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“It’s not a goat. It’s a rabbit vibrator.” The words are broken up between her laughter. “The G.O.A.T. stands for greatest of all time. It is a Lelo vibrator—some of the best—and one of my customers buys a new one every year, telling me it’s the G.O.A.T every time.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize I was getting toys named after animals,” I retort dryly. I’m shocked I get through the entire statement before a laugh escapes.
I open the bag and take it out, feeling it up and down. It’s firm but soft, much like I remember a real cock to be, though it has buttons on the bottom and a hole for a charger. It’s not ugly like the other one, and it has a place where I can slide my finger through to hold onto it.
Quickly I put it back in the plastic bag and set it next to the blue one, before digging around in the box to see what else pops out.
I grab onto a box and pull out an extra-large box of Magnum condoms. My face is burning and my ears are getting hot. I can’t believe she gave me these. “I didn’t think toys needed condoms.”
“Oh, they don’t. But I have faith you’ll use them before they expire in two years.” She is still lying on her back, trying to hold more laughter.
I roll my eyes at her and toss the box her way. The next thing I pull out is hot pink and smaller than the other two. Mr. J the note says.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself.
“Mr. J is a remote-controlled panty vibrator. It slides into the pocket of your panties—you know, the one that absorbs all your wetness. You can either use it yourself or your partner can use it and control it for you.”
She stares at me and I stare back at her. “Why the fuck do you think I need a remote-controlled pocket panty thing?”
I haven’t had sex in so many years that I don’t think I’d know how. People say it’s like riding a bike and you never forget. Except I never learned how to ride a bike, so I’m pretty sure this could be just as traumatic. Plus, I need to be in a relationship with someone and feel comfortable before I’m going to take my clothes off in front of them, let alone hand them a remote control to . . . well, control things.
“Stop panicking about allowing someone to see you naked,” Henley spouts. Yeah, yeah. She knows me well enough that I don’t really allow anyone other than her to see me naked. It’s not as though I purposefully undress in front of her. But we’ve been friends since college and we’ve done a ton of shopping together, so she’s seen it all.
“You never know when you’ll want to try something different,” she comments, breaking into my thoughts.
“I don’t plan on swiping up or down, or even all around,” I say, and then I stick my tongue out at her.
Sticking my hand back in the box, I pull out two bottles of liquid. One label reads cleanser and one reads lubricant.
“Make sure to clean the toys after you use them so you don’t get an infection. The last thing I need is for you to complain that I gave you dirty toys when you don’t know how to keep them clean.”
I burst into a fit of giggles and point at her. “You should put that on your business cards.”
These moments are the ones I miss Hen the most. There isn’t time to laugh during my day job, nor is it appropriate, so often I forget how soul cleansing it can be.
I pull myself off the bed and run to the bathroom to relieve myself. No more than two minutes later I’m out of my dress and walking through the room in my basic bra and panties, ready to throw on my holey T-shirt and sleep shorts.
“Don’t even think about putting your pajamas on. We’re going out tonight,” Henley says and rolls herself off the bed.
Chapter 3
Kollyns
THE GOLDEN GIRL
Two hours later, I’m standing in front of a bar called The Golden Girl, trying to decide if I’m going to kill my best friend for bringing me to a strip club.
“Henley Brooke Mastrovich!” My tone drips with exasperation, and my face is pinched. “What the fuck made you think I need to watch women . . .”
She holds up her hand and stomps her foot at me. “Stop. It’s not what you think. Promise.” Then she crosses her chest with an X, and I try not to growl at her. This is going to be worse than I initially thought.
“Follow me,” she says, opening the door and walking through, her short black dress swishing as she moves. “And unclench your ass,” she whispers, and I hope no one else hears her.
Rolling my eyes at her comment, I follow her through the mostly empty and dark space. The music isn’t as loud as most clubs I’ve been in, but the vibrations hit me in the core. The smell of expensive cologne and sex fills the air. I glance down at my basic navy sheath dress and matching heels, realizing I’m slightly underdressed.
As we walk to the back of the building, I see a set of stairs in the corner. Saying a quick prayer that she is not taking me to some guy’s lair, I stare at each tread as I follow her to the second floor. The rich dark wood is a smooth contrast to the iron bars that run to the ceiling.
By the time we’ve made it up the two flights of stairs, I’m heaving some air into my lungs. Damn it. Obviously, I need to spend more time at the gym and less in the office. I mentally add working out to my never-ending to-do list.
