. Florknot have been so bad he deserved this?” Dove reached for Johnson’s hand again.

“Maybe I should say something? I guess?” Johnson took a step closer to the old man’s final resting place.

“Sir, I was saddened to hear you had passed on. I hope whatever ailed your heart is fixed now, wherever you are.” Johnson looked from the hole in the ground to the sky. “And I really hope the fact that you didn’t pick up your refill isn’t the reason you expired. Maybe I should have called sooner.”

He was worried. He took his job so seriously, but Dove got it now. Giving people medicine was an important job. And not giving it to them could be deadly.

Dove patted Johnson’s arm. “I’m sure you did the right thing.”

He nodded. He was a professional, after all. These kinds of things might happen in his line of work, but Dove was glad she was there for him today, in case it had been his fault. In case this was his first time.

After finding a handful of dandelions to toss onto the coffin, Johnson walked Dove back to the van. “Well, sorry for that. If you’re still in the mood, we could finish our date with dinner?” He held the door again.

Swoon.

“Sure, I’d love to have dinner with you.” Dove settled into the passenger seat.

Johnson made reservations on his cell while winking at her. “Can I get a six thirty reservation for two? Thanks.” After giving his name and hanging up, he wrinkled his nose. “I just love the Olive Garden!”

Oh, crap.

Duke was so antsy he couldn’t even put on his pantsy. Dove was on his mind more than ever before. Maybe she’d never been on his mind, but now she was all he could focus on. It was like when he got a pimple in his nostril. Normally, he could give a rat’s fungus fuck about his nostril, but once there was a plumpy pimple in it, Duke’s whole being pinpointed on the puss ball. And nose pimples hurt—just like his heart.

The only thing that was putting a little pep in his farts was his new invention. His dick cast was less restrictive and more supportive than he’d anticipated. It was like a skyscraper between his balls and his belly button. He was thinking of painting it to resemble a traffic cone.

After contemplating his pussy pleaser, his attention drifted pre-dick-tably to his nuts. He was betting his balls would love being supported like his dick. After Macgyvering two empty applesauce cups together with a leftover rubber tourniquet, he had what he needed. He filled the snack cups with his man bags and smiled. Chicks had bras; dudes’ bits and pieces needed some respect, too. Gravity was a bitch.

There was a sexy knock on his door. From the feminine giggle, he knew whom to expect—and he was right. Debra Anastasia came through the door boobs first.

“Hello, sweet Duke-meat. What did you do to your little coochie-coo?” She danced her tits up and down in a mesmerizing rhythm.

“Debra Anastasia, you’re gonna make my dick cry if I have to watch that show much longer.” Duke shifted.

Debra Anastasia thoughtlessly sat on the bed with a flounce. “So, neighbor, are you getting busted out of here tonight? Are you getting a cock specialist? Because you know I’m a common law expert on the subject.” She puckered her lips, and the pink, glossy color caught the artificial light.

“I bet you are, sweetheart. Where’s your lucky bastard husband?” Duke flinched as he tried to reposition his ass.

“Aww. My sweet hubby got whisked up to the psych ward because of his outfit. Don’t worry, I taught him how to escape from those.” She batted a set of huge false eyelashes.

Debra Anastasia reached into her bosom and handed Duke her homemade porn card. He gave Prick-ston’s name the finger and then lightly touched Dove’s name.

The crazy writer didn’t miss a trick. “You sweet on the klutzy girl? I should have guessed with all the meat rubbing she was doing. But baby, Mr. Anastasia and I stopped in Olive Garden before we came to the hospital. They do the all-you-can-eat soup and breadsticks? Well, we try to stretch our stomachs there once a week. I’m up to ten bowls of soup and fourteen breadsticks!” She gave a healthy belch and soon his hospital room smelled just like the chain restaurant.

“You’ve got to knock that off! That burp is making my tits water!” Duke rubbed his pectorals. “What does that have to do with Dove?”

Debra Anastasia propped a leg on his nightstand and waved a hand between her legs. “Excuse me; I have to air out the man killer. I’m trying out a new pair of nylon panties and they’re making my velvety core sweat.”

Duke nodded as though a sweltering dick mitten was perfectly normal.

Debra Anastasia continued. “Well, Klutzy came into the restaurant on a date. And she looked deliriously happy. I’m so sorry, sweet hiney bear.”

She patted the top of his dick cast, smiling at the daisy that was jauntily adding some spring to Duke’s injury.

She pulled out the flower and popped it in her hair. Duke tried not to look crestfallen. Dove was with the pharmacist, and of course she was having a great time. The man was a pretty bastard. His reflection on his heart’s situation was interrupted by Mr. Anastasia’s entrance. The man’s medical-tape-only outfit showcased his commitment to hairlessness. Mrs. Duffington followed him in.

“Oh, no you don’t, you Penis Peeker! Get your ass out of here right now.” Duke sat up as best he could.

Mrs. Duffington gave Duke a stern look, like he was an unruly child. “Now, now, Mr.”—she checked his chart—“Munch, no need to get riled up. Tell me, how’s your member feeling? Lots of throbbing? Are your testicles sore?”

Duke blew out a frustrated breath. “Yes, bitch. My dick is throbbing. Get your face down here by it so I can cockslap you.”

Mr. Anastasia looked from Mrs. Duffington to Duke. “Dude, I’m sorry. Dove told us to check this lady out. I told her I needed to break out, and she told me it was easy.”

Mrs. Duffington smiled lovingly at Mr. Anastasia’s robust genitals. “And did I deliver or did I deliver?”

Debra Anastasia crinkled her nose while she stood up from Duke’s bed. She looked the older woman up and down. “Look at my husband’s colossal man offerings again, old bat, and I’ll taint punch you.” Debra Anastasia never stopped smiling.

Mr. Anastasia seemed to have the most sense, which wasn’t saying much. “If I am truly going to bust out of here, we best get a move on.”

Duke slid off his bed and motioned to his neatly folded clothes on the nearby chair. “Listen, I need to get out of here, too. Do you think you guys could drop me off at the Olive Garden?”

Debra Anastasia retrieved his pants and shirt. “I don’t think that’s a great idea. She’s happy bunny humper.” She smoothed Duke’s wild hair.

“I just want to make sure he’s a good fit for her. She has problems—craps her pants, stuff like that. If she needs help, I want to be there.” Duke slid his jeans on but left them unzipped. There was no way the dick cast and new applesauce cups would fit in regular clothing.

Debra Anastasia eyed his pre-dick-ament while Duke put on his shirt. “I’ve got it!” She rummaged in her purse for a minute before producing a shower cap that she’d obviously swiped from a hotel. “So what’ve you got there on your teabags?”

Duke wiggled his hips and showed off his newly designed invention. “I’ve created the Ballssiere®. It’s like a bra. But for your nuts. I think it’s going to make me a millionaire.”

Debra Anastasia clapped her hands. “Oh, put Mr. Anastasia down for ten of them! I think the Ballssiere® is adorable!” She took her index fingers and played the cups on Duke’s crotch like tiny monkey bongo drums.

Finally, she popped the cap over Duke’s elaborate man business. “We need to keep this invention under wraps until we get a patent pending.”

All four idiots walked out of the hospital. This time they managed to get past all the security because Mrs. Duffington had such a commanding, confrontational demeanor. Mr. Anastasia’s huge Harley had a hot pink sidecar. It was built for two, but this evening it was taking on four assholes.

The Anastasias hopped onto the bike’s seat, and Duke carefully maneuvered his flagpole-like dick into the car. As Mrs. Duffington made a motion to straddle him, Duke spoke up. “Whoa now. I’m not ready for that all up in my face.”

“Please, Mr. Munch, this is perfectly professional. I’ll help stabilize your injury during your transport.” Mrs. Duffington was quite flexible despite her advanced years. Soon enough her ankles were perched on Duke’s shoulders, with his injured dick resting in against her lower back. To all the world, she looked like a crazed koala bear clinging for dear life to a tree branch. But she was an old chick, and she was air-humping Duke.

Duke looked at the Anastasias and rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to push the old crow onto the pavement. The loving couple was too busy groping each other and French kissing to give a chipmunk’s balls about his discomfort. Mrs. Duffington shoved Duke’s face between her natural, huge, saggy koala breasts. The motor rumbled and off they flew, a cartoon style pile of people overwhelming the poor machine. The Olive Garden had never seemed so far away. Duke used his tit tunnel to contemplate exactly what the hell he was going to do when he got there.

Just fucking tell her you want to be her man.

It seemed unlikely she’d even listen. He knew better; Dove thought Johnson was cut straight from solid gold sex. Duke had not one thing to offer her, except the fact that she’d never have to pretend to be someone else around him. As the Anastasias parked at the crowded restaurant and peeled Mrs. Duffington off Duke, he covered his dick with his hands. It was throbbing now, and Mr. Anastasia had to help him out of the low-slung sidecar.

Debra Anastasia straightened his shower cap and patted his cheek. “Sometimes girls are blind, Duke. Don’t hurt yourself in there. Me and the mister have the worst gas, so we’re going to use the little girls’ and little boys’ rooms. We won’t leave without you.”

Duke waltzed into the Olive Garden like he owned it. Mrs. Duffington regally began questioning the customers waiting to be seated about where they were keeping their vibrating notification buzzers. Duke walked past the maître d’ and leaned against a fake column. He could see Johnson and Dove sitting together at a small table. Both had wine in their glasses. Dove looked gorgeous and scared.

And gorgeous.

He was surprised the management team even let her back in the restaurant after her attack on Johnson’s whore girlfriend. He was still trying to place that bitch’s face. She was familiar for a reason he had yet to figure out.

Duke looked around the room, deciding to find the Anastasias in the crapper and hitch a ride home. Various strangers were making huge eyes at his penis. He waggled it like a metal detector over sand at the beach.

Moving it hurt; he needed his pain meds and soon. As he turned to leave, he overheard a snarky voice just over the half wall thing that made diners feel like they were alone.

“Dove Glitch is her name –found out from some Facebook stalking. Can you believe the size of her balls? She brings my fiancé back to the scene of the crime?”

Duke peeked over the wall. As if thinking about her had conjured her up, the ex-girlfriend was holding court with a handful of bitches who looked just like her.

“When she heads to the bathroom, we’re going in and teaching her a lesson. No one takes a two-carat diamond ring from me without being punished.” Beth smiled meanly in Dove’s direction.

Crap.

Even though Duke’s penis felt like it was going to explode like hot popcorn, he had to stay and protect his lady.

Not mine. Johnson’s lady.

He spotted Mrs. Duffington grilling an unfortunate couple at their table. He walked over and slid carefully into the empty chair. The crazy fake nurse nodded and smiled.

This is going to be an interesting evening.

Dove couldn’t stop staring at Johnson. She was dumbfounded that they’d been treated like regular human beings when they arrived at the Olive Garden. Johnson seemed to think the day she pussy-swiped Beth was just a humdrum event. No need to skip such a spectacular restaurant over an assault. Dove’s elaborate dress was quite possibly the perfect disguise.

He was talking again. His lips were moving around his teeth, and every once in a while, his delicious tongue would lick them. He was asking her a question, and dammit, she was going to answer it.

“So, Dove, did you ever go to the prison for the knitting job?” He leaned forward with a smile.

Dove screamed directions to herself in her head. Don’t drool, pecker chunk! You ass-clencher, make words!

“Um, no. My counselor went on her cleansing sabbatical.” Dove picked up a breadstick, futzed with it, and took a healthy bite. As she tried to manage the large chunk of bread in her mouth, a pointy piece kept hitting the little punching bag that dangled in the back of her throat. As she gagged and tried not to use her hands to keep the bread explosion in her stupid pie hole, the wine pusher distracted Johnson.

By the time Johnson had tasted the booze and okayed it to accompany their meal, Dove had managed to choke down her treat. He put a hand through his hair and looked back at her. At her! There we a good forty-five people partaking in the goodness of the Garden tonight, and he was looking at her!

“I’ve never heard of a cleansing sabbatical.” He raised his question eyebrow. He wanted more information.

Dove told him what she knew. “Ms. Jorish adheres to a strict regimen of colonics and weed during it. She comes back skinny as a skeleton with wild eyes.” She shrugged.

Johnson’s eyes sparkled as though Dove had said something insanely interesting. His voice was suddenly absurdly loud. “COLONICS fascinate me. There’s something to be said about the SLUDGE that backs up in the COLON.” The word colon sat on everyone’s tongue as they tried to swallow their dinner.

