Operation Foreplay (4 page)

I looked at him and realized he didn’t think he had a small dick. He gazed at it before looking at me hungrily, as if he thought it would satisfy the needs of anyone. Ever.

“You like it baby?” He jiggled the thing like it was something to be proud of. But it was small enough to attach to my keychain.

What was it with men and their cocks? If it is small, own it. Work on the technique. Whatever. Make the girl forget that your penis is smaller than the heel of her shoe.

He edged up, straddling my body with his nasty ass planted on my chest, and brought the thing to my face.

“Want a taste?” He held his unbelievably rock-solid appendage between his fingers as he guided it toward me. It was all I could do to not turn my face away.

I could only assume he wanted a blow job but I wasn’t sure if I should attempt it. Then again, a blow job is a blow job. How bad could it be?

Thankfully, his penis was small enough that there was no gag reflex even when he did that weird guy thing. He grabbed the back of my head and pumped into my face. Yeah. He was a face fucker.

Most of the time I was able to slip his tiny penis in my cheek like I was a squirrel collecting really tiny nuts.

It wasn’t long before I was bored with pretending to suck his dick so I pulled away and said with as much seduction as I could muster, “I want you inside me.” Of course I was thinking,
Good luck reaching my vagina, buddy
.

I handed him a condom and watched as he rolled it on his penis. I stifled a giggle when it was clear there was more than ample room left at the tip.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. My nose just had a tickle.” And I pretended to sneeze.

I had to psych myself up. After all, who cares about size? It’s the motion of the ocean, right? The little voice in my head told me not to get my hopes up. I told her to shut her trap.

Gabe settled between my legs and we bumped uglies for a bit before I realized he hadn’t even entered my body and I was about to get rug burn from his never-been-trimmed bush of seventies porn style man pubes. He jack-hammered away thinking he was doing me a favor.

Putting my gym visits to good use, I twisted my legs and rolled over until I was on top of him.

“Oh yeah. Fuck me hard, Melanie.”

Son of a bitch got my name wrong.

I paused a moment and took a breath. “My name is Melody. With a d.”

“What?”

“Melody. My fucking name is Melody. Not Melanie.”

“Right. That’s what I said. Yeah, Melody.”

I rolled my eyes and probably should have severed the connection there, but I am a glutton for punishment and I needed a decent orgasm. Maybe I rely too much on orgasms getting me through life.

I held out hope he could give one to me. If not, I had a stash of battery-operated boyfriends that would do the trick nicely.

I wiggled my hips as I gripped him and guided myself down until I was sure he was in. Unfortunately, any time I bounced, he’d pop right out and I’d have to start the process over. I was getting tired of reaching between my own legs to guide his mini-me into my frustrated vagina.

Then I had the fabulous idea of rocking instead of bouncing.

Of course, that felt like little more than an annoyance that didn’t quite reach interesting. He didn’t even have the decency to allow me to fake it again before he blew his load with a giant lion yell and a fart.

Motherfucker farted as he came. I covered my nose with the back of my hand.

I’d had enough.

Time to go, big guy.

I hopped off and grabbed my bathrobe, tying it tight enough to give him a clue that whatever the fuck just happened wasn’t going to happen again.

“Okay, thanks.” I stretched. “Man, I’m tired.”

I left him alone to dress and walked to the kitchen to pour myself a big glass of Cabernet. I stared at the full glass for a moment before I took a gulp from the bottle. There would never be enough wine to erase what just transpired. What I needed was brain bleach.

After I finished my first glass, Gabe still hadn’t emerged, so I went looking for him. The smell from the hallway alone told me he was either taking a shit or I had a dead animal problem.

The bathroom door was closed, which gave me the answer I foolishly tried to dismiss. He was taking a dump.

In my apartment.

Less than ten minutes after his feeble attempt at, at…I don’t know what.

Sitting crisscross applesauce on top on my granite countertop, I chugged from the bottle, having abandoned the need for my wineglass, when he finally appeared in the kitchen.

“Hey, baby.” He nuzzled my neck. His hands covered mine, and I realized he hadn’t washed them.

I jerked away and hopped off the counter.

“Well, thanks for, uh,
that
.” I faked a yawn and clutched the neck of the wine bottle like it was life support. “I’m really tired.” The fact that I had to repeat myself had my inner bitch elbowing her way to the front of the line.

“Give me a minute, baby. We can go again.”

I thought I wasn’t going to be able to force the vomit back down my throat.

“Aw, that’s sweet. But I really am tired. Maybe another time.”

He opened the fridge. “Hey, you wanna get something to eat? You ain’t got nothing in here but a pile of carrots and hummus.”

A pain stabbed me through the ear as he pronounced it
hoo-mus
.

“No, no.” I shut the refrigerator door. Inner bitch was getting ready to make her appearance. I closed my eyes for a beat and took a breath. “Like I said, maybe another time. I’ll call you.” I calculated the distance between him and my purse in case I needed to pepper spray the fucker. Then again, I could always bash him over the head with my wine bottle.

I pushed him toward the door and opened it, all but shoving him into the dimly lit hallway of my apartment building.

“Hey, I didn’t give you my number!”

“That’s okay. I can figure it out.” I slammed the door in his face and fastened the dead bolt.

After banging my head on the door for what seemed like an eternity, I downed the rest of the wine and walked over to the kitchen. I grabbed the air disinfectant that I keep under the sink and moved to the hallway.

I sprayed the hell out of the bathroom and hall before starting on my bedroom. I ripped all the sheets and blankets off my bed for fear that the stench had somehow seeped into the fabric, stuffed them in a black garbage bag, and placed them by the door. I wasn’t sure if I should trash them, burn them, or let the dry cleaner have a go.

