The Randy Romance Novelist (16 page)

“Man.” I leaned my hand against one of the shelves and breathed heavily. “You’re lucky you don’t have to wear skinny jeans. They can be tough to get on sometimes.”

“I’ve enjoyed the show,” he replied with a smirk.

“I’m sure you have . . . pervert,” I teased. I grabbed the button of my jeans and brought it to the hook, but found it quite difficult. Laughing nervously, I looked up at Henry and said, “Ha, things must have shrunk a bit in the laundry. Little buggers.” Turning away from him so he couldn’t see me do some contortions with my stomach, I sucked in hard, pulled both ends of my jeans together, and tried to button them up . . . but nothing happened. What the hell was going on?

“Need help?” he asked, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist.

“No!” I yelped, trying to shimmy away from him. “I actually I don’t feel like wearing jeans; they’re overrated. Skirts are where it’s at.” I touched my nose and pointed my finger at him. “I know the exact skirt to wear.”

I peeled off the skinny jeans, avoiding the underwear pull down—thank God; I needed to keep some shred of dignity—and kicked them to the corner of the closet. There was a red skirt in the closet I knew would be casual but cute, so I stepped into it and settled the red cloth around my waist. I turned to Henry and started to zip up the side with a smile, a sexy one.

But my smile faded once I realized the skirt zipper wasn’t budging past my hips. Panic set in and I tore my gaze away from Henry, and instead, examined the zipper. There had to be a snag, that was why I wasn’t getting it up. My shirt kept getting in the way of seeing my zipper, so I took that off, tossed it to the ground, and then turned the side of the skirt to the front, where I could get a better look at what was going on.

“Damn you, zipper,” I muttered, and then looked up at Henry, who now seemed concerned. “That’s what you get for buying clothes at thrift stores, the darn tootin’ things revolt against you. This skirt was getting old anyway.” I tried to put on a brave face, but my lip trembled as I fished out a pair of yoga pants. “Stretchy waist bands are always fun,” I sniffed, tears threatening to fall.

“Rosie . . .” Henry took a step closer, tentatively reaching out to me, but he didn’t get a chance to grab me before I flopped to the ground, one foot in my yoga pants and the other out in the open.

“I’m fat!” I cried hysterically. My back hit the floor, and I flung my arm over my eyes so I didn’t have to see Henry’s disgusted expression from viewing his whale of a girlfriend trying to put her clothes on.

Henry kneeled next to me and pulled me up against his chest, cradling my head carefully and placing small kisses on my forehead. “You’re not fat, not even close, love.”

“Tell that to those life sucking pants and skirt.” I looked at the corner of discarded clothes and flipped them off. “I hope you get hemorrhoids!”

The closet fell silent, my middle finger still limply pointing at the devil pants and skirt. Quietly, I mumbled to the clothes that I hoped they had a snag and started to unravel, while Henry sat on the floor and pulled me onto his lap.

“You know, I think I did the laundry wrong the other day. I must have shrunk some things,” Henry said, trying to calm me. The ever-perfect boyfriend, taking fault for something that was my fault. Too much food intake and not enough exercise meant clothes didn’t fit anymore.

My head fell backward and my hand went to cup his face. “Oh, look at you, being a good boyfriend and blaming the dryer, when in fact you know it’s your girlfriend who is the heifer with a problem.”

“Do not call yourself a heifer; I’m not fucking kidding about that.” Henry grew serious. “You’re perfect, Rosie, everything about you is beautiful.”

“Then why can’t I fit in my size six pants?”

Henry was silent for a second, not sure how to answer my question. “Uh, maybe because they’re skinny jeans and those are hard to put on.”

“You are too good to me.” I kissed him on the lips, got up, and finished putting on my yoga pants. Despite the fact that I felt like a giant trash bag, I still put on a tighter fitting shirt, wrapped a decorative scarf around my neck, and put on a cute pair of sandals. I put my hair up in a messy bun, coated my eyelashes with some mascara, and then grabbed my denim jacket. This would have to do.

“Are you going to be okay, love?”

My purse and keys were in my hand when I went up to Henry and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I don’t want to talk about what just happened in that closet. You hear me? The skinny jean struggle is something we keep between these two balls and vag, got it?”