Dove said, “Yeah. There’s a lot of sludge.”

What? Shut up! Steer the conversation away from shit.

“Well, I hope you find a job that fits your needs.” Johnson took a sip of his wine. He sucked it through his teeth in a practiced wine tasting move.

I want him to do that to my pussy juices.

Dove shrugged because the most appealing job for her right now was collecting any dead skin that fell off Johnson and eating it. She doubted anyone would pay her to do that.

“Me, too.” Dove looked at him and smiled.

Johnson missed his mouth when he went for a sip of wine, so Dove passed him her napkin. He began to blush, stammering, “Sorry, your smile made me forget where my intake orifice was.”

All my orifices know where you are—especially the ones that grow hair.

As he dabbed his shirt with the napkins, it became obvious he was just making the stain worse. “If you’ll pardon me, Dove, I think I need to run some cold water over this.” Johnson stood sexily and left for the men’s room.

He does laundry! In bathrooms!

Dove was smiling to herself. No other night in her life could compete with this one.

Their waiter approached and refilled Dove’s wine.

She was expecting some food-server small talk, but instead she was treated to a harsh whisper. “We remember you, Twat Swabber. Don’t pull any of your stunts here.”

The waiter placed a plate of artfully arranged appetizers in front of her. Incredibly, using only food, the chef had created a tremendously lifelike vagina. Complete with mushrooms carved into curly hairs.

Oh God, no! Johnson can’t see this! This faux pussy is going to ruin our date!

She wanted to cover it with her napkin, but Johnson had that. She was holding the plate, deciding if she could slide it under the table, when someone close by cleared his throat. First, she saw his crotch. She gasped at the unexpected visual assault.

“Hey, Crappola, What’s up with the vagina?” Duke was smiling at her.

“First, Duke, you slob, what the hell are you doing out of the hospital? Second, a clear plastic shower cap does not hide your ridiculous man business. Third, get out of here right now. Johnson already thought you and I were dating, and I don’t want to be with you when you get arrested for wearing that.” Dove put down the plate and looked around frantically.

She was even more alarmed when she saw Mr. and Debra Anastasia sucking face in the lobby. Their presence could only mean more potential embarrassment.

Duke sat down in Johnson’s vacated chair. His delighted dimples were deep in his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. “Give me your food; I’ll cunnilingus it to death.” He took his alarmingly long tongue and lapped at the disembodied genitalia. “Yum! They should have put a little seafood in here.”

Dove rolled her eyes and slapped her hand on the table. “Listen, I know we’re funny with each other, and this stupidity? It’s funny a lot of the time. But please—I’m actually begging you, here—leave me alone. This guy? He might even like me a lot. I don’t know what to do with that. It never happens to me. Just one night without my own luck… can’t I just have one night?”

Duke’s smile dropped along with his eyes. He took Johnson’s fork and smeared the food into an unrecognizable mush.

Well, that was a good fucking idea. Why didn’t I think of that?

“I got ya, baby girl. None of my stupid shit tonight. You have a good one.” Duke mercifully stood. “You want me to get rid of this for you?” He looked just past the top of her head. She nodded and he waddle-walked away.

She couldn’t shake the sad look on his face—like she had shit in his favorite package of sausage.

He listened to me without complaint when he could have easily shamed the shit out of me.

Dove followed Duke with her gaze while biting her lip. It was perplexing.

Soon, Johnson was back in his chair. “I thought I had a fork?”

The waiter brought their food and another fork without any more threats or embarrassing offerings. Dove didn’t know how much brainpower it took to chew and swallow without dying until she had to do so while sitting across from Johnson Fitzwell. She was praying that she would find out if his Johnson really did Fitzwell. After her third glass of wine, she had the guts to try batting her eyelashes at him. It could have been the light or the alcohol, but she was almost positive Johnson was flirting back. Maybe the kisses weren’t just facial seizures. Maybe this date was going to wind up with her legs spread and lots of nudity.

She wiggled in her seat, and the movement reminded her that she had to pee so damn bad. When she stood, Johnson stood. Her mouth hung open. He was treating her like a person who was special. Like a lady. She couldn’t even pretend to hide her happy smile.

She went to the bathroom as quickly as she could, hating the time apart from Johnson.

When Dove opened the stall door after flushing, she had high expectations. She wanted to see her hair looking normal and her armpits looking dry and a lack of toilet paper hanging out the back of her undies. Nothing prepared her for what she actually saw: Beth’s—the ex-girlfriend—angry, bitchy face.

“Well hello, cum bucket. Preparing to whore it out to my man? Because by the time we’re done with you, you won’t even be able to whore it out to yourself.” Beth sneered.

She wasn’t alone. Beth had a colony of other Beth-looking people with her in the ladies’ bathroom. Dove was shocked speechless. It was like a horrible after-school special.

Not tonight. I’m not taking shit from this bitch tonight.

Maybe it was because Johnson had stood when she’d left the table. Maybe it was because he’d spilled his wine when she had smiled, but she found courage in the crapper. Even though she was outwomanned six to one, she still spoke her mind.

Dove defended herself. “Um, I’d like to whore it out to Johnson, but he’s not yours.”

Beth laughed maniacally. Two of the robo-Beths blocked the door. She stepped menacingly toward Dove. “Really? Dove Asshole Glitch? After what I have planned, no man will want to fuck you. Ever.”

What could she possibly do to me in the bathroom that would prevent fuckable-ness? How does she know my whole government name?

Dove slammed the stall door shut. For a second she could pretend all the Beths were not out there, pissing on her very fantastic parade.

Johnson’s alive, waiting for me on the other side of the bitch brigade!

“Listen, ‘gina pincher. We’re just here to remind you not to take what belongs to someone else.” One of the Beths was threatening her.

Dove heard the clatter of high heels click-clacking around her stall.

“Dove, open the door. We’re going to get you eventually. You can’t stay in there forever!”

One of the girls risked climbing on the toilet in the stall next to hers so she could peer over the metal dignity divider. “I can see you now, douche clot.” This Beth had deep brown hair and a fuckton of eye makeup on.

“Dove’s not in right now. Please leave a message. Beep!” Dove bit her lip as she looked at the girl above her.

“Start pouring shit on her. She’s not moving!”

Clumps of bitches moved quickly together. Soon the invasive Beth was holding a bottle of what looked to be industrial-strength cleaner high above Dove’s head. Dove had no choice; she had to open the door. She didn’t want whatever was in the cleaner to get in her eyes. Or worse, her Johnson tunnel of love.

Dove unlatched the door and swung it open. There was a tremendously awkward moment where Beth and her friends tried to pull Dove out, but they eventually realized they didn’t fit in the teeny space. They wound up slapping at Dove until she came out of her own volition. The Beth clones stood around like they were waiting for shoes to go on sale.

At least they’re not professional bathroom brawlers.

“Well, Dovehole, we’re going to give you a bath in this shit.” Beth pointed to the cleaner. “Then we’re going to cut off all your fucking hair.” She held up a pair of super tiny manicure scissors.

Dove had a few choices. She could try to bolt for the door, stand there and take what they were doling out, or she could scare them.

“You’re going to get real tired trying to cut my hair with those freaking things,” Dove said in hopes of buying some time while she considered her options.

Predictably, the Beths turned on each other for a brief moment, bickering amongst themselves over the effectiveness of the stupid scissors.

Running is a sucky choice. I could trip, and they’d still throw the cleaner.

Taking the punishment seemed like a coward’s way out. She would have to scare them. And off the top of her head, the scariest thing she could think of was Steve the Cat.

So, she emulated him. First, she hunched herself over and made a ferocious face. The Beths all reacted the same way: horrified.

Next in Steve the Cat’s arsenal of intimidation was the sway Johnson and she had experienced. It had been so creepy at the time. She mimicked his otherworldly moaning and rocked from side to side.

All the Beths took a step away from Dove.

“She’s crazy!”

“I think she has a disease.”

Dove amped up the moaning, trying not to imagine what people walking past the bathroom might think.

It’s working! They’re scared! Or at least mortified.

Dove might have even been more successful if she hadn’t caught sight of herself in the large, faux Italian-inspired mirror. She certainly looked unstable.

Just once, can I go on a date with my dream guy without truckloads of shit to step into?

Like a pack of wild dogs, they sensed her weakness, the slight buckling of her determination to defend herself. The real Beth stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Dove’s hair. Deep-Brown Beth’s malicious eyes were anticipatory as she held the cleaner above Dove’s head again. Über Beth didn’t want any of the cleaner on her, so holding Dove down was going to be tricky. She shuffled around awkwardly but still managed to keep her grip on Dove.

Dove held in a sob and closed her eyes. These fucking bitches meant business. She could hear the minuscule scissors snipping away at her hair.

The door being held shut by two of the lesser Beths squeaked open with gusto. The two girls were sent stumbling forward, and Dove opened her eyes as a reflex.

In waltzed Duke with his dick cast. No more shower cap, just his nonsense. Dove almost cried when she saw him—the most unlikely hero ever.

“Hello, ladies. What the hell is this? Some sort of ass-sucking rendition of West Side Story?” Duke took the cleaner out of Deep-Brown Beth’s hands. He pretended to toss the contents at her over and over, laughing every time she flinched. When he tired of that game, he emptied the bottle in the sink.

Seeing Duke unexpectedly in any room was a mental jolt. All done up in his junk wrappings, he was an absolutely unavoidable obstacle. Duke sauntered to the center of the bathroom and turned toward the sinks.

“That should be about right.” He closed one eye as if he was lining up the winning putt at the Master’s.

And then, through the little hole in his penis cast, his stream of urine flew. The Beths between him and the sink scattered like rats, seeking shelter from the yellow arc.

“Holy duck fucks! You’d think I’d eaten a wagonful of asparagus! You smell that piss, ladies? That’s pure, concentrated man.” As his bathroom needs concluded, his arc dribbled to a stop, dotting the floor with evidence all the way to the tips of his toes.

No matter how disgusting he was, Dove stepped closer, and Duke put his arm around her. Some of the Beths tried to make their way to the door.

“I wouldn’t. This thing is loaded and ready!” Duke pointed his dick cast at each of the women threateningly. They recoiled as if it was a loaded gun.

“Do you all think you’re cute? Fucking corralling a chick in here to torment her? How old are you?” Duke pointed at each one with his pinkie. “I’ve seen all you whores out at the bars. And if I think real hard, I can bet some of you have sucked this very dick.” He pointed at his crotch like it was a car he was selling.

The real Beth’s face went white. “Fine, we’ll let her be. Come on, girls.”

Duke smiled like a cat that had just taken a dump in a clean litter box. “Oh, not so fast. I knew I knew you. Beth? If you don’t want me to tell the other girls where I know you from, you’ll apologize. I still have that picture you love.”

“I won’t touch her again.” Beth looked downright petrified.

Duke squinted.

Beth added, “Or talk to her. Or talk about her. I’ll just stop talking altogether. I’ll apologize. To her. To everyone.”

Duke ignored her and turned to Dove. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. Dove didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t need an ugly cry, and if she thought about what Duke had just done for her, she would bawl.

“I want you to go back to your date while I finish my talk with these ass fungi.” Duke winked at her.

Dove took the time to wash her hands with the whole crowd watching. When she opened the ladies’ restroom door, she heard a loud fart behind her. Duke was punishing them all. She threaded her way through the crowded restaurant. She couldn’t believe that nothing had changed; Johnson was waiting and stood as she returned to the table.

“Do you feel well, beautiful? I hope the breadsticks haven’t given you an upset stomach.” Johnson looked concerned and lovely and handsome and perfect. Even when he was talking about her possible diarrhea.

“I feel great, Johnson. Wonderful.” Dove spread her napkin on her lap like a normal person.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the flood of Beths come running out of the restroom. Duke followed soon after. He was doing the deep lunges he reserved for his morning ball stretches. Dove worried a bit about his injury. God knows what he put those girls through in that bathroom.

Her whole body tensed when she saw Debra and Mr. Anastasia heading in her direction. Duke walled them off and herded them back into the waiting area. Mrs. Duffington—Jesus Christ, too many nightmarish people here—followed Duke like he was the Pied Dick-Casted Piper. Dove relaxed. Duke was taking care of everything.

She gave her attention back to Johnson, who was discussing the advantages and disadvantages of the vaginal product GYNAZULE®’s new generic version.

