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“Wait, you have a guinea pig?” I squeal the question, almost like a regular pig.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I have one also,” I say proudly. “Her name is Monkey.”
“Seriously?” The smile is a full-on grin now. “Show me.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I say—and blush instantly as I realize how that came out.
The camera blurs as he gets up. I catch a glimpse of a room the size of my living room but filled with ramps, toys, hay, and other guinea pig goodness. In the middle of it all is a fluffy orange creature with fur that goes down to its feet.
“That’s Oracle,” he says. “She’s a Coronet.”
Huh. Now I feel like a bad piggy mom. I don’t even know what variety of guinea pig Monkey is. Nor have I ever taken her to a rodent specialist. I thought a regular vet would suffice.
Hey, at least I didn’t call her Oracle, which I presume is a reference to the database company.
It could’ve been worse.
He could’ve named her Microsoft.
Realizing we’re at the “I show him mine” stage of the proceedings, I grab a seedless grape to lure Monkey out and point a camera at her when she starts munching on it.
“So cute,” he says. “Looks like an American breed.”
“Don’t worry, yours is almost as cute,” I say.
It’s a lie. His is actually cuter, but I can’t say that in front of Monkey. She’ll never forgive me.
He goes back to where he was sitting earlier. “We should organize a playdate. Oracle doesn’t display any signs of loneliness, but I sometimes worry about her. And I’ve heard two females might get along well.”
“A playdate?” I look at Monkey for feedback but don’t get any. “Is Oracle sick, though? You said you took her to a specialist—”
“No, that was prophylactic. She got a clean bill of health.”
Should I take Monkey to a vet prophylactically? In my defense, I don’t even go for annual checkups myself.
“Monkey might enjoy a playdate,” I concede. “How would that work logistically?”
His face smooths out, assuming his signature unreadable expression. “Let me look at my schedule after we’re done. I’ll text you the details.”
After we’re done.
I almost forgot what we’re here to do.
My pulse picking up, I return to my place on the couch. “Back to business?”
He nods. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“Umm. I’ve chosen the hardware but haven’t decided who should go first.”
His eyes gleam behind the lenses of his glasses. “How about ladies first? Or should age go before beauty?”
In his case, age doesn’t stop him from having more beauty, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want him to think I’m flirting. “I’ll go first, and I’m keeping the camera on my face, like you did.”
“Of course,” he says. “Which toy are you about to use?”
Blushing, I rummage in the suitcase at my feet and pull out the clit vibrator.