It was official. It was four in the morning and my first attempt at target practice was a dud. A one-night dud.

Chapter Four

T
aking advantage of the beautiful day, I decided to walk my way to lunch with Caroline and Sarah. Passing the flower market, I reminded myself to pick up a fresh bunch of daisies on my way back. The apartment could use a bit of sprucing up. And maybe they’d do a little something with the stench left from Gabe the Tiny-Dicked Fart Machine. Maybe daisies wouldn’t be quite potent enough. I shuddered at the thought.

As I’d promised, I deleted the messages from Zac without listening to them. The girls would be impressed with my fortitude, though I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to hold out. Deleting messages was one thing but seeing him at work was entirely another challenge. And if the past week was any indication, I was going to start spritzing myself in the face with cold water any time he walked in the room. Or I was going to have to start jacking off at work. That, of course, wasn’t an option.

My mother, apparently, was less than pleased that I hadn’t spoken to her in over a week and she wouldn’t let me off the phone before I promised to carve out time to visit her. There really was no reason I didn’t visit her more often; she was only down the turnpike in South Jersey. I guess it was time to be a better daughter. I wasn’t getting any younger and neither was she. I just wished she’d stop asking me when I’d find a man, settle down, and give her grandkids. Not that I had anything against kids, they just weren’t on my bucket list.

I turned the corner toward the restaurant and saw the girls already sitting at an outside table, deep in conversation.

“Hey, bitches.” I made the rounds as I headed to my seat.

“You look nice.” Caroline checked out my yellow sundress and strappy sandals.

“Thanks, doll! So do you.” The orange tank she wore set off highlights in her hair that magically appeared whenever she spent time in the sun. I could achieve the same look only with foil and chemicals.

“Gorgeous as always,” Siobhan complimented me when I leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Siobhan’s gotten all mixed up with a creepy author Caroline was editing for and since that faux relationship went to shit, she hung out with us every now and then. She was a cute kid, green on the dating scene. She’d recently gotten a job reporting for a national celebrity tabloid. She always had the dirt.

“Hey, lady.” I grabbed Sarah’s boob because that’s just how we greet each other.

As the waiter stopped over to fill my water glass, I noticed an extra place setting at the table. “Why the extra plate? Brian stopping by?” I eyeballed Caroline. I thought we’d made the decision to allow girl time without significant others.

“No. Relax. It’s just Berk.”

Berk was our friend by default. He originally ran with Brian and his friends, but since Caroline started dating Brian and Sarah began her not very serious but somewhat kinky relationship with Drew, Berk became one of the girls. I would never tell him, though I am sure he suspects he’s allowed to intrude on our girl time only because he’s gay. Of course, more times than not, we lament the fact that, in addition to being ridiculously attractive, he’d be the perfect boyfriend. I mean, for a few months he made the perfect work husband. Good-looking, great job, fabulous wardrobe, and more war stories than the three of us combined. Berk liked to date. A lot. However, as of late, he’d been more interested in becoming a one-man man. I secretly hoped that never happened. Who else would be my wing person?

Speaking of the devil, Berk arrived a fashionable fifteen minutes late with a bit more than a five o’clock shadow covering his face.

“What’s this?” Sarah pointed to the growth.

“I was told I look too young.”

“You are young.” I added, “And I am really digging the beard.”

“You would.”

“I like to lick them.”

“I know you do.”

“I could lick yours if you want me to.”

“Anyway”—he shook his head and rolled his eyes—“twenty-nine is not young. I’m a little over a month—sorry
we’re
a little over a month”—he nodded toward me—“away from thirty.”

“Don’t remind me.” I groaned. Berk and I, besides sharing the same taste in men, shared a birthday.

“Sorry, honey. We’re entering a new decade. Embrace it. And besides, that’s not what I meant.” He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention.

“Then why do you need to look older? Isn’t that the opposite of how people are supposed to react to aging?” Siobhan asked as she tore a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. “I mean, isn’t getting older what keeps plastic surgeons in business?”

“I, for one, am diving headfirst into the Botox movement when I start to get wrinkles.”

“Sorry to be the one to tell you Mel—” Berk began.

“No!” I pulled out my compact and searched the mirror for wrinkles.

“Yes. But this isn’t about your drama.”

The waiter stopped at the table, took our orders, and filled our glasses with the Riesling Sarah ordered.

Berk and the young waiter shared a moment as they checked each other out. I snapped my fingers to bring the conversation back to what was important.

“Yes?” Berk raised his eyebrows at me as he took a sip of the wine and shifted in his seat.

“My drama? What drama?”

Caroline snorted in her glass, Sarah giggled, and Siobhan busied herself with her phone. That girl was always on the phone.

“Yes, dear, your drama. Always your drama. I want to talk about me and my issues for a moment. If it’s okay with you, of course.”

“Go ahead.” I waved him on.

Caroline and Sarah laughed. I guess Berk was right. I had more drama in my life at the moment than the channel six soap opera.

“Okay, so.” He paused as the waiter stopped by the table with a basket of crunchy breadsticks and salad plates. The pause was a bit longer than usual because the two men did nothing to hide the fact that they were making eyes at each other. Again. If Berk didn’t get the guy’s number before lunch was out, I was getting it for him. “I’m sorry, where was I?”

“Looking older,” Sarah offered.

“Right. So, remember me telling you about that real estate agent I went out with a few times? David?”

“Yeah.” I remembered because Berk and I placed bets on who that man was going home with. Berk won. Never go up against a gay guy when he says someone plays for his team.