She peeked one last time to see if the cacophony of weird had been evacuated. They had. Duke nodded to her as he left the restaurant, and as stupid as he looked—with his pants unzipped and his junk plastered into a horrible genital statue—she knew she would never forget the fact that he had saved Johnson’s job and saved her from humiliation.

Sometimes help comes from the most unlikely places.

She settled her gaze back on Johnson, who, for some reason, was still in front of her. Dove’s endlessly horrible luck would not fuck this night in the ass.

Johnson raised his glass. “To Dove, a lady good enough for the name brand GYNAZULE®, even if there is a generic choice.”

When he dropped her off after dinner, Dove invited Johnson up to her apartment for a nightcap. And by a nightcap, she meant screaming, slobbery, hard monkey sex.

She should wait. Preserve some of the mystery of her woman parts. But hell, he was looking like that, hot damn, if he was taking, she was putting it out. All of it.

As she walked past Duke’s door, she was a little sad to see it closed. She wanted to thank the big jerk. There was a note tacked to it, which she was intent on rushing Johnson by. God knows what little ditty Duke deemed important enough to write down. But she saw her name and curiosity got the best of her.

He’d eliminated the only concern she had for her freaky sexcapades with Johnson. Steve the Cat would stomp any man’s sex drive to death with his antics. He also hated pounding orbs; the sight of a rhythmic ass would likely send him into a tailspin. Literally. He really would spin around on his creepy tail.

Dove held out a hand to Johnson, and he took it—not because they were fleeing a fire and not because she was holding a million dollars. He took her hand to wrap his fingers around hers.

His long, long fingers.

Her knees went a little watery. Johnson placed a hand on her lower back to steady her. Her ass went a little watery. The trip up her stairs took longer than Ulysses on his epic journey. Johnson took the keys from her hand and opened her door.

The door swung open to reveal—not a dragon, not a ninja orgy—but a couch and beyond that, a bedroom.

Johnson and I are going to have sex. Lots of sex. With any hole I can aim in the right direction, his dick is going to be in there.

Dove looked around her apartment. Sex could happen anywhere in here.

Johnson closed the door behind her, and before she could turn around and make stupid talk, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest.

Dove tried to grope him with her back while he nibbled her ear. She gyrated her shoulder blades and tried to turn them into massaging pinchers.

Johnson’s voice was eardrum-blasting loud in her hearing hole. “EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?”

Dove’s brain quivered with the invasion of the noise. “Yes. Yes, Johnson, yes.”

He went on to nibble her neck. It was time to have a pep talk with her body.

Okay, asshole, you might get some. You might have a pussy that gets pounded until it starts pounding back! So straighten up and fly right. Think porny thoughts, say porny things, and at all times, for fuck’s sake, be sexy.

The best she could do was grab his arm, but she did it with gusto. Now that she was thinking about it, though, she realized almost all of her porn knowledge came from glimpses of Duke’s horrible TV.

Shit.

Dove moaned theatrically.

Johnson detangled his arm and stepped gently around her. “Dove, are you sure I should be here? I mean, we’re unsupervised and you did meet me on the Twitter. What will all your male followers say now?” Johnson smiled, but there was a small twinkle of uncertainty in his eyes.

He’s jealous? He’s jealous!

Dove walked straight to her computer and logged onto Twitter. @Lotsa_Vampersex’s reliable homepage appeared. Her computer chair moved a bit as Johnson leaned on the back of it to watch what she was doing.

“Seeing Lotsa from this side is very sexy.” Johnson’s voice was lower than usual. Almost buttery.

If you’re butter, my cooter is hot bread.

She was smiling as she typed her next words.

Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):

Sorry, boys. I’ve found a man, so I’m officially off the market.

She heard Johnson digging in his pocket, and moments later, he was texting on his phone. On the monitor, she could see the reflection of his wild hair just behind her.

She checked her replies. There were a few men cussing her out and calling her a cock tease. Her followers dropped by fifty. She clicked her replies again. There was one from Johnson.

Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

@Lotsa_Vampersex That man would love a kiss.

Dove snickered and quickly retweeted Johnson’s message to everyone. Then she tipped her head backward to see him. The look on his face was pure sweetness.

“Thank you for doing that.” Johnson reached down and moved Dove’s hair. He tried to lean in for a kiss but his neck was not nearly long enough. He spun the computer chair quickly and Dove’s knees smashed into his. They both cursed.

Johnson was quite tame with his. “Damn it!”

Dove’s curse was more colorful. “Hairy monkey taking it up the ass!”

Johnson’s eyes went wide. Dove clapped a hand over her mouth before Johnson let loose with the deepest, most sincere laughter. Soon, she was giggling along; his emotion was contagious.

Finally, Johnson was able to comment. “If we’re ever experiencing road rage together, you’re in charge of the swearing.”

He moved closer and leaned in for the kiss he’d wanted earlier. Kisses that danced with smiles tasted amazing. He stroked her face like she was necessary to his hands.

Dove looked down, her eyes filling up at his gentle touch. He was everything she could have ever wanted.

“What’s wrong, Dove? Am I doing something that makes you uncomfortable? I won’t know unless you tell me.” Johnson took to one knee and grabbed her hand. She managed to not let any tears fall, but she wasn’t nearly confident enough to make words yet. Johnson lifted her hands and kissed her knuckles. “Do you need me to leave? Is this too much, too soon? I’m afraid I can screw things up royally, and I just want to make you happy.”

Dove still couldn’t trust herself to speak without blubbering. But she could kiss. Not Lotsa, not a dressed-up weirdo. Just Dove. She pulled her hand from its sweet prison and touched his face. She leaned in to kiss him, and instead of worrying about which way her nose was pointing, if her armpits were sweating, or if there was a funky taste in her mouth left over from dinner, she thought about lips and touch and kissing. When Johnson moaned, Dove felt so powerful she could have head-butted a dinosaur to death. Instead, she put a hand on his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. Johnson pulled away from their kiss and watched her eyes as she moved to the second button.

She had a desperate need to see his nipples. It was invasive and open, looking into his tender eyes while she uncovered his chest hair. And if he had been a man-hair farmer, he would have been a millionaire.

But there were no little tiny combines or tractors, just fluffy brown hair swirling around like it was constantly having its own party. When she finished unbuttoning his shirt, she parted it so she could see his God-given nipples.

And then there they were. Puckered and pink—dots of passion in an ocean of curls. She wanted to fulfill her fantasy and chew them like bubble gum. They were mesmerizing her. Left nipple. Right nipple. Left nipple.

Right nipple. Together nipples.

OH MY GOD!

“Dove, when you look scared like that, you worry me. Say something. Is this okay?” Johnson was sweet—again—like his hairy chest was an offensive dog load she had stepped in.

She swallowed hard. “No, it’s just that your nipples make my tongue go fat and numb.” Her fingers pinched the air instead of the little bits of skin she desired. “Your nipples are like Novocain.”

“You’re at a distinct advantage because I have no idea what controlled substance your nipples are like.” He ran his tongue across his top teeth.

Nipples, nipples, nipples.

Dove stood, leaving Johnson in his kneeling position. She reached behind her and miraculously found the zipper pull. Of course, the disengaging zipper made a loud farting sound as she pulled it down. Dove soldiered through it, letting the black dress turn into a perfect circular stage for her high heels. She stood in her apartment, showing her wares to her potential genital banger. Her boobs felt the air and advertised the temperature quickly.

Johnson was perfectly lined up to get a face full of tit. And that’d be very sexy. Dove stepped forward until his gorgeous face was PAC-MAN-ed into her cleavage. She needed to kick up the seduction, so she shook her shoulders, fully intending to softly graze his face with her breasts.

Underestimating the weight and pendulousness of her tits, Dove managed to double tit-chop Johnson’s regal, prepossessing nose. His eyes rolled into his head as he sat back on his heels, reeling from the painful blows.

Crap a lotta dingdongs. Fuck a shitball. I broke his nose with my funbags!

“Oh my God! Johnson, did I break your nose?” Dove tried to cover her nose-crackers with one arm and waved another useless, frantic hand near his personal space.

Johnson’s voice was now not only loud, but clogged-sounding. “I’m fine. Really. It might be a bloody nose. Do you have any ice?”

Dove ran over to the icebox and pulled out a bag of 154-year-old peas. She didn’t know why they were even in there; she never ate peas. Johnson gratefully took the bag and placed it on the bridge of his nose. He did indeed have a bloody nose, so Dove went back into the kitchen for some paper towels.

Should I put a shirt on? Does that say ‘The slutwagon is out of gas.’? Am I a horrible human for thinking about whether or not he will still ride me like a donkey up to the Himalayas?

Dove had no idea where the socially acceptable place was to put her boobs. She decided to just cover them with her arms and sat on the sofa. “I’m so sorry about your nose.”

Johnson had crawled to her computer chair and used the tilt feature to lean backward. He was holding his nose with pressure, as he should. He was also making horrendous mucus-clearing noises.

“Should I get you like a spittoon or something?” As she offered, she got to thinking.

What the hell is a spittoon? I’m pretty sure “Tupperware” is “spittoon” in another language; I’ll just use one of those.

“No, don’t. I’ll be okay in a minute.” Johnson tried to give her a sexy look past the wad of paper towels and the pea bag.

Dove looked at her knees. She decided it was awkward to be half naked with the object of her passion wincing in pain.

“Let me just go in the bathroom and take a look at it. I’ll be right back.” Johnson stood and headed for the hallway. Before he passed her, he stopped and tried to make eye contact in his peripheral vision. “Understand this: In my head, I’m having a lot of sex with you.”

She beamed at him. With that one sentence, he had righted her world on its axis. Despite his injury and her marauding tits, he still wanted to part her curtains of wonder with his majestic lance. Soon after Johnson had closed the door for privacy, there was a knock on her front door.

Oh, great! It’s probably God, here to suck Johnson out of my life like a giant vacuum.

Dove grabbed the afghan she’d knit last year and covered herself. She peeped through the harbinger of doom hole and got a fish-eye view of Duke. He was wearing just his dick cast, which was complemented gaggingly by what looked like two applesauce cups.

She had a choice to make—ignore Duke and pretend he would go away or answer the goddamned door. If she ignored the knocking, she knew from past experience that Duke would start singing and making ass prints on her door.

Shit! What if Johnson decides to open the door? Would he understand that Duke probably felt like he was appropriately dressed?

Dove made her decision and stepped into the hallway.

“Make it quick, skin tag; Johnson’s in the bathroom.” Dove nodded in his direction, encouraging him to get to a point… just like his dick.

Duke looked quickly to his left, as if he couldn’t stand to see her wrapped in a blanket. He blew out a frustrated breath.

“Please tell me you aren’t bare-assed under there.” He wouldn’t look at her.

“Dude, you’re not actually wearing anything that anyone considers clothes. Plaster and plastic over your nuts don’t count.” Dove put her hand on her doorknob.

“Wait! I’m here for a reason. I forgot to grab Steve’s food but never mind! I’ll just chew up some Slim Jims and regurgitate them into his mouth like a mama bird.” Duke turned from her and headed away. He didn’t even do the ass-cheek dance, which was odd.

“Hey.” Dove didn’t have to say it loud—the hallway was quiet. “Thanks for taking Steve and taking care of me at Olive Garden.”

Duke looked over his shoulder and nodded once. He was so serious; it was almost as if he was actually wearing clothes. “Yeah, anytime, Crappo.”

“Just wait, I’ll get you the food. Steve gets the shits from processed meats.” She couldn’t take her eyes from his blue ones. She could swear she saw regret in them. “Do you have gas or something? Why are you looking at me like that?” Dove shifted and pulled her blanket tighter around her body.

Duke turned around and pointed at her with his cast. “Yeah, I have a shit ton of gas bubbles. For the record…”

There was a pause. Dove was trying to give Duke her attention, but she was listening for the telltale squeak of the bathroom door as well. Duke seemed to stall in his brain, as though he was going to tell her something of dire importance.

“Yes?” She sighed with aggravation. This apartment building was like a cork in her cooter. She would never get any solid man meat with all these nimrods banging on her door.

“The next time you bust out of the house, grab a different blanket because your titties are popping out those huge holes.” Duke pointed at one nipple with his dick and the other with his middle finger.

“Great. Because this happens to me all the damn time.” Dove shuffled her blanket to cover her mam-animals. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back with Steve’s food.”

When her boobs were facing the door, she looked over her shoulder. “But really, thanks. If a meteor busted through this building and ended me right now, I would die a happy lady. Tonight has been the most amazing night of my life. I owe that to you, D.”