“Got it, boss.” He kissed me, grabbing onto my ass at the same time. “Seriously, the sexiest woman I’ve ever known.”

“You don’t have to flatter me to get in my pants, Henry. You know I will jump your bones when I get home.”

I left the apartment with Henry’s giant smile branded on my brain. I didn’t care what he said, I was hitting up the gym starting as soon as possible. What I just experienced in that closet will never happen again.

***

“It’s called love chub,” Delaney answered nonchalantly, while smelling some free lotion that was on display in the salon. “It’s like your freshman fifteen, but with relationships. Happens to the best of us. Once we find someone and feel comfortable around them, we let ourselves go a little. Nothing to be worried about.”

“Delaney, I couldn’t fit in my jeans. I sucked in real hard and they would not close. That is not just letting myself go.”

Delaney gave me a horrified look and leaned in closer to speak. “They wouldn’t close? Like, you couldn’t even button them up?”

“No,” I whisper shouted. “They wouldn’t close.”

“How the hell do you plan on fitting into your dress?”

“I haven’t even gotten my bridesmaid dress, Delaney.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care about your bridesmaid dress. I’m talking about your dress for the bachelorette party. The short pink one; does it still fit?”

I rolled my eyes; of course she would only be worried about the bachelorette party. I didn’t even know what I was wearing for the wedding. Apparently something was picked out, I just had to go try it on.

“It will fit.” I hope, I thought to myself, mentally crossing my fingers.

The gym and I were going to start being best friends starting tomorrow.

“Delaney and Rosie.” A technician called our names.

“And Rosie?” I asked Delaney, who was smiling brightly.

“Yes, that’s us.”

I grabbed Delaney’s hand and stopped her from walking down the hallway. “What are we doing here? Why did they say my name?” My upper lip began to sweat. “What kind of appointment is this?”

“Cool your tits. It’s going to be fun.”

“Last time you said that, a lady with a unibrow bleached my butthole.”

“A long-awaited and much-needed bleach. You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t thanking you,” I called out, as I chased after her.

The technician led us into a room that looked awfully similar to the room I once lost pieces of skin in. There was a table, there were robes, and there was . . . wax.

“What the hell?” I asked, staring at the little heater that was warming up the devil’s cream.

“Marta will be right with you,” the technician said. “Please strip off your bottom half and put on a robe. Enjoy, ladies.”

“Marta?” I shouted, just as the technician closed the door. “Marta! The she-devil herself. Are you insane? I’m not going through that again. She did things to me that are . . . unspeakable.”

I tore off to the door, but Delaney stopped me, grabbing both of my shoulders and righting me so she could look me in the eyes.

“Rosie—”

I didn’t let her finish; I tore at her face with my claws, trying to distract her from her firm grip on me.

“Release your hands from me. I demand this at once,” I shouted.

“Why are you talking like some kind of royal? Hey, Duchess Cray Pants, calm the eff down.”

“I will not calm down, and I will not strip off my pants. This is not happening again. I refuse to have that goliath of a woman—”

The door opened before I was able to finish my sentence. Standing at what seemed like the Loch Ness Monster’s size, filling the doorframe with her knee-high stockings, white technician outfit, and her snarly unibrow was Marta, in the flesh.

“Nooooo,” I yelled, my hands cupping my crotch out of pure self-defense. “You’re not going to touch my vagina; you hear me, you . . . you . . . manatee!”

“Rosie,” Delaney scolded me. “Don’t be rude.”

Releasing myself of Delaney’s grip, I cowered in the corner, still gripping my crotch and staying as far away from Marta as I could, who was giving me a rather strange look.

“Ah, Captain Cunt Ripper,” Marta pointed and laughed at me. “You come back for more.”

“The hell I did. You’re not touching my vagina, you hear me?” I threatened her with my fist in the air. “If you come near me, I’ll have to do damage.” I shook my fist, my tiny, very weak fist. “I know how to do some damage with this thing, so unless you want to answer to Five-Finger McGee, then I suggest you keep your distance.”

“So no Vajazzle for you?”

I paused for a second, trying to figure out what kind of language she was speaking.

