Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Well.
I’d have to get over myself because I’m the girl next door quite literally. The next room, actually. I am the girl who bakes cookies and wears bows in her hair and is a kindergarten teacher for an unruly crew of misfit six-year-olds. I do art projects on weeknights as examples for the kids.
I wear ugly sweaters all year long because they think it’s funny.
I talk goofy and know silly songs and spend hour upon hour every summer decorating my classroom.
Sometimes I say potty instead of saying bathroom.
I try not to curse.
Duke Colter? Surely, he dates women on the covers of magazines.
Models. Actresses.
You would have found photos of those women online, Posey.
That doesn’t mean that’s not his type.
Polished.
Classy.
Expensive.
I can barely afford Elmer’s Glue and construction paper.
My eyes land on a photo of Duke at the Super Bowl. His arms are raised, and he looks tired. Exhausted.
It was last season, and they won; he was MVP.
But.
He doesn’t look happy.
I close my eyes and picture him out on the porch, sun shining on his skin, on his thick biceps.
Cutoff T-shirt.
Holes in his jeans.
When he bit into that cookie and melted chocolate stuck to the corner of his mouth, I wanted to lick it off.
Something had possessed me to tell him the dirtiest, most perverted jokes I knew, and they sure worked.
Pleased, I smile, hunkering down in my bed beneath the covers.
My hand wanders.
I haven’t masturbated in months, and I’m not sure why. I used to do it regularly, but I wasn’t in a relationship anymore, and I missed the sex part of it. When Dan and I broke up (that was his name, Dan), I spent a few weeks masturbating in the morning and again before bed but then suddenly… I no longer desired that anymore and stopped.
I have a drawer full of toys from a sex party Kate had during quarantine, the pink suction toy my absolute favorite. It cost ninety dollars, but it had been worth every penny, the pink gadget sorely neglected but now being fished out of my bedside drawer and greeted as if it were an old friend.
Holding my finger down for a few seconds, it whirs to life.
Thank God.
How bad would it suck if the battery was dead from all this time I hadn’t charged it?
I lift my hips to push down my sleep shorts; the skimpy fabric is blue and covered in tiny, fluffy sheep.
Holding the pink toy, my finger taps the UP button.
Test it between my legs.
Oh shit, that feels good; as good as I remember it, the sensation hitting me almost immediately.
Tap.
Tap.
More suction.
Faster.
Harder.
Who knew something this small could feel this good?
I barely have to spread my legs; barely have to wait that long, I’m so easy.
Eyes closed, I try to push out the image of the man in the room next door but find it impossible—his image is all I see. Duke.
Focus on Brian. What’s the visual on him?
Ugh, he’s not as cute.
He’s too corporate looking, too stuffy and boring.
Brian is your type.
Not anymore.
Too bad. Duke will never be anything more than a distant memory once he’s gone—you can watch him on television and you’ll have fond memories of him and stories to tell the grandkids.
I shove away the thoughts.
Focus on my vagina and my pleasure, spreading my legs a bit, tilting my head so I can see what’s going on.
Picture a man’s legs where my hand is…
It only takes me thirty seconds to come, my small moan filling the air, thighs doing that thing where they tremble, only just slightly.
Satisfied, I lie there.
Unsatisfied, actually.
I sigh.
Lifting myself from the bed, I pull up my shorts and go to wash the vibrator.
Then I stop myself before pulling open the door, remembering he’s out there and could have his door open.
I crack mine open.
Peek through the crack.
Nothing.
It’s dark and silent, so I creep out and sneak into the bathroom in the hallway and flip on the light.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I make quick work of washing my pink toy. My face is flushed, hair in a messy top-knot. Small gold hoops are still in my ears.
White tank top.
Sleep shorts.
“I wonder what he’d say if he knew you were in here whacking off,” I tell my image, a tired smile staring back at me.
It’s time for me to date.
Maybe these city boys just get too much pussy and don’t think they have to work for it.
Duke isn’t wrong.
Brian isn’t working for it, but I do want to see him, if only to catch up. The conversation is meh, but there’s a bit of a history there, and that’s worth something, hey?
Imagine if we had a romantic connection! We can tell our friends, “Funny story. We knew each other in high school, but then we both moved away for college, and one day, I found him on a dating app—and here we are!”