She didn’t wait for his reply, just snuck back into the apartment, leaving the door open a crack. Johnson was walking out of the bathroom with two long toilet paper tusks coming out of his nostrils, stemming the flow of blood, no doubt.

“Who’s at the door?” Johnson asked.

Dove closed one eye as she responded with the truth. “Duke needed Steve’s food. He’s a nightmare when he doesn’t get his noms.”

“Noms?” Johnson was smiling behind his toilet paper.

“You know… The internet? NOMNOMNOM. Steve has his noms.” Dove shrugged and went to the kitchen to get the bag.

Johnson took the food from her as she entered the living room. “It’s okay; I’ll bring it out to him.”

Shit.

“Great, thanks. That’s going to be awesome.” Dove bit her lip as Johnson entered the hallway, closing her apartment door soundly behind him.

Oh God. Please come back, Johnson. Please let Duke have put on some miraculous, self-appearing clothes.

Duke stood like a tremendous fuck knob, waiting for Dove to reappear. He didn’t tell her he had plenty of left over kitten and cat food from Debra Anastasia’s crazy catnappings. He was a sadist for coming up here and trying to stop her from screwing the pharmacist.

Then she’d just totally sliced his evil plan down to size with one glance and her goddamn happiness. And now he was naked in the hallway, waiting for cat food he didn’t need. The only thing keeping him planted was the hopes that she would somehow change her mind, take his dick in her hands like a joystick, and run away with him to his apartment—which wasn’t very freaking likely.

Even worse than Dove not running away with him was the appearance of Pretty Boy holding the cat food. Except Pretty Boy had what looked like tissue boogers.

Johnson looked Duke up and down and grimaced. “Seriously, dude. They make pants that can cover that situation.”

“Oh, thanks. Thanks a bunch. I didn’t fucking know that.” Duke stepped up to Johnson and really, really wished he had pants on.

He snatched the bag and wanted to storm away, except he was more covered from the front than he was from the back.

“Just so you know, it’s not cool for you to come up here looking like that in front of my lady.” Johnson leaned against Dove’s door like he was paying rent for it.

Duke was surprised his anger didn’t launch his dick cast at Johnson like a missile. All he wanted to say, though, he had to swallow.

“Where were you when your whore ex-girlfriend cornered your lady in the crapper?” tasted particularly foul.

Instead, Duke nodded. He spun on his heel and cracked out a fart that jiggled his cheeks. He couldn’t put clothes on his ass, but he could add some visual stimulation.

By the time he got back to his place Steve had already finished eating his noms, as Dove called it. “Did you NOMinate yourself, Freak Show?”

Steve stood on his back paws and weaved like a frat guy on Friday night. The cat opened its little cat mouth and let out a burp.

“Wow, Furballs, you’ve got some mad skills.” Duke clicked his tongue while he watched Dove’s less exciting pussy.

Whether it was being in a new place, or the nickname “Furballs”—he was already neutered—Steve became angry. At Duke. And so Duke’s night began. Steve the Cat chased his pet sitter around his abode with the tremendous gusto that can only be achieved from being stone cold crazy.

Nipples. Dove had them. Johnson had them. And Dove truly wanted to know if a fire would start in her coochie if his nips and her nips touched. She was pretty sure it would be just like using jumper cables on a car. Her pussy was ready to turn over and flood for him.

Johnson had taken the time to set up a romantic playlist on YouTube and logged in to let the music saturate the air. As it turned out, Johnson’s idea of sexy was R&B from the eighties. Dove didn’t give a rat’s ass hair about what was playing; she was going to get to see Johnson’s dick. He could’ve set the evening to the soundtrack of a sad clown crying while it drowned and Dove would find it titillating.

God, I hate clowns.

The lazy balloon clown filled her mind with his scary face. She had the chills just thinking of it.

Dove had dropped the blanket as soon as Johnson had walked back into the apartment. She wanted him to remember the sex and maybe, just maybe, wash some of the Duke out of Johnson’s head with her girly beanbags.

Johnson crossed the space with an extra cheesy shuffle-side step, dancing to Barry White. It had worked. At least, he was doing the fifty-five-year-old man dancing that seemed to indicate he was ready for love.

And Dove was going to love the hell out of him. If she had her way, they’d have so much sex they would wear his penis down to a nub. And if his penis was one of those nubbly dicks, she would screw his fingers instead—because they were longer than some actual man salamis. And if for some reason that didn’t work, Dove would hump a vegetable from her fridge while he watched or supplied the ranch dressing. She was going to hump something tonight, no matter what.

God, I’m so selfish. He’s recovering from an injury I gave him. Dear God.

Dove was twirling in her panty- and-tit ensemble in Johnson’s arms, so she gave herself a pass for her horny-morny thoughts. Finally Johnson stopped dancing her around like they were at the 1987 senior prom and pulled his nose plugs out one at a time—stripper slow.

He pointed to his nostril. “Is it bleeding anymore?”

Dove walked closer and let her nipples touch his tempting chest hair. She peered up his nose.

Fuck, even his nose hair is sexy.

“You’re good! Again with the sorry and the ‘Oh my God, I’m an asshole.’” Dove touched his cheeks. He had a bit of five o’clock shadow. Her pussy lips wanted to crawl out of her waistband and take over for her hands.

“There’s a way you could make it up to me.” Johnson leaned down and smiled closer to her face.

Breathe on me. Oh God, I think I could hump his breath and work up a blistering orgasm.

Johnson took her hand and kissed it again. Even with her boobs inches from his mouth, he was treating her like a lady. A pretty, desirable lady.

In Dove’s head, she was a monster. A clubfooted, two ass-cracked thing to be dealt with, to be a nice substitute for one of those more successful girls. Girls who didn’t crap their pants. Girls who didn’t drink soda super fast and try to talk to their cats in burps. And yet, when he opened her bedroom door, he didn’t take off running or throw himself out her window as though he were on fire.

The window was already open, and there was a cool breeze that filled the room with the scent of the clean night and the screaming of the crickets or cicadas or whatever those goddamned bugs were that blew their lungs out at night. Or they rubbed their legs together.

Oh my God, who cares? Johnson is in my bedroom!

Dove wanted to do the nipple touching. It’d be like E.T. and his phone home, except it was sexual and today—and she didn’t look like E.T. Well, maybe her pussy looked a little like E.T. A patchy-haired E.T., who had his head tilted, asking something in his creepy grandma voice. Dove shook herself mentally, physically, and verbally. “My coochie doesn’t have a grandma voice.”

Johnson looked puzzled. “I should hope not because if she starts talking when I’m licking her, I may cry.”

Dove’s brain burst. Popped like potatoes in the microwave. His pie hole smashed up in her lady business made her heart want to hump her liver.

It’s going to be an organ humpfest.

Dove ripped her panties off her body like the Hulk and threw them in the corner.

“Wow. That was the sexiest damn thing.” Johnson advanced on her and kissed her lips while backing her up to the bed. He grabbed her by her armpits and tossed her onto her bed. She narrowly missed bonking the bejesus out of her head on the headboard. She didn’t care if she was dead, her pussy would become a zombie and hump Johnson anyway—such was Dove’s intense, focused desire.

She was still alive, so that was a bonus—a huge, huge bonus—as Johnson was licking his way up her leg, which was thankfully shaved. When he got to her inner thigh, she was screaming his name repeatedly, loudly, and endlessly. As he laughed into her muff, she died. She orgasmed thinking about the orgasm she was going to experience. The second his tongue parted her need, she thrashed so much he had to hold her legs down so she wouldn’t injure him.

She went from screaming his name to saying “nipples” like a prayer. Suddenly he stopped all motion, and Dove felt fear crawl up the side of her bed and slap her in the teeth.

Crap. I sound like a loon. Maybe my pussy smells like a shrimp’s dead cousin.

She let her fighting legs go slack.

“Dove, gorgeous, you need to calm down. I’m having trouble getting in there.” Johnson was delightfully rumpled. The lights in her bedroom were on, and she looked down at her body, splayed out like she was about to have surgery. Heaving, sweaty surgery. She didn’t see anything perfect. Her boobs were sliding into her armpits. Her thighs seemed four times their normal size. Her stomach pooched out a bit where she wished it would concave like all the girls in the magazines. Her feet even looked out of place.

Oh my God, why do I even have feet? They’re so ugly. They are like spiders hacked in half and soldered onto the ends of my legs.

“I’m sorry. I suck. Getting romantic with me must be like trying to mount a werewolf.” She tried to pull her bedspread over her offending parts.

He smiled. “I don’t know where you come up with this stuff, but for the record, dogs have never turned me on. I just need you to try to hang on while I do what I have to do down here.”

Was he going to Lysol it? Take samples for science? Oh shit.

“If you keep screaming like that, I’m going to come in my pants. I haven’t done that since high school, so please, let me try to be a man here.” Johnson put a hand on the stomach that she’d detested seconds ago and traced a finger from her belly button to the top of her entire freaking world.

She did her best, really she did, but the sensations were too intense. He was amazing at what he was doing, which was wonderful, and he looked damn good doing it, too. At one point he hooked her leg over his shoulder and named every single part of her genitalia. Then he highlighted them with his tongue or finger.

“The vagina connects the superficial vulva to the cervix.” He was using a very professorial voice, and Dove wanted to throw her boobs from her body in the fervor he was causing. “During sexual arousal, particularly the stimulation of the clitoris, the walls of the vagina self-lubricate.” Johnson used two deep fingers to illustrate this particular point.

Finally, when she knew more about her own vagina then she ever needed to, Johnson stood on her bed. He was lucky her ceiling fan wasn’t on or he would have been decapitated.

I’d just keep his face in my underwear forever. Silence of the Lambs can suck my ass.

Johnson began undressing while bouncing lightly. He took his shirt off, and soon enough, his sex fingers were at his motherfucking pants. He unzipped, and the noise caused a sexual seizure to overwhelm Dove. She writhed and made noises she didn’t know her throat could make. Porn stars had nothing on Dove. She wanted this man in her body more than air, more than gravity, more than… God, anything. She couldn’t even focus on his old-man boxers because a sizable, pretty dick popped out. Stared her right in the face.

“Well, hello, ginormous friend.” Dove scrambled to her knees, thankful her body wasn’t too noodley to hold herself upright.

She took his Peter Pecker in her mouth. And it was hotter than a burrito fresh from the oven. She glanced up at his beautiful face, determined to enjoy every damn thing about this moment. He had such a passionate look on his face; she would have smiled if her mouth wasn’t full. But it was.

Johnson’s nacho grande was a glorious meal. Dove never wanted to take his dick out of her mouth. She wondered if she could get a replica made and use it like a pacifier. She began to hum. Johnson, when he was intensely aroused, seemed to have a tendency to bounce on his toes. Soon enough they were doing a synchronized, hopping, blowjob Bed Capades.

She pulled herself reluctantly from her favorite new suck toy. “Hotness, I’m afraid I’ll bite your dick off if we keep this up. I’m not that coordinated.”

Johnson shook his head and blushed.

Oh my God, he blushed! Fuck me.

“I’m such a jerk. You must think I’m the biggest nerd. Who recites anatomy lessons and jumps on the bed during sex?” He ran his marathon-length fingers through his messy hair.

Dove stood on the bed, finding herself in the unbelievable position of boosting his self-esteem. She grabbed his nipples so he would listen to her. Once she had his green eyes locked on hers, she tried her best.

“You do, Johnson Fitzwell. You drive me crazy with your brain and your bouncing and your gusto. Maybe we can just both let go and have crazy sex. How about that?” Dove kissed his lips.

He nodded and kneeled, pulling her down with him. And now it was on! Like ping pong, Donkey Kong, and everything else that rhymes with dong.

They didn’t try to please each other anymore; they both had needs that had to be met. Kissing, touching, and exploring brought them both to the brink. Johnson stopped the show briefly to get a condom from his pants pocket.

God bless rubber.

When he dived into her patchy haired hole, she shouted his name, God’s name, and embarrassingly, “Big Daddy.”

Johnson seemed to have a playbook memorized. He mumbled things like, “Pleasure, apply pressure, female gratification.” And bent her legs to accomplish some pretty spectacular sexual Twister poses. One in particular had Dove ratcheted up like a street dancer with twenty years’ experience. Her legs were crisscrossed on Johnson’s shoulders. Johnson was bent at the knees, resembling an awkward frog stance.

