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ChapterThirteen
One sleepless night later,my decision stands, so I text Art the good news:
My answer is yes.
At least, that’s what I mean to write. Thanks to the evil that is autocorrect, what he actually sees is:
My hamster is yes.
He must get what I mean, though, because he replies instantly:
Let’s meet and talk details. How about a banya?
Banya? As in a place where you get naked? That’s crazy.
Or is it?
Seeing him with fewer clothes on could give me a chance to test my masturbation theory.
Yeah. That’s it. I’ll diddle Miss Daisy a few times before I go and see if he still has an influence on my libido.
It’s a date, I reply eagerly.
While I wait for his reply, I get my favorite sex toys ready, along with my toothbrush.
When it comes to toys, I follow an approach inspired by Marie Kondo: I don’t keep toys that do not spark some seriously joyous orgasms. Instead of throwing the unwanted toys away, however, I write about them on my blog, then sterilize them and sell them online.
Yes, that’s right. I’ve sold used dildoes, and even butt plugs. I’m always honest about their used condition—and I’m always a seller, never a buyer. It’s probably broke women like me who buy them, but maybe pervs too. Oh, and if my germophobic sister, Gia, were to hear about this, she’d probably have a meltdown.
As I walk out of the bathroom, Woofer starts his clean cycle.
My dearest human overlord, I beg of you, for the love of iRobot Corporation, keep your mammalian fluids off my floors. It’s bad enough to know that dust has your dead skin in it.
My phone dings.
It’s Art. He gives me the time and the place.
Great.
I start my epic masturbate-o-thon.
* * *
I’m walking funny as I approach my Brighton Beach destination. I might’ve overdone the toothbrush vibrations, something I should warn my readers about in my next blog post.
The banya is named Easy Fume, which brings to mind a horrific combo: sexual promiscuity and stinkiness.
Art is already waiting for me by the door, dressed in a stylish pair of dark jeans and a white polo shirt.
I’m suddenly feeling frumpy in my yoga pants.
He beams a sensual smile at me.
Oh, boy. Did I masturbate enough?
He hugs me.
Maybe not enough.