“Vajazzle? Is that some sick term you use when you’re tearing people’s clits off and laughing about it? Well, I’m not falling for it. I see the wax; I know how this works. I pull my pants down, you search my area for weak spots, apply wax in areas that will buckle all my senses, and then you rip off precious lady parts, adding them to your graveyard of psychotic torture. You’re a sadist!”

Delaney walked over to my corner cocoon and lowered my fist by palming it and pushing it down. She knelt in front of me and took my head in her hands so I had to look her in the eyes. “Hey, Muhammad Ali, lay off the threats. Vajazzling means the bedazzling of one’s vagina.”

“What?” I asked, completely confused.

“They put jewels right above our pubic bones; it’s a way to spice things up in the bedroom. I wanted to give it a try before the wedding to see if it was something I wanted for the honeymoon. They do fun designs and really make your vag sparkle. It’s painless.”

My eyes were erratic as I tried to look around the room. Marta stood behind Delaney, pulling out a clear container of gems. My nerves started to settle as I saw her start to polish a pair of small tweezers.

“So . . . there will be no ripping of my clit?”

“None,” Delaney laughed. “Just a little . . . vajazzle. Henry will love it.”

“How big is this vajazzle?” I asked, as Delaney lifted me off the ground.

“As big or small as you want it to be. Marta, do you have a portfolio to look at?”

“Yes.” She handed us a binder full of pictures of bedazzled vaginas, some more elaborate than others. But the general idea was they decorated your underwear line with jewels. There were some designs that covered your entire pubic area and some that were just subtle. It was intricate and kind of pretty.

“This doesn’t look that bad.”

“You want spider web?” Marta asked me.

“Excuse me?”

Marta waved at my vagina with her finger and said, “Do you want a spider web design for your penis fly trap?”

Delaney snorted while Marta laughed, loving her stupid, immature, and crass joke.

“You two are stupid,” I answered back. “I’m just going to do two simple hearts, thank you very much.”

“You go first then. Your friend wants more intricate design. Take off pants, now.”

I lifted an eyebrow at Marta. “Awfully anxious to get in my pants; something you’re not telling me, Marta?”

“Oh, yes, can’t wait to see what kind of weed patch you have growing now.”

Marta, that snarky bitch.

Huffing, I grabbed a robe, wrapped it around me, and then took off my bottoms and underpants. Marta tapped her foot as she waited for me impatiently.

While I hopped up on the table, I said, “I just want to tell you that recently I’ve felt heavy down there, so if it looks different, please note I am getting it checked.”

“What you mean heavy down there?” Marta spread my legs so her unibrow could get a better look. Right when she opened my legs, she made a disgusted look and closed them quickly. “Is that your vagina?”

“Of course it is.” I tried to cover it with my robe, shoving it between my legs. “It’s attached to me, isn’t it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Delaney asked, trying to sneak a peek.

“You need to see doctor immediately. I never seen anything like it.”

Delaney scrunched her nose at me. “Oh, my God, Rosie. What’s wrong with your vagina?”

“It look like half-eaten strudel. Three-year-old strudel.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I answered, horrified.

“Like someone puked up strudel on your crotch,” Marta continued.

Delaney covered her mouth. “I’m dry-heaving.”

“My vagina is not a regurgitated German pastry. I’m offended.”

“My eyes are offended,” Marta replied with quick wit. How could she be so sassy but barely speak English? “I can’t perform vajazzle on that.”

“Well, I didn’t want your stupid vajazzle anyway.” I started to get off the table with the robe still stuck between my legs, when Marta’s head fell back and a loud, very unladylike laugh busted through the entire room. She slapped her knee repeatedly and wiped her eyes of the tears threatening to pool at the base of her feet.

“What’s happening?” I asked Delaney, who was still holding her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, too much fun. Get back on the table; your vagina is fine. Not like strudel at all. We will need a little trim, though. Sit down so I can work.”

“Wait, so I don’t have puke crotch?”

“No, your crotch is fine. We vajazzle now.”

I was correct, she was the devil, straight up, no questions asked; her feet burned the fiery heat of the underground, and she took Saten’s dick into her love cave every night. It was the only explanation I could come up with as to why this woman found such pleasure in torturing me.

I settled myself on the table and spread my legs for her. “You know, you should really pluck that unibrow; it’s very unflattering.”

There . . . jabbed her between the eyes, pun intended!