He looked into her eyes. “This one is supposed to tickle your G-spot.”

Then that sexy man got to hammering. So damn fast, in fact, that at first, Dove tried not to laugh. Because, dear God, he did look like a frog. That turned into squealing because in his haste, he was hitting the wrong hole every third thrust.

Before she could articulate that she wasn’t ready for anal, he was back in her vagina, feeling awesome. And then bam! Back in her turd tube!

“Johnson! Stop. Jesus!” Dove hated to throw a wrench in his carefully laid out plan. He was trying so hard, but her butt was nowhere near ready for that show.

Dove started out-and-out laughing at their accidental anal. It had been like “Wow! Wow! Shit!” and was cracking her up. But laughing at a dude who was intensely interested in giving her pleasure was not a good move.

He apologized profusely. “I knew that frog position was too freaky. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that, Johnson. Did you notice that like every third thrust I was like a virgin? That was my asshole.” Dove put a hand on his shoulder.

“Great. I gave you unwanted anal. That’s what I get for reading all those sexual expertise books. I just wanted to be memorable for you. Different. And now I am for all the wrong reasons.” Johnson put his hands uselessly on his legs.

They both stared at his prominent erection. It was like the flag on the moon, weirdly out of place in the sad conversation.

“First, the fact that you read up on positions is adorable. Second,”—she tilted his face with her finger—“this is the best night of my life. I have you here with that.” She pointed to his penis. “Everything is right in my world. Now lay back, let me go crazy on that hunk of man meat until it melts.”

Johnson smiled a little and did as he was told. Dove slipped him inside her preferred hole and began rocking, staring at his devastatingly good-looking face. He bit his lip. And his knowledgeable hand found the spot she needed pressure on. Her clit. And he pressed it.

She rode harder, forgetting she was a jerk in her own head and letting this man’s pleasure be her gold medal. As she moved faster, he needed to provide his own friction. He held her hips and met her over and over with his counter thrusts. Her body temperature was so high that she was sweating. The whole room rustled as a cool wind blew through her window. Dove had goose bumps as she came loudly, pounding gently on his chest and almost crying with the release and the beauty of this moment with him. He was coming, as well, with so much pleasure it sounded like pain. She panted as the breeze blew her hair all around her face. Johnson sat up, still joined with her, and moved her hair from her face. They both had a chill and cuddled close.

“Thank you, Dove. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful then you on top of me, teaching me to let go.” Johnson smiled and kissed her again.

The world can go ahead and blow up right now; I’m already in heaven.

Bitchy, hairy, monkey tits.

Duke was out of breath. His apartment was not nearly big enough for the laps he was running. Steve the Cat was still full of spunk.

He’d been able to dress, grabbing clothes as he passed his dresser and locking himself in his bathroom. But as soon as he had a craving for a snack, he had to face the clawed nimrod. After snagging a handful of Slim Jims, he was out the door in a flash.

Stupid Johnson’s car was still fucking here. Which meant he was either dead or still getting it on with Dove. Duke wished he were a smoker. He would look so cool puffing out here in the dark. He looked at the Slim Jim and got an idea.

He could be like a movie star, like Marlon Brando. He walked over to Dove’s car, and it was predictably open. He tried to ignore the fact that it smelled like her. Everyone that lived in the building had a stash of something in Dove’s car. Shannon had her backup CD of “Tik Tok”; Duke had condoms, socks, and a stick of deodorant; and Flower had a Christmas-themed tin can with various shit in it.

Duke was looking for something in particular, so he opened Flower’s can and found it. He cringed at the rest of the weird, nonsensical collection in the can.

Flower’s a freak show with her own curtain and stage lights.

He walked under the overhang from the roof of the building as a gentle mist dusted the night with tiny fucking droplets of water.

He unwrapped his Slim Jim and engaged Flower’s lighter. If he couldn’t have a cigarette, he would smoke his Slim Jim. While he waited for the end to glow red, he tried to ignore the sound of music and voices falling from Dove’s open window. The noises kept hitting him like a sledgehammer right on top of his heart.

His sweatpants were getting damp from the shitty weather. The pharmacist was right; he could fit them on despite his injury. Duke had left his cast and cups poking out of the top of the waistband just to prove he didn’t have to listen to that ass chump.

He might’ve stopped trying to light up the meat if he hadn’t been paralyzed by the sound of Dove’s excited, obviously aroused voice. The dirty part of him wanted to stay and listen. His Johnson filled up all the extra space in his cast and then some. His pecker was like a caterpillar getting ready to bust out with some hot-ass butterfly wings.

“Johnson! God! Big Daddy!”

Argh, fuck me.

Now he knew what she sounded like when she was having sex, and that was going to fucking haunt him. Yet, he stood there like a schlong dumpster, listening to their sexcapades. There was starting and stopping and apologizing.

The man—the one Duke desperately wished were him—loudly offered, “This one is supposed to tickle your G-spot.”

“Asshole,” Duke murmured under his breath.

Duke noticed his Slim Jim was all melty and lava-like. It wouldn’t even start a fire.

“Johnson! Stop. Jesus!”

Duke tensed his whole body. He would kill Johnson if he hurt her. He’d kill him dead with this fucking Slim Jim. Before the adrenaline rush could force him up the stairs like a bat out of hell, he heard her distinct laughter.

Yes! She’s laughing at him!

He was betting Johnson’s dick was tiny or he had a weird body malfunction. Then he shook his head. Dove would never make fun of someone like that. Well, except for the clown she hated at the park and the guy who ran the hot dog cart and served those delicious hot dogs.

Johnson’s voice carried across the parking lot with the volume of a person trapped in a burning building. “I knew that frog position was too freaky. I’m sorry.”

Duke actually did laugh a little with Dove.

Then he heard her sweet, feminine voice explaining the problem, “It’s not that, Johnson. Did you notice that like every third thrust I was like a virgin? That was my asshole.”

Duke smiled and felt like crying. He’d never stuff her backdoor by mistake. The fucking pharmacist sounded like an amateur. He wanted to listen to the rest of the conversation and maybe hear the dude leave so he could go up there and show Dove what a real man could do. Before he could, he noticed there was smoke coming up from his Slim Jim.

Excellent! I can smoke it!

Upon closer inspection, he realized the hot meat had been dripping like a melting candle. The cast material, unlike the Slim Jim casing, was extremely flammable.

His dick cast went from “smoking” to “on fire” in a blink. Duke stared at it stupidly. It was like a dream come true. Every man pictured his penis like a superhero. His looked spectacular. Super Dick: flaming, erect, and proud. Briefly, he pictured a cape on it, with matching spandex Ballssiere®.

Except it was getting crazy warm. Duke got scared and jumped forward into the rain. He leaned backward so his cast would get wet. The rain was pitiful, and all it did was make the fire angrier. The drops of rain that did hit his cast made an alarming sizzle and sent up a small stream of smoke.

Duke ran around in a circle. He knew he should “stop, drop, and roll,” but firefighters had no tips for an erect dick on fire.

He had a feeling if he landed facedown on this Bad Larry, it would be “Pop, cock, and drool.”

Soon, he felt someone stop his spinning. Debra Anastasia was dressed like a French maid, complete with long, yellow rubber gloves. She reached down, fearlessly grabbed his dick cast, and ripped it from his body. As she flung the flaming dressing into the parking lot, Duke felt instant relief.

Mr. Anastasia came bounding out in a suit, armed with a fire extinguisher. He unloaded the entire contents on top of the cast and applesauce cups. The pile looked depressingly small when it was far from Duke’s body. Debra Anastasia got on her knees and inspected his damage. He felt like a rock star until Mr. Anastasia did the same, and together the couple analyzed his genitals.

Mr. Anastasia nodded appreciatively. “Dude, you haven’t got one burn. Those cups you rigged are super impressive.”

Debra and Mr. Anastasia began talking to each other animatedly.

The woman smiled. “I’d love to see you in a set of those cups, honey.”

The man bit his lip and growled. Duke slid his sweatpants over his junk. The porn writer and her husband began making out, so Duke took a step back.

From his new spot, he could see into Dove’s apartment. The lights were blazing like they were having a party for a hundred people, but it was just the two of them. Johnson was cuddling Dove, who was straddling him, naked.

He had to get inside. He needed to be away from the sight of her in another man’s arms. The Anastasias followed him and launched into a full recap of his penis rescue as though he hadn’t been there.

“We were acting out a scene for my next book, and Mr. Anastasia had me pressed against the window when we saw you going up in flames!” Debra Anastasia patted his shoulder.

“So why did you light your dick on fire? Ritual killing?” Mr. Anastasia walked into Duke’s apartment and found ice in the freezer.

Duke put his hand to his face. “No, just a mistake.”

Debra Anastasia sat on the floor, and Steve the Cat walked up to her like he wasn’t a murderer stuffed in a tiny, fuzzy body.

“Aw. I bet he likes girls because vaginas smell like tuna.”

Mr. Anastasia threw a bagful of ice in Duke’s direction. He caught it and slid it down his pants. It felt great. Too bad there was no way to put ice on his heart, because it hurt a whole lot more than his dick.

Mr. Anastasia, who never said much, piped up again. “I have to say, Duke, those nut cups are very intriguing. Have you thought about working up a more permanent prototype?”

“The Ballssiere®? Yeah. I’ve been researching a patent on the internet.” Duke looked at his open door. He wanted Johnson to leave; every second Dove was in the pharmacist’s arms felt like torment.

Debra Anastasia laughed as the cat licked her cleavage. “You know, I was thinking you could design the cups to service different testicular needs—like bras. A demi-Ballssiere® could provide a little jiggle and lift. You could even have a little extra padding for when men go to the beach and want to look a bit more impressive.”

Mr. Anastasia found some paper and a pen and started sketching. Duke added a thought or two but couldn’t get as excited about his new invention as he wanted to. He just chewed on a toothpick to prevent his mind from racing.

After a few hours of composing jingles and sketches, The Anastasias finally said good-bye. Debra Anastasia begged Duke to let her take Steve the Cat until the morning. She had some fresh tuna for him, and after tempting him with all her luscious odors, she felt it was only right.

Duke called to Mr. Anastasia after his bride had already ascended the stairs. “Hey! What happened to Mrs. Duffington?”

“Oh, she’s upstairs on our guest chaise longue. The missus loves her readers, even the ones that are bonkers.” Mr. Anastasia walked closer with his words.

Duke held out his hand for a shake, and Mr. Anastasia responded with gusto.

“Thanks again for handling my dick.” As he smiled at his neighbor, Duke noticed Johnson coming down the stairs.

Mr. Anastasia turned to leave, waving. “No problem. I try to treat every man’s dick like I would my own.”

Duke leaned against his door, arms crossed.

Johnson looked pleased and nodded when he saw Duke. “Didn’t know it was like that for you. Guess I don’t have anything to worry about, huh?” Johnson tilted his head in Mr. Anastasia’s direction. Then Duke watched as Johnson’s eyes flitted to his incriminating man love TV.

Duke ran the conversation Johnson had overheard through his mind.

Oh. Johnnie boy thinks I’m gay.

“Running out so soon? Not man enough to hold your lady until morning?” Duke looked Johnson up and down like he was trash.

Johnson squinted his eyes. “I knew you had a thing for her. So I guess you’re not gay, after all.”

“Not today, I’m not. If I had her, she would wake up in my arms tomorrow. But I’m not a pussy.” Duke made a fist and rubbed it lovingly with his other hand.

The threat was there. Competition was layered thick with promise between the two men in the hallway. They continued to stare menacingly into each other’s eyes as Dove trotted down the steps with a huge smile.

“Oh good, you’re still here. You almost forgot your jacket.” Dove held it out to Johnson as he welcomed her with a one-armed hug.

Duke flicked his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, watching as Johnson deliberately tilted Dove’s chin up for a kiss. She happily complied and even moaned a bit. Duke finally broke eye contact with Johnson, letting him have the moment. He hated that her desire made his dick feel like it was burning all over again.

“Well, thank you so much, beautiful Dove.” He kissed her forehead as well. Johnson spoke to Duke, who glared back. “You know, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Dove was confused and looked from one man to the other.

Johnson took her hand and led her to the front door. “Stay here so you don’t have to get wet.”

Duke wished he didn’t have to hear her spicy reply.

“I’m already wet.” And then she giggled as if she was naked with Johnson in bed again.

Fuck.

She sighed as Johnson drove away.

She turned to talk to Duke. “Hey, you survived Steve. Congrats. Where’s your dick cast?”

