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Me: Nonna.
Nonna: What’s that, dear? I don’t understand.
Me: I said one word, and it was your name.
Nonna: These texts are breaking up.
Me: That’s not a thing. Texts don’t break up like calls.
Nonna: Static, dear. Just static.
Me: I know you can see what I’m writing.
Nonna: Better hang up now.
Me: You can’t hang up a text!
Nonna: Oh, well. Just did. See you Wednesday. And good job at the game. You had the cutest butt out there.
God, she was relentless. And I couldn’t imagine I could love anyone more.
But the idea of meeting someone—someone I knew would be female and a setup of a romantic nature—didn’t appeal even a little.
I still couldn’t get the mystery girl out of my head. At this point, I wasn’t sure I ever would.
With that thought in mind, I did what I seemed to do almost every time I had my phone in my hand anymore—I went directly to Reddit, hoping that someone had found the woman who spilled my pee.
I scrolled and scrolled through the most recent comments.
Some chuckled it up over my request. Which, I couldn’t deny, from an outsider looking in was a trippy as fuck post.
Some people posted their own versions of similar situations.
And others just wished me the best.
But other than that, so far, no luck.
Mystery girl was still just that—a fucking mystery.
One week into working for Alma Waters, and it was still a bit of a shitshow.
I’d officially started working for her outside of the temp agency’s jurisdiction, and I’d even turned down another job Mable had offered when this one “fell through.”
Mable had been a bit confused when my money-hungry self had actually said no to a job, but I’d played it off by telling her I was temporarily helping out my dad and grandfather with administrative work at their consulting firm.
And, yeah, even though I’d most likely bitten off more than I could chew, I had no other choice than to swallow fast and get on with it.
Day two of working for Alma included a drive to a nearby park where we took photographs of the new inventory. Why had she felt it was best to do it in a park? Well, because Alma says nature is the perfect conduit for pleasure. Whatever the fuck that means.
The photo shoot had generated quite the curiosity from passersby, and when Alma wanted to take pictures of silk lingerie dangling from a tree branch, I’d turned redder than a beet in its prime.
Days three and four had revolved around speed-packing and packaging more vibrators than I could count.
And day five had involved me going to the post office with Alma in tow. Which I quickly understood was a big fat mistake when she’d attempted to keep the shipping costs down by telling the guy behind the counter everything fell under media mail.
Media mail, for those of you who are unaware, is cheap postage for books, CDs, and DVDs.
Sex toys and lingerie, on the other hand?
Not even fucking close to media mail.
Needless to say, the post office guy wasn’t born yesterday and called bullshit.
But to my—and pretty much everyone else in the post office’s—surprise, after fifteen minutes of Alma arguing that pleasure items are not treated fairly, he gave her some kind of employee discount.
I think it was more out of fear she’d start a Sex Toys Equal Rights rally right there in the lobby than anything else.
With the way she’d been smiling like a loon as we’d left the post office, it was pretty obvious that wasn’t the first time she’d argued her way into a deal.
Obviously, at just a week into the madness, this was only the beginning. I wondered if, over time, I’d become desensitized to all of it or if the trauma would just build and build until I had to spend all of my hard-earned money on a therapist.
I guessed only time would tell.
“Honey, you need to use a lot more bubble wrap when you’re packaging the larger dildos,” Alma instructed from her perch at the other end of the dining room table. “We have to make sure they get to where they’re going intact.”
I was four hours into day seven of the job, and already, Alma had a lot to say.
I, on the other hand, had been startlingly silent. The dildo in question was bigger than my forearm, and words felt unthinkable while the urge to cover my vagina with my hand was so strong.
When the shock wore off, curiosity took over. Holding it up in the air, I asked, “People actually use these things?”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a big cock, sweetie.”
Big cock. The words fell straight from her lips as if she’d said “sweet tea.”
“Yeah, I get that, Alma, I really do,” I said, and my nose scrunched up in disagreement. “But I don’t see how anyone could use this thing without causing internal damage. Aren’t you worried someone’s going to send you their ER bill after they give this mighty beast a go?”
