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Of course, the negotiation isn’t over yet. “One thing,” I say, striving for at least a modicum of business-meeting-appropriate composure. “The reviews will be honest. If I don’t like a toy, I’ll say so and why. I’ll also be transparent with my followers about our arrangement.”
“Sounds fair. I believe in my product.” She reaches into the suitcase and grabs an extra-large dildo. “Good or bad review, it’s a win for me.”
“Oh?”
“Good is obvious,” she says. “But bad is useful because if you have good reasons for why something doesn’t work, it gives us an opportunity to improve the product—which is what I’m all about.”
Huh. She’s really dedicated to women’s pleasure. We have a lot in common.
“By the way, what do you think of this?” She tugs on the two ends of the dildo she’s holding, and the thing opens up—revealing a smaller dildo inside. She does this again, and there’s an even smaller dildo. Then smaller still.
“It’s a prototype,” she says. “For now, we’re calling them matryoshka cocks.” I watch her get down to the last teeny-wieny toy—and it turns out that it can vibrate really well.
I purse my lips. “I’d have to use the matryoshka cocks to be sure, but off the top of my head, this would make a great travel companion for someone who likes to play with different sizes.”
“I know, right?” She reassembles the matryoshka cocks into one oversized dildo.
“It’s also the ultimate gift,” I say.
“How so?”
I grin. “We don’t usually know what size preferences our friends have when it comes to these things, but this is a ‘one size fits all.’”
“‘One size fits all,’” she says thoughtfully. “I think I will use that if you don’t mind.”
I open my mouth to say that I’d be honored, but Fabio’s voice rings out.
“We’ll resume the dancing with a father-daughter dance,” he says into the mic.
Bella drops the matryoshka cocks back into the suitcase and zips it up. “You’d better go. We’ll talk more in the near future. I have no doubt this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
I shake her hand vigorously and run to the dance floor where Dad awaits.
As we start, Dad’s eyes begin to tear up. My own follow.
“I wasn’t sure if we should even do this,” he says, his voice breaking. “This dance is an outgrowth of patriarchal history, after all. But your mom insisted, and now I’m glad she did.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
Then I recall that my marital status is fake, and the warm feelings transform into sadness. I also feel guilty about lying to Dad. He’s got tears in his eyes, for skunk’s sake.
When the dance is finally over, Dad blows his nose and leads me back to the table.
Please let all the formal crap be over.
Nope.
Fabio announces the next phase: a dance between the mother-in-law and her new son-in-law.
I narrow my eyes at Mom, who looks like a kid on Christmas morning.
Is this why she insisted these dances take place? Grr. Then again, Art looks so happy to participate that I’ll suppress my jealousy for a couple of minutes… that is, unless Mom grabs his tush.
Nope.
Their dance is pretty PG, though I still wouldn’t trust Mom around sushi tonight.
Also, when the music stops, Mom looks extremely disappointed.