He wanted to be angry with her for picking Johnson instead of him, but he couldn’t. She had a dopey smile on her face, and she was asking about his penis.

“I think your boyfriend just ran over it. I accidentally lit it on fire with a Slim Jim. Steve’s licking Debra Anastasia’s tuna upstairs.” He looked at his feet.

She was wearing her stupid reindeer robe, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips looked like they’d been thoroughly kissed. She wasn’t making this easy.

“Well, thanks. I’ll let her keep him until morning.” Dove pushed past Duke and got herself a soda out of his fridge.

He didn’t want to tell her to leave, but having her here was killing him.

Her cell phone sounded, and she dug it out of her robe pocket. He was going to make fun of her for carrying it around but just changed his mind when her face fell.

“What?” Duke sat next to her on the couch.

“Nothing; it’s fine,” she replied as she looked at her Twitter feed.

After the phone beeped again, she shook her head and looked like she was going to cry.

“Will you tell me already?” Duke didn’t put her in a headlock like he normally would have.

She rubbed her forehead in frustration. “Well, Johnson just tweeted that he’s almost home, but he wanted to let me know he’s going to be busy all weekend.”

Pansy-ass pus blob.

“Okay. So what?” Duke had to refrain from telling her Johnson was a pube wad.

“Well then in the next tweet, he tells me, ‘I meant to mention that I have to attend an event with Beth. I hope that’s okay?’ What am I supposed to say? No? I mean, I know we’re new, but attending an event with Beth? Really? Telling me on Twitter? Really?” Her eyes filled with tears.

Duke shook his head and spit out his toothpick. He cuddled Dove to his chest as she started to sniffle.

I’m going to kill that douchebag.

Coming Winter 2015

Dove smeared some sad snot on Duke's t-shirt. She pushed herself up to sitting position using his stomach as leverage. His abs were insane. And that creeped Dove out. It was like seeing a Ken doll but with a huge, disgusting set of balls and a hairy asscrack.

Dove slumped into her posture like a boneless chicken.

Fuck sitting up. Fuck everything. Fuck the pharmacist.

Holy hairy eyeballs, I wish I were fucking the pharmacist.

Duke was talking, and she didn't have the energy to try and translate his man-words into something that made any sense. Nine times out of ten if she responded, "Burned sausage is a sin," he would guess she was paying attention.

She heard her name and lolled her face in his direction. He reached up and pushed a lock of her sex hair away from her face.

She sneered like he was wearing a dog shit insignia ring. His thick finger yanked on a knot. A fuck knot. From the fucking. Sigh.

"Ouch," Dove said without any enthusiasm.

Duke pulled his meaty phalange from her follicles. And soon, he jerked her off his couch and pulled her back up the stairs. To the sex apartment. The dead sex apartment. She bet it smelled like ass and victory in there. Duke opened her door and yup--it did smell like The Braveheart of the gluteus muscles.

"So. You want to come?" Duke was hopping all around looking nervous and alert.

I came so hard last night I burst blood vessels around my eyes. Stupid pharmacist and his knowledge of womanly parts.

"No." Dove didn't want to go anywhere.

She wanted to lie around in her Reindeer robe until it fell off of her. She never wanted to shower again so she could always have this fresh-from-the-bodily-juices-of-Johnson feeling. She wanted to check her teeth for pubic hair. She finally acknowledged somewhere in her head that Duke was not, in fact, talking about spiced meat.

"I always add a guest when I RSVP to a wedding. That way: two meals. You'll have to share your entrée with me unless it's veal. I don't trust veal." Duke shuddered like he had been shanked by veal in the past.

"Duke, you asshole. I want to go to a wedding about as much as I want to stick dynamite in my pussy, drink lighter fluid, and hump some flint." Dove knew she should fix her robe or her tit would pop out.

Fuck you, floppy tit.

"No, it's cool. This’ll be the perfect wedding. Pissboy is marrying Cross-eyed Knockers. It will be Epic." Duke sat on her coffee table and pressed down while he passed gas. The resulting noise sounded like a jet breaching the sound barrier. "That was the rare F-14 ass-shout. You're a lucky girl."

"Pissboy and Cross-eyed Knockers?" Dove was wallowing in her despair, but still her interest perked like cold nipples.

"My cousin, Pissboy, who wets himself if he sneezes when he gets drunk, and his nasty girlfriend are bumping uglies legit." Duke cracked his toe knuckles.

"Cross-eyed Knockers, how'd she get her name?" Dove looked at her tit again. It was cresting like a moon or one of those expensive birds at Petco.

Fuck those birds. Shitters.

"She's cross-eyed and has huge fucking knockers." Duke shrugged. "Me and my cousins aren't brain surgeons."

"Nah. D, I'd rather lick a gorilla's taint after food poisoning." Dove finally covered her boob when it was too close to the exit.

"Pissboy is allergic to pollen and the count is insane right now. He's going to be like an unmanned fire hose." Duke showed no signs of giving up.

"I have nothing to wear and where is this thing?" Dove saw a footprint on her carpet from Johnson. Then, next to it she saw the two bloody prints from her rug-burned knees.

Damn, that round had been good.

"It's about five hours away. My sister has a free bed in her room. I'll pick out your clothes." Duke grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "You can't sit around moping all weekend. Fuck that shit. All for a guy that gives it to you up the ass by accident?"

"How the hell do you know that?" Dove sat straight up and leveled a hard stare at him.

Duke stood and stretched, as if her sudden rage was nothing, "When I was outside lighting my dick on fire, I heard you guys. Close your fucking window if you're not making a porno."

Dove slouched down again, her anger deflated. Of course Duke had heard that part. That's how Dove's life went.

She wanted to swallow Twitter and have her whole nervous system rattle when Johnson tweeted. She wanted to cyber stalk him, find his house on Google Earth, and get a street view to see into his fucking windows.

She checked her phone. No new tweets.

"Okay, fine. I'll pack your bag." Duke got an empty trash bag from under her kitchen sink and shook it out with a snap.

"You'll need all this shit?" he called from the crapper. Dove heard bottles getting thrown into the bag.

Duke moved into her bedroom. "Let me guess, your idea of getting dressed up is your fucking yoga pants and a booby top. We'll stop and get you a dress." Duke came out of her room with a sack full like a gassy Santa.

He wasn't wrong; sitting around waiting for Johnson to tweet about his time with Beth would be torture. She could sit around listening to her heart breaking, or she could go watch a grown man piss himself.

"How crossed are her eyes?" Dove asked.

Duke gave her the shit-eating grin of victory. "So crossed-eyed that she can see herself change her mind."

Dove stood and accepted defeat with a nod. She’d go to the wedding with Duke and his sister. It beat trying to let Johnson's time with Beth strangle her. And she could keep track of his whereabouts from her phone.

Yeah, be breezy. Be too cool to wait by your computer.

As Dove went to get dressed, her heart remained rooted to the spot in front of her computer, waiting for something--anything that would tell her last night was not a mistake for him.

Add Fire in the Hole to your TBR list!

There are a lot of eyes in Debra Anastasia’s house in Maryland. First, her own creepy peepers are there, staring at her computer screen. She’s made two more sets of eyes with her body, and the kids they belong to are amazing. The poor husband is still looking at her after 17 years of marriage. At least he likes to laugh. Then the freaking dogs are looking at her—six eyeballs altogether, though the old dog is blind. And the cat watches her too, mostly while knocking stuff off the counter and doing that internal kitty laugh when Deb can’t catch the items fast enough.

In between taking care of everything those eyes involve, Debra creates pretend people in her head and paints them on the giant, beautiful canvas of your imagination. What an amazing job that is. The stories hit her hard while driving the minivan or shaving her legs, especially when there’s no paper and pen around. In all of the lies she writes hides her heart, so thank you for letting it play in your mind.

Debra has a smattering of books in a few genres. There are two in the Seraphim Series and three in the Poughkeepsie Brotherhood Series with a prequel, Poughkeepsie Begins in the near future. Fire Down Below is the first in the comedic Gynzaule Series. The second, Fire in the Hole, will be published in late 2015. The Revenger, a dark paranormal romance will debut this summer. And last, a novella called Late Night with Andres is special because 100% of the proceeds go to breast cancer research. (So go get it right now, please!)

You can find her at DebraAnastasia.com and on Twitter @Debra_Anastasia. But be prepared...

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Available May 3rd, 2015

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Violet

It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning and I’m thirty second away from an amazing orgasm. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual: Just because I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. My day is always so much better when I take a shot from the orgasm bottle before heading to work.

I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way possible. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a furious pace, the vibrator—God bless the damn vibrator—is hitting the s-s-s-spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.

In that exact moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic, destroying my morning jill-off. She must have let herself in again, as per usual.

Here’s the thing, I don’t live with Skye. I moved out over four years ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property, but it’s supposed to be my private space. My refuge from my crazy awesome, albeit super-inappropriate mother.

The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull the covers up. My vagina is raging. I can’t even begin to explain. It’s the female equivalent of blue balls.

“Mom, seriously.” I slump further into the sheets. “How many times do we need to have this talk?”

“I thought you’d be out of bed already! I have something for you!” She waves her hands around in the air like a crazy inflatable balloon guy on TV. It’s too much this early in my day.

“I literally just woke up. I need five minutes before we have a conversation, okay?”

Her arms drop to side, her shoulders slumping along with her face, which would make me feel bad, except she’s let herself into my home and barged into my bedroom unannounced, so all I have is frustration.

“Oh, sure.” Her dejection is blissfully short-lived. “How about I put on a pot of coffee?”

Skye loves to be useful, and while I’m annoyed, I don’t want to hurt her feelings in spite of the inconvenient interruption. “That’d be great.” Any reason to get her out of my room is a good one, but a fresh pot of coffee is more than welcome.

She backs out and closes the door behind her. For three seconds I contemplate finishing what I’ve started, but there’s no way I’m going to come with my mom tooling around in my kitchen. Instead, I toss my vibe into the nightstand and make a stop in the bathroom to wash my hands.

At twenty-two I should be able to maintain some distance from my mom, however Skye has a great deal of difficulty with the concept. In my Freshman year of college I threw out the idea of moving into an apartment close to campus. Skye and Sidney had recently tied the knot which meant they were worse than teenagers. I’ve had the misfortune of walking in on them in compromising positions more than once. The third time was my breaking point.

Guilt ridden and embarrassed over the psychological damage he caused, my stepdad offered to renovate the pool house. I agreed only because it saved me thousands on rent; since I’m no longer carrying the burden of tuition, my situation has changed.

When I first scored my job several months ago, I started looking for my own apartment again, in part because of the frequency of Skye’s unplanned visits. Being the ever helpful parent, my mom tagged along on the expedition and told me roommate horror stories à la Single White Female. Seeing as the only places I could reasonably afford at the time were shared accommodations, I chose to stay put in the pool house a while longer.When I enter the kitchen, Skye sits at the table, leafing through one of the gossip rags she loves to reads while she sips a cup of coffee.

“I think they made Buck look way worse here than he really is, don’t you?” She turns the magazine around so I can see the horrible pictures of my stepbrother.

I grab a mug and fill it with liquid heaven, then drop into the chair across from Skye. “I think Buck does a decent job of making himself look bad all on his own, without the help of the media.”

My stepbrother is such a whore. I’m tempted to apply this label to all professional hockey players. It’s a blanket statement, an overzealous and possibly incorrect generalization. However, based on personal experience, it’s true for the most part. It certainly applies to the one hockey player I dated in the past. I consider him to be like Voldemort: he who shall not be named.

The third page of last week’s entertainment section confirms this hypothesis. The evidence is splashed all over the grainy two-page spread of Buck with his hand up some woman’s skirt. In a public bathroom. He appears to be devouring her face while getting her naked inside a stall—with the door open. So dirty.

The picture itself isn’t a surprise. Hundreds of similar images can be found through an Internet search. Buck has shared his manstick with half the female population in the continental US. The woman he’s making out with is the problem. He’s not macking on a random hockey hooker, oh no. It’s his former coach’s daughter. Her name is Fran. She’s adorable, and now she looks like a total puck bunny thanks to Buck.

In his defense, he said he didn’t know who she was. He’s not bright, and he was hammered, so it likely was an honest mistake, not that it makes his whoring ways any less abhorrent. This little incident is the reason behind his recent trade to the Hawks. His return to Chicago, means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him again.

