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“Uh, Cally. Where were you going to find pictures of the… expressions?”
“You’ve scoured the Internet before. Surely you know there are a million incels living in their mothers’ basements who would be quite happy to volunteer for the job. These ready, willing, and eager males would jump at the chance of relieving themselves and sending me pics of their… product. Of course, I’d need to get signed non-disclosure agreements and would have to be prepared for a boatload of unsolicited dick pics, but the end result might be worth it.”
I can’t help myself. I have to offer one more. “From Essence to Euphemisms: A Humorous Handbook of Seminal Synonyms.”
“Oh, so good. How about, Sticky Semantics: An Illustrated Guide to Ejaculatory Expressions?”
She smiles at me, and despite the topic, when our gazes collide, mine doesn’t run from hers. Although my sheets are soggy, her affection for me hasn’t disappeared.
“All done!” She’s finished untying my ankles. “See, I kept you distracted. Now, go take your shower.”
When I’m at the bathroom door, I toss over my shoulder, “Names for the Nectar: A Glossary of Sperm Slang.”
“Sticky Stories: A Celebration of Seminal Semantics,” she calls after me.
I’m still chuckling when I turn on the shower.
Chapter Twenty
Sylas
When I emerge from the shower, wearing my only clean pair of shorts, Cally is dressed, her orange hair is twisted into an elaborate configuration of braids, and she’s dancing while stirring something at the stove.
I’m struck with a powerful hunger that has nothing to do with the delicious smells wafting my way. There’s something so captivating about watching my female cook for me, not to mention the delightful way her bottom is swaying to imaginary music I’m not able to hear.
“I imagine all that midnight action made you hungry,” she says, not taking her eyes from the pot she’s stirring.
If someone had asked me how I’d feel about the woman I’m courting making fun of my… seminal emissions, I would have imagined I’d be embarrassed to the roots of my hair. But there’s something about Cally’s matter-of-fact attitude about my rut that’s reassuring, destigmatizing.
I bite back the urge to answer her question with something stupid like, “Of course I’m hungry. Hungry for you.” Instead, I respond, “What did you find to cook?”
“Oatmeal, raisins, and even a packet of walnuts. Gourmet all the way, baby.”
“Baby? I’m a foot taller than you.” And could throw her over the fence almost as easily as I threw her battery—though I don’t say it.
“Figure of speech, baby.”
Another smell overpowers the sweet fragrance of the oatmeal and raisins.
“Grizz!”
“What? A… grizzly bear?” She must have caught the alarm in my voice, because she turns to look at me, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Grizz. My best friend. He’s close.”
My gaze darts around the room, looking for anything that would give away her presence. I pick up the school-bus-yellow forty-pound bag of dog food and hurry to stow it in the john as I tell her, “Put away one of the bowls and spoons you’ve set on the counter, grab your clothes and your bag, and hide in the bathroom.”
I scan the room again, but don’t see any other dead giveaways.
“What about Tater?” She sounds frantic.
“I’ll tell the truth. He must have crawled under the fence.” I pause, thinking. “What’s the most pungent-smelling thing in the cabinet?”
“Uhh. Vanilla?”
“What’s that?”
She hurries over, a ball of her clothes that she picked up off the floor in her hands, and pulls a little, brown bottle out of the cabinet and hands it to me.
