“Everyone beats off.”
“Most people don’t do it on camera, though.” Shoving a bite of pizza in his mouth, he says thickly, “It just seems too good to be true, you know. Like getting paid to breathe.”
I glare at him. “It’s for real. They have a marketing plan in place and a written offer on the table. They emailed me through the blog. But they don’t have a name to put in the contract because I won’t give it to them.” Then I realize he’s talking out of his ass. “You’re one to talk. You pretty much get paid to breathe.”
Whistling, he leans back in the booth and nods without a trace of sheepishness. Then he leans over and holds out his hand. “Fist bump, dude. May your man stick go to new and ever-increasing, uh, growing, uh… Never mind. I don’t wanna know.”
He chuckles, and we finish the pizza. He has three more slices than I do. And then I go home.
Alone.
“Give it to me harder. Harder!”
I’m in bed, but instead of my ex and her lies, I curl up with a woman who won’t fuck me over.
My laptop is streaming next to me, and the porn star moans, and it’s contrived and too breathy, but I don’t care because I’m not watching the video for her vocal articulations. This isn’t about an emotional connection.
It’s fake. All of it. But there’s safety in knowing she’s an illusion.
Pretty, pink, almost plastic-looking skin. Heavy makeup. Long, dark hair. Tits bouncing. Swollen pussy lips.
And now Sandi Sundae is shrieking like a banshee on crack. Because it’s so good, she can’t take it. She wants more. More cock. More friction. Faster fucking.
“Right there!” she wails.
I tighten the grip around my dick.
Her keening cry and the wet sound of her skin almost make me come, but I edge it. I watch her writhing, watch her begging. Like she’s begging for me.
Oh, yeah.
As I stroke myself off, my stomach muscles clench. So good, this is so good. I can’t stop now. I’m gonna blow. I’m gonna—
I roll over, pause the video on my laptop, and reach, fumbling for my iPhone and unlock it. Scroll to the camera app.
I open it and take a shot of my dick.
Click.
I look at it and study the contrast of shadows.
Meh.
Changing the angle of my phone, I take a dozen more pictures. I get up and move around for better light in my apartment, changing where my hand is and how much of my abs are in the shot.
I keep going, checking the images, looking for one I like. I scroll through the photos, my shaft like an iron rod.
Yeah, that one will work. While half of my posts are Photoshopped dicks over some urban skyline, the other half are just good ol’ erections with moody lighting and clever contrast.
I sit down, my dick pointing up, my bare ass on my chair. The leather sticks to my skin, but for once I don’t care. After snapping so many pictures, I have to wiggle my mouse to wake up the computer before I download my latest masterpiece. I add a quick filter—tonight it’s Warren—and upload to my blog.
I type, “Thinking of all of you tonight.” Just a simple caption, because I’d like to take care of business, and I hit enter. Published.
I sit back. Post number one hundred and fifty. Guess I’ve beaten off a lot in the last five months—almost daily.
I unpause PornHub.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Sandi cries like she’s lost on that threshold between pleasure and pain.
But I’m distracted and click back to my blog to see if it’s tumbleweeds or if there’s interest.
Seven likes. Fifty. Two hundred and thirty-seven. A thousand and five likes within a few minutes.
And the comments.
“OMG sexy AF.”
“AATD has the best abs. Wanna lick them so bad!”
“I wish THAT was in me.”
My hard-on loves it. I stroke again, reading the comments.
Then I click back on PornHub, fisting myself, getting lost in the sounds of her orgasms. Of the mindless fuck. Of her begging for more.
On the screen, the guy pulls out, and Sandi says the magic words, “Come on my tits.”
A message comes up—“AATD is a fucking GOD. Wish I could bounce on that tonight!”—and my balls clench, I throw my head back, groan, and come all over my hand.
They love me.
I smile.
Maybe I should thank Drew for suggesting the best way ever to get over an ex.
3
Evie
The slow whine of my straw scraping the soda lid reflects the ornery attitude that’s been festering under my skin since yesterday afternoon. Unloading on my best friend Kendall is probably the best form of therapy, but rehashing what Angela said about me is still embarrassing. Especially since I haven’t seen Kendall in ages. It takes a small miracle to get together sometimes because of our work schedules, but she’s staying over so we can have a bona fide girls’ night.
We’re tucked away in the corner of the food court, and for the last few minutes she’s been holding a fork full of Mongolian beef halfway to her mouth, her blue eyes narrowing on me the longer I babble.
“Admittedly, I’m slightly nerdtacular. I get that, but—”
She huffs. “Angela’s still a twat for calling you frumpy to Nathan of all people.”
“I can always count on you to agree with me.”
“That’s what friends are for, babe.” Her lips twitch as she studies me, still not eating her Chinese food. After a moment, she sets down her fork and tucks a lock of her long, red hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful. You just need to enhance what you have instead of always hiding your curves.”
“I don’t hide,” I insist as I swivel my straw. “I’m just not comfortable putting everything on display.”
Her eyebrow arches, and with that one look, I know what she’s going to say. That’s the problem with having a friend who’s known you since you were twelve.
I cut her off before she can open her mouth. “Don’t.”
She studies me a little longer. “It’s about what happened junior year, isn’t it?”
“Pfft. Please. I’m over that. So over that.” Okay, mostly over that. “Besides, who doesn’t have one or two horror stories from high school?”
She lowers her voice. “Or is it about that kid calling you ‘pepperoni’ in junior high?” Dear God, shoot me now. “He had to be making that up because there is no way he could guess the width of your areola in the dark like that.”
“Please shut up now before I stab you with my plastic utensil.”