“Well, I think they’ve blown this way out of proportion. Sidney’s excited to have him back in the city, though. Anyway . . .” She pushes a piece of paper toward me. Upon inspection, I realize it’s a plane ticket.

I snatch it up and frown. “What’s this? Why does it have my name on it?”

“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. “It’s Buck’s first away game with the Hawks.”

“Mom, I can’t—”

“We’re going as a family to support him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks.”

“It’s not my fault Buck can’t keep his dick in his pants and out of his coach’s daughter.”

“Violet!” Her brow arches and her lips purse as if she’s sucking a lemon. “Don’t be so crass! This isn’t about Buck’s . . .” She trails off and gestures below the table.

“Yes it is. Buck doesn’t care if I come to his games.”

“He was very upset when you couldn’t make the last few. Maybe if you’d been at this one”—she points at the magazine—“he might not have gotten himself into so much trouble.”

“Are you trying to guilt me into coming?” I glare over the rim of my mug.

“Not at all. I’m just throwing out hypotesticals.”

I cough-choke, spraying coffee on the table and my plane ticket. “Do you mean hypotheticals?”

“That’s what I said.”

Correcting her is as pointless as fighting her on this. Once Skye makes up her mind, rationalizing an alternative is like slamming your head into a titanium wall—painful and futile. I need to reconsider the apartment situation.

I give getting out of going to the game a last-ditch effort. “I have to work this weekend.”

“No you don’t.”

“How do you know?”

She ignores the question. “A car will be coming by the house to pick us up at six.”

“I don’t get off until five. How are we even going to make it to the game on time?”

“The flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.” She taps the date on the ticket, which I’ve failed to read.

“Oh.” So much for finding a way out of this. It looks like I’m going to another hockey game. Yippee.

“It’ll be so much fun! We can go outlet shopping! Whelp, I’ve got to go! Don’t want to be late for my Pilates class!” Skye jumps out and bounces out the door, off to the next thing.

After my mom leaves I check the time, I have half an hour before I need to leave. Snatching the magazine from the table, I rush to my nightstand, grab my vibe, and hit the bathroom—first it needs a wash—then I flip to the Milk advertisement. The subject matter is a fuckhot guy who completely misses his mouth and dribbles a glass of milk down his chest. I don’t know why it’s so hot. I mean, milk isn’t really a sexy drink, but whatever.

I heft one of my feet onto the vanity and go to town while looking at the milk porn guy. The orgasm I missed earlier takes me to the floor, the magazine lands on my face. It doesn’t matter. All I know is I’m coming and it feels so good.

The jilling session takes a little longer than I expect, so I have to drive a little faster than usual to get to work. As a recent graduate from the Accounting program at the University of Illinois, I scored the job through my internship—which Sidney set up for me. Having a stepfather who scouts for the NHL does have some perks. I’m a junior accountant for a PR firm specializing in, wait for it, sports financial management. This includes investing professional hockey players’ fortunes. I’m surrounded by hockey all the time.

Charlene, my bestie and colleague, sits on the edge of my desk, sipping her coffee while I frantically try to organize files.

“I can’t go out tonight, I have too much to do on the Beaufort account,” I tell her.

“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”

“Skye’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow. Apparently we need to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his pants.”

Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”

“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave work.”

“Can’t you work on it while you’re there?”

“Skye wants to go shopping, so I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have. Plus we have our stupid book to finish for book club.”

Charlene rolls her eyes. “Friggin’ Lydia. I say we blackball her out of the club.”

“You can’t blackball people out of book club.”

“Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.”

It’s not a half-bad idea. Although, being the competitive person I am, I would hate to go into the book club discussion with only a vague understanding of the crappy book she’s making us read. I’ll suffer through it if I can come up with an intelligent argument why it’s so terrible.

“I’ll probably bring the book to the game, just in case I can get in a little reading time.”

“Oh come on, Vi. The Hawks are having a killer season. I bet the game will be awesome.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m sure she’s not wrong. However, I don’t have the same warm fuzzies toward the game or the players Charlene does.

She’s been a die-hard Hawks fan her entire life. She watches every game and even participates in those ridiculous pools where you create your own team. Like Fantasy Football, except with hockey.

“Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point is you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”

“Who?”

Charlene looks down her nose and curls her lip. “He plays right wing for the Hawks.” She starts listing off his stats; it sounds something like blah, blah, blah. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him if you get the chance?”

“First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob’, they hang out. Secondly, I plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the file folders on my desk.

“What a load of BS!” She peeks over the edge of my cubicle to make sure no one is paying attention to her. Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the phone at his ear, so she lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring in your hotel room by yourself.”

“I’d send you in my place if I could.”

I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most part. Some of those boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a case in point, as is the one, and only, hockey player I dated a year ago. He wasn’t even an NHL’er, just some douche in the minors, looking for a leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was he horrible in bed—just because those boys are built, doesn’t mean they’ve got the equipment to match—he humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.

“Come on, Vi. You can at least enjoy the man candy, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, because skanky guys are such a turn on.”

“Darren’s not a skank.”

Arguing is useless, so I appease her. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No guarantees, though.” Mostly the after parties are a food free-for-all for the players, complimented by hordes of bunnies looking to be dessert.

She squeals and claps her hands. “You’re the best!”

I hold up my hands. “No promises, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Charlene convinces me to break for lunch and we gorge at the all-you-can-eat Thai buffet nearby. Fortunately, the amount of food I consume doesn’t slow my roll when I return to work.

It’s after nine in the evening before I finally come to terms with the fact I can no longer focus on the computer screen. My stomach is growling so loudly I keep checking to make sure a bear hasn’t wandered into the office.

Drive-thru McDick’s is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers and a large fry while I drive home. I skipped the milkshake, though, because indigestion and flying don’t mesh well.

My mother has left a sticky note on my door to remind me we’re leaving for the airport at the ass-crack of dawn—those are my words, not hers. The logical thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go to bed so I’m not exhausted in the morning. Instead, I change into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of Marvel Comic inspired boy’s underwear—they fit so nice—and channel surf. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Skye is standing over me.

“Violet! Why are you still sleeping? We should have left ten minutes ago! We’ll miss the flight.” Her shrill morning voice functions as the worst kind of alarm.

I try to hide under a pillow, but she snatches it away.

“Get up, get up, get up!” She grabs my arm and pulls, forcing me to get up.

Due to my complete lack of preparation, I’m forced to pack in a rush, tossing clothes into a bag at random while I pull on jeans, covering my Captain America underpants. I grab the first bra I find, it’s extra loud, boasting a fuchsia leopard print pattern and black lace accents. I don’t have time to search for something else—not with my mom tapping her talon nails on my door, hovering as per usual. I have the foresight to pack my copy of Tom Jones so I can finish it for Tuesday’s book club discussion.

I barely get my bag zipped before Skye drags me out to the car, afraid we’ll miss our plane. She’s totally overreacting. We only have to speed-walk through the airport to make it to our gate on time for boarding.

Sidney, being the awesome guy he is, books us first class tickets. The seats are roomy and comfortable. This allows me to pass out for the first half of the flight. When I can’t sleep any longer, I ask the flight attendant to bring me a mimosa—it’s five o’clock somewhere—and leaf through the copy of The Hockey News Sidney brought along with him. It’s the same old, same old. Stats and more stats with a few pictures of disheveled, hot hockey players scattered within.

It doesn’t take long before I get bored, so I pull out my copy of Tom Jones. Maybe it will put me back to sleep. I’m annoyed I have to finish this for Tuesday. I like reading, hell, I even took a couple of English lit classes in college purely for enjoyment. This is some dry material for a damn book club, though. Nothing like the fun, sex-filled books I’ve partaken of lately.

I must read the same paragraph twenty times before I give up and play mindless games on my phone until the plane lands.

There’s a car waiting for us at the airport—because that’s how Sidney rolls, and we’re whisked away to the hotel. It’s the same one the team is staying at, so it’ll be easy to escape the after celebrations should the Hawks win the game.

However, we run into a bit of an issue with the hotel concierge. They’ve booked us a suite rather than two separate rooms. This wasn’t part of the deal; I expected to have my own room. I bite my tongue and pretend it’s totally fine, because I don’t want to appear ungrateful—even though I didn’t ask to come along on this impromptu trip in the first place.

On the upside, the suite is huge. There’s a spacious living room and I have my own bedroom with a private bathroom, complete with a Jacuzzi tub. I lock myself away and have a two hour bath where I once again try to read more of my book. I accidentally get the cover wet and have to lay it on the vent to dry.

Getting dressed is an adventure. I did a seriously crap job packing. I’m fortunate enough to have a pair of black jeans to wear. Sadly, the only bra I have is the one I’m wearing, which was fine when I was sporting a black hoodie. However, I’m clean so I’m not recycling the hoodie, and my options are limited to a pale pink tee or a blue one with stains on the boob. The pink one will have to do. I pull on the shirt and check out my reflection in the mirror. Oh yeah, the leopard print is way obvious through the thin fabric. I cover it up with a sweater and call my outfit a success.

Glasses fog in arenas, so I jam in my contact lenses. I also look much less nerdy without glasses and considering I have to meet a whole new set of teammates tonight, I can use all the anti-nerd help I can get.

By the time I finally get my contact lens to stay on my eyeballs—it takes three tries—there isn’t time for Skye to assault me with her pallet of eye shadow. She’s a big fan of blue. I always end up looking like someone from a 70s sitcom when she gets through with my face.

Armed with my wool coat and my messenger bag which houses a scarf, mitts, hat, my semi-dry copy of Tom Jones and my phone, I’m game ready. As an afterthought, I check for my pack of Marlies. I don’t actually smoke. They’re my crutch when I want to extricate myself from uncomfortable social situations. It happens a lot. I’ve learned to release the smoke slowly so people don’t notice I’m not inhaling.

The arena is packed. We have great seats, though, and Sidney knows everyone, so getting to the front row isn’t a problem. I settle in, appreciating the ample legroom and unobstructed view of center ice. Sidney has just finished ordering beers when the Hawks skate out onto the rink. Half the crowd explodes into cheers despite it being an away game.

I’m mesmerized by the way these guys glide over the perilously slick surface with such grace. I’m petrified of skating, much like some people are afraid of snakes and spiders. Wearing blades on my feet screams of danger. I struggle mastering downward facing dog; I don’t need to slice open an artery in an attempt to expand my sports repertoire.

Sidney stands up and pumps his arm in the air when Buck skates out onto the ice. Buck is mammoth, like a yeti. A huge, perverted, hairy, whore of a yeti. According to the sportscasters, Buck’s an excellent hockey player. I’d agree based on his yearly salary alone. No one gets that much money for sucking, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

Behind me, a gaggle of girls—whose skirts could double as a headbands—giggle obnoxiously about some guy named Alex Waters. The name is vaguely familiar for some reason. They mention a hat trick. He must be a seriously awesome player to pull one of those, not that it changes how I feel about the game.

Their discussion takes an interesting turn when they start discussing the size of individual team members’ junk. I wonder where they get their stats.

Penis conversations cease when the puck is dropped. The Hawks score a goal in the first three minutes. I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as their center. He’s like a bolt of red lightning shooting across the ice. The Hawks easily maintain the lead through the end of first period. Just before the whistle blows, I bolt up the stairs and find the closest bathroom, hoping to avoid the rush. My bladder is ready to burst thanks to the giant beer I’ve consumed. Unfortunately, there’s an enormous line suffering the same plight, so I have to grit my teeth and do Kegels until a stall opens. The whole pee adventure takes far longer than I anticipate. The game is already into the second period by the time I reenter the arena.

As I approach my seat, I notice shit going down on the ice. Like, seriously going down right in front of me. I’m equal parts elated and horrified when one player slams another into the Plexiglas barricade. He smashes into it head first; his helmet and cage saving his face.

Blue eyes—they’re so damn blue, like neon nightclub lights at night—meet mine. It’s only for a second and then he’s gone again. He and his opposition struggle to pull off their gloves while holding each other’s jerseys. Helmets hit the ice.

The excitement of the crowd is infectious. Everyone else is screaming, and I’m tempted to join in, but there’s violence, and it seems wrong to enjoy it, so I keep my lips sealed. The concept of mob mentality suddenly makes much more sense, though.

The guy with the blue eyes has the advantage. The name Waters is written in big, black letters on the back of his jersey. He’s number eleven. This is the magic man, huh? His face is obscured by a flailing fist, but I admire his tenacity. He’s giving as good as he’s getting.

