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Their eyes widen in unison.
“You didn’t!” Fabio exclaims.
I flush. “I did. Sniffed it for all I’m worth.”
Honey chuckles, and Fabio squeals in delight so loudly it reminds me of my mom’s frequently-told tale about how she brought Petunia, a pig on my parents’ farm, to orgasm. It was to aid artificial insemination, not because Mom does that for kicks. At least that’s the official story. Related fun fact: pig orgasms last a half hour… on average. The masturbation expert in me is jealous beyond belief.
“So, did he fail the sniff test?” Honey asks. “Do you find him repulsive now?”
I sink into my uncomfortable plastic seat. “The opposite. The dance belt smelled divine.”
Fabio nods knowingly. “That man looks like he might smell good, but for you to think so, it’s huge.”
Honey shushes him. “What happened next?”
Maybe I shouldn’t tell them? Maybe being called a tart, or hearing lemony puns for the rest of my life is still a better fate?
But no. I’ve been telling my blog readers there’s nothing shameful about masturbation, so it would be extremely hypocritical of me to clam up about that part of the story—the one where I fed the bearded clam. Or is it “speared” the bearded clam?
Either way, I check to make sure no one has wandered into my part of the ferry and take a deep breath. “He smelled so good I couldn’t help but draft a blog post. If you catch my drift.”
Honey’s eyes are the size of quarters, but Fabio looks confused—that is, until she whispers something into his ear that sounds like “lube job.”
At first, Fabio wrinkles his nose—his go-to response when female anatomy is mentioned under any circumstances. But within seconds, he’s laughing uproariously, and I wish remote-controlled robots existed, so I could choke him over this videocall.
“Let me get this straight,” Honey says, clearly fighting her own urge to laugh at my expense. “You sniffed his G-string and—”
“His dance belt.” I have no idea why I’m correcting her.
Fabio stops laughing and gives Honey a narrow-eyed stare. “Are you about to make some close-minded remarks?”
Honey looks offended. “It’s just a funny image. You have to admit, a G-string is something a girl would wear, not—”
“Dance belt,” I growl.
“Sweetums, puh-lease,” Fabio says. “The hotties in Magic Mike wore G-strings much better than any woman could—and that’s just off the top of my head.”
It’s rare for Fabio to have a good point, but that is one, for sure.
“Fine, guys can rock a G-string,” Honey says. “I’m sorry if—”
“I’m not finished yet,” I surprise myself by saying. “So there I was, strumming my banjo… when he walked in on me.”
Honey drops her phone, and the room I can see through my screen looks like it was hit by a tornado.
Fabio’s squeals sound even more like the orgasm of a pig, one who’s into hardcore BDSM.
Their faces show up on the screen again.
“He saw you buffing the muffin?” Honey asks, looking delighted.
“Did you have your pants down?” Fabio asks at the same time.
Should I tell them about my vibrating panties? Nah. Given their reactions thus far, Fabio might just have an aneurism, or turn into bacon. Same goes for telling them The Russian actually made me come. I myself haven’t processed that one. I’m not sure I ever will.
“I pulled my hand out in time.” My cheeks burn at the memory. “But… I’m pretty sure he knew what was up.”
This time, even Honey squeals—a rare event. Not that you can hear it over Fabio’s noises.
