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Which is where handling things yourself comes in.
At least for Natasha, because she’s already flagged three different products. “Put me down for these, with whatever STAT shipping I can get.”
“Because you’ve sworn off men,” Katie reminds her.
By the time our group pseudo-session ends, all four women have ordered gift boxes, and I feel significantly better about my decision to become a Bedroom Heaven representative.
* * *
Two weeks later...
“I cannot believe I’ve sold almost two hundred dicks,” I murmur to myself as I drive down the highway in my rusty, yet trusty, Nissan Sentra. She might not be the most stylish transportation, but she’s dependable enough to get me where I need to go, and today, that’s to the Grand Hotel for the Bedroom Heaven quarterly party.
Most of my sales have been specific items from the catalog, which ship directly to the customer in discreet packaging. But with Jaxx’s help, I’m almost sold out of gift boxes. If I can sell just a few more at the sales portion of the quarterly party, I might still qualify for the bonus.
I send a silent prayer up to whatever sex god is listening that the sales flow as readily as the strawberry flavored lube that Bedroom Heaven is widely known for, because I’ll admit that I’ve got plans for that cash. Exciting things like rent, and maybe a new vibrating treat of my own.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the stash of products in my backseat, considering which one I’d like to try. Definitely not the U-turn, which is girthy enough to concern me, or the Diesel Stroker, which has a thrust mode with thirty speeds and patterns that promises to match or be better than any human male could be from any position, but it costs over two hundred dollars. I’ve got a small clit vibrator and a bare bones dildo already, so maybe something a bit more exciting that won’t break the bank?
Too bad the real thing isn’t an option.
I haven’t dated much recently. Being too focused on school, too distracted by trying to make ends meet, and too selective about partners has left me alone more nights than I’d like to admit. So I’m glad my new gig has the potential to make those lonely nights a lot more ‘fun’.
I pull into the lot of the Grand Hotel, driving down a few aisles before I can find a parking spot. There are a lot more cars here than I expected, which makes a spike of nerves shoot through my gut. Sales isn’t my best skill, but like Kara said, the promise of dead Franklins is enough to get me pumped for this. “Twelve gift boxes and that bonus is yours, Samantha. You can do this.”
I’m not crazy for talking to myself. It’s a valid self-pep-talk method that’s recommended by many professionals.
Right as I’m about to step out, my phone rings. I’d ignore it, but I want to make sure it’s not Jaxx with some last-minute instructions, so I dig it out of my purse.
Mom.
Shit. I have to answer.
“Hey, Mom, I’m running into a... uh, meeting. Everything okay?” I spit out quickly. I don’t know why I don’t tell Mom about my Bedroom Heaven party. She’s been accepting of my plans to become an intimacy therapist, but this feels different.
I’m selling cocks, but don’t worry, it’s totally for the greater good!
Yeah, that conversation isn’t happening right now.
“And hello to you too, honey,” she replies dryly. “I won’t keep you, but I wanted to see if you’d help keep an eye on Olivia tonight?”
Olivia is my younger sister. At sixteen, she doesn’t need a babysitter. Hell, she is one. But when left to her own devices, she tends to rebel more than she should, especially against Mom’s ridiculously strict rules like no drugs, drinking, or sneaking out. Actually, I agree on the first two, but the last is negotiable. Sometimes. But Mom’s wildly invasive ideas like ‘tell me where you’re going and who you’re with’ send Olivia off the deep end into super-sized, attitude-filled tirades that stress us all out.
“Uhm, I’ll be out most of the night,” I answer, glancing at the hotel and then the dashboard clock. I really need to get inside.
“That’s fine. Just be available if she needs rescue.” Under her breath, Mom sarcastically adds, “Or bail money.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have a... I mean, I’ve got...” I swear, she sounds like a giggly schoolgirl, unsure of what to say, which is nothing like my mother. Susan Redding speaks her mind, whether you want to hear it or not, runs her family like a well-oiled machine, and works her ass off. I’m proud to say that she passed those traits on to me in spades.
Finally, she sighs and admits, “I’m going on a date. Anovernightone.”
“Mom!” I shriek in surprise. “With whom?”
My parents divorced years ago, and I’ve encouraged her to dip her toes into the dating world again. But though the twenty-something pool is full of unwashed, unmotivated frat boys, the over-forty pool is somehow even worse, with men who want to be worshiped by young, impressionable women they can control or who are cheating on their wives, which is what Dad did. Though he did end up marrying his mistress, who’s only a few years older than me.
Mom stood by us, though, helping me get to college when Dad said he couldn’t afford it because he was buying a new place, and taking care of Olivia even when, filled with hurt and anger, she told Mom that Dad wouldn’t have left if she’d tried harder to make him happy. That led to a lot of sisterly conversations where I told her that she needed to grow the hell up and quit blaming Mom for Dad’s failures.