The refs get involved, breaking the fight up, and ramping up the crowd by calling out penalties. Waters looks pissed. Not mildly so, either; he’s raging like a lunatic pissed. He glides across the ice, hurtling himself into the time out box. He throws his helmet across the small space, picking it up just to do it again. A ref cautions him, so he drops on the bench in a snit.

Waters is far from calm while the ref chews him out. His face is red and his lips mash into a thin line. He’s vaguely familiar. Even sweaty and angry he’s rather attractive. I can see why the women behind me are dressed for their shift on the corner.

Sidney was kind enough to get another round of beers, so I sip mine while observing Waters. He’s watching the seconds drop off his five minute penalty. He surveys the arena, his gaze coming to rest on me, or at least I think it does. My contact lenses make my eyes dry, so I can’t be positive. I blink several times to pull him into focus. The girls behind assume he’s looking their way and twitter like twelve-year-olds. I roll my eyes. Waters cocks a brow. Oh no, he must think it’s directed at him. On the plus side, my eye roll has helped bring him into focus. Sort of.

I make a real show of digging around in my bag for my eye drops. By the time I finally find them; he’s no longer looking in my direction, his focus back on the game.

The excitement seems to be finished for now, so I take out my book and give reading go. Two paragraphs in, the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention away from the story I’m half-heartedly reading. Waters hurdles out of the penalty box, helmet and gloves back on. I’m rather impressed with this move of his. I couldn’t do it in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, let alone a whole ensemble of body armor.

A blur of black comes to a halt at center ice as Waters’ stick smashes into the ice. He pivots in a move that is both graceful and aggressive, barreling toward the opposition’s goalie, dancing with the puck as he goes. He pulls back his stick and slaps the puck across the ice like a rubber meteor. It goes right between the legs of the goalie, ricocheting off the back of the net.

Waters’ has been on the ice for all of fifteen seconds.

The hockey hookers behind me lose their shit, screaming their annoying banshee heads off. The rest of the crowd gets to their feet and yells right along with them. As do I. It seems appropriate, more so than my excitement over face bashing. The game is fast paced and the bodies rush by in a blur. I’m like a cat following one of those laser lights around. Suddenly an arm smashes into the Plexiglas in front of me. I startle, spilling beer on my coat.

At first I’m inappropriately excited at the possibility of another fight. Instead, I’m met once again with electric blue eyes. I swear Waters smirks as I wipe beer off my chest. I frown and give my boob a squeeze, for what purpose I’m unsure. I doubt he catches it, though, he’s off like a sling shot, barreling across the ice after the puck.

The Hawks crushes their opponent 6-1. I clap and cheer, my enthusiasm authentic. I attribute it partially to the amount of beer I’ve consumed. Once the players leave the ice, we file out of the arena. Crowds make me nervous, so I want to wait until most of the people have cleared out, but Sidney is anxious to Buck.

“Come on Vi.” He slings an arm around my shoulder, protecting me from the masses.

Skye hooks her arm with mine, sandwiching me between them. “Did you have fun?”

“It was okay.” I say as Sidney maneuvers his way through the crowd.

“Just okay? You were cheering right along with the rest of them.” Sidney gives my shoulder a squeeze.

“I think she liked the fight,” Skye yells above the noise.

Sidney grinned. “It sure made the game more interesting,” I say.

“Now you’re sounding like a true hockey fan.” As an NHL scout and coach for one of the best minor league teams out there, he’s highly respected in the hockey community. It affords him major privileges and some cool perks, such as front row seats at games.

The hallway to the locker room smells like perspiration and stale equipment. I imagine inside smells infinitely worse with all the naked, sweaty guys milling around, snapping at each other’s ass with wet towels.

Photographers are at the ready when Buck comes out with a towel draped across his bare shoulders and his hockey pants still on, thank the Lord. The amount of fur he sports makes him resemble a matted yeti.

I stay close to the fringe of the crowd to avoid appearing in any photos. The paps snap pics of Buck in his hair shirt while Sidney looks all proud and manly off to the right. They ask Buck a few poignant questions. His answers are stock; likely something his agent coached him on. That guy gets paid well with all the fuckery Buck gets into.

When Buck goes to the locker room to shower, we head out. Traffic out of the stadium is horrendous, and it takes ages to get back to the hotel bar. Sidney orders a round of beers as soon as we get there. I gladly accept the drink, my buzz having worn off.

We’re practically trampled by puck bunnies when the team arrives. I’m surrounded by scantily clad, too-warm bodies and high-pitched chatter. While Buck regales Sidney with the finer details of the game—as if he wasn’t there—I seek out the red EXIT sign. Rooting around in my bag, I find my smokes and make my move toward the beacon of temporary freedom, excited for my reprieve from social discomfort. Buck notices my attempted escape and grabs my arm before I can get far.

“Where you going?” Buck shouts.

I hold up the pack of smokes, because I’d have to yell in order for him to hear me otherwise.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You really shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.”

I’m irritated by all the unnecessary attention he’s drawing to us, and my fake bad habit, so I fire back an insult. “So are venereal diseases. You don’t hear me lecturing you on your whoriness.”

He ignores the comment and drags me to his teams’ table. It covered in heaping plates of food, which the guys are inhaling at an unprecedented rate. Scantily clad women flit around like fruit flies near wine.

Seeing as I’m here, I’ll try and make good on Charlene’s request. All I need to do is figure out who Westing-what’s-his-face is so I can snap a pic, feign a headache, and get out of here.

I drop into an empty seat and take the fresh beer that’s handed to me. The chairs on either side of me are vacant, aside from a jacket carelessly tossed across the one on my right.

A random chick snags Buck before I can ask after Charlene’s crush. The smile slapped across his face might look friendly, but I’ve been around him long enough to know better. I grin into my beer, enjoying his growing discomfort as she snaps selfie after selfie. When she grabs his junk, I take pity on him.

“Hey, Beefcake, enough with soft-porn photo shoot. Grab a chair!”

Both his head and the girl’s snap in my direction, as well as half the team. I may have raised my voice a little too much. With the way Buck is smiling, I must be the color of a tomato. His relief and the girl’s incredulity are rather satisfying, so the embarrassment is worth it. The slutbag mutters something and Buck’s smile drops. “That’s my sister.”

Her expression turns from irritation to shocked embarrassment, she apologizes and teeters off on her ridiculous heels.

Buck drops into the chair beside mine, throwing his arm across the back. “Thanks for the save. I thought she was gonna whip my dick out right there.”

I scoff. “Whatever. Your micro-wang is barely visible to the naked eye. Besides, I didn’t want to listen to you moan about a herpes flare-up.”

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as one of Buck’s teammates takes the seat beside me. I really hope he didn’t hear me slagging Buck’s doodle.

I glance at him just as a servers boobs practically smack me in face when she places what looks like a White Russian in front of him. I give him the side-eye when the waitress moves. The guy on his opposite side asks a question, drawing his attention away from me.

I recognize his face immediately, it’s Alex Waters and holy shitballs is he hot. His dark hair is cut short and he’s got some serious scruff going on. Even with the beard growth, I can tell he’s been blessed with one of those rugged jawlines. And those eyes are something else, even if he’s sporting the makings of a black eye.

Nerves, embarrassment, and Alex’s hotness have a cumulative effect, making me sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static. My T-shirt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble to pull the shirt back into place. The silence at the table is telling. Once I wrestle free of the sweater, I’m met with a number of wide eyes focused on my chest. I look down. Right. My bra is still visible through the pale pink shirt, and now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the shirt.

Buck leans in and whispers, “Put the sweater back on.”

I play dumb. “Why?”

“Everyone can see—” he motions toward my chest without looking.

I wave him off. “It’s not that obvious.” It’s totally that obvious.

He shoots me one of his glares. It’s meant to be threatening, but it makes him look constipated. I leave the sweater off to irritate him. It’s effective. His face turns an interesting shade of red.

“I need another beer.” He slams his mug on the table and eyes me as he gets up and goes to the bar.

I’m about to put the sweater back on when Waters turns to me.

“Hi, I’m Alex.” He’s all pretty smile and white teeth. I try hard not to look directly at him, afraid I’ll be ensnared by his rugged, handsome face.

“I’m Violet.”

“I didn’t realize Butterson had a sister.”

Even his voice is familiar; satin smooth and deep. He takes a sip of his drink, leaving behind a milk mustache he quickly wipes away. It’s then that I realize where I recognize him from; the Milk advertisements. Sweet Lord, I’ve been jilling off to him. My mortification reaches new heights, so I say something even more inane than usual.

“I’m his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all Ophelia on my ass.” My eyes widen at my terrible joke, although if he’s anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.

“Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”

I swear he made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I at least try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that’s a challenge.

Normally I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.

I further my own embarrassment and his when I cup my breasts, giving them a little squeeze. “They’re nice for real ones, huh?”

His eyes shoot up to mine. Busted.

“I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”

This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.

Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect; cooter-shower leans forward and gives our table an even better view.

“Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”

I’m mid-swig when he says this. I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. When I’ve recovered enough to speak, I ask jokingly, “Beaver? Are you Canadian or something?”

Those vibrant eyes of his move back to mine. God, he’s awful pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells as delicious as he looks.

He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. Buck is a perfect example; he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m suddenly intrigued, even though I shouldn’t be.

“Yeah, I’m Canadian.”

“Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers, you know, like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed, otherwise I’d blame it on drunkenness.

He blinks a few times. “Did you just say pussy?”

I’m beginning to wonder if his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.

“No, I said pussies, plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass out of myself.

Before I can say something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.

Buck grabs my arm on my way past. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”

I glance at Alex who’s shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad, he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.

“Its common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or don’t you know the rules of social etiquette?”

“Rules of what?”

“Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? I was being polite.” And Alex is entertaining.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well, yet. Be careful who you get friendly with.”

I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table, we were just talking. I’m going for a smoke.”

Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater, and then rummage through my bag for my smokes. Popping one between my lips I search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.

“Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding up a pack of matches.

“Are you following me?”

He shrugs and gives me a grin that could melt my panties off. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I’m not. Mostly.

“I thought you might like some company.” He flips open the matchbook and tears one free.

I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match, holding his hand up to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag, and cough.

“Shit!” Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.

“You’ve got a dirty mouth, eh?”

“Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball,” I say between coughs.

Alex pockets the matches and waits until I stop hacking up a lung before he says, “Butterson doesn’t seem too happy.”

Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She’s not pulling the selfie business, so he doesn’t seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares in our direction. He’s being a colossal douche tonight.

“Screw Buck.” I take a fake drag of my cigarette.

Dimples appear in his cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back another cough.

“Do you even smoke?”

I debate lying and decide against it. “Not really. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations.”

“So you came out here to get away from me?”

“Not you in particular.”

His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He’s got a nice mouth, even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out his opposition makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as him.

He’s looking at me expectantly. Damn it. He must have asked me a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Redbull.

“Sorry, what?” I flick the ash on my cigarette.

“You were reading during the game, what book?” He sounds genuinely curious, and a little offended.

“Tom Jones, I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday.”

Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner? He must have been watching me while he was in the time out box-thing. How embarrassing.

“Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn’t it?”

I’m shocked. Alex knows who wrote Tom Jones, and he’s used the word cerebral in the appropriate context. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players in one sentence. In doing so, he’s become infinitely hotter than he was five seconds ago.

“You’re read Fielding?” I take a step closer. My voice is low as if I’ve switched into phone sex operator mode.

“I-I-I.”

It’s adorable. He’s wearing an expression I’m familiar with: panic merged with fear. It’s the one I sport when I realize I’ve inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.

“I think literacy is sexy,” I whisper, still using my phone-sex voice.

“Me, too.” His dimples make an appearance.

I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something so completely out of character. It’s so outside of my personal code of conduct, for months afterward I know I’ll review the incident, trying to figure out what flipped the switch. For the time being, I’m blaming the beers, jetlag, and nerves.

I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine.

His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth, well, that’s not true. I slide it along his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meets more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like beer and, more faintly, mint.

His hand runs a hot trail along my side and he pulls me tight against him. He’s all hard lines and heat and I can feel . . . holy . . . there’s a massive bulge pressed against my stomach.

After far too short a time he breaks he kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Buck will kill you.”

“I can take him.”

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- SNEAK PEEK AT FIRE IN THE HOLE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- CONNECT WITH DEBRA ANASTASIA
- SNEAK PEEK AT HELENA HUNTING'S PUCKED