Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
A light-up dildo sitting on the tank of the toilet. That’s right, a dildo lamp.
And because this needs to be preserved and shared, I take my phone out of my fanny pack and snap a picture of it. I’ll post it later on my new and improved Instagram account. The dildo lamp is undoubtedly a step up from the inspirational quotes and animal memes that populate my feed now.
While I’m busy doing this I inadvertently catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. What the hell was I thinking when I bought this getup?
The mask, or whatchamacallit, covers the top half of my face, leaving my cheeks and lips exposed. Paired with the matte fire-engine red lipstick I’m wearing, the one I would never ever have the ovaries to wear IRL, I look…like someone other than me. So maybe not such a bad decision after all.
In the midst of pondering my life choices––specifically the vinyl I’m wearing––the itch comes back. The black gloves come off and I start scratching everything I can reach. That’s when I hear something and the sound most definitely did not come from me.
A snuffle?
A snort?
The My Little Pony shower curtain comes into focus in the mirror and my instincts tell me the snort slash snuffle could only have come from behind that. My pulse goes from zero to sixty in an instant. Turning, I somehow summon the courage to slowly peel back the plastic curtain to reveal…
A mostly naked guy asleep in the tub.
I mean, I guess I’m not entirely surprised. I’m pretty sure I walked in on an orgy a few minutes ago. A mostly naked guy isn’t going to raise eyebrows around here.
Anyway, the naked guy––he’s passed out big time, his body curled into a comma facing away from me with a tangle of wild hair hiding his face. Standing over him, a familiar mix of fear and self-doubt begins to surface.
What to do? Do I go? What if he’s incapacitated? Ill? What if he needs help? I’m a pro at CPR thanks to my dad. Can I save his life if I need to? Should I attempt to save his life or should I call 911?
These are only a fraction of the questions running in circles in my head.
While that goes on, my eyes strain to make out the details of this naked stranger. No surprise, he’s another perfect specimen. My gaze moves down, down, down over a side view of big, defined muscles, a muscular chest. Broad shoulders. Biceps––very impressive. And then I reach…a diaper.
A diaper? Yep, he’s wearing an adult diaper.
Adult diaper notwithstanding, as I stare at the curve of his lower lip––the only part of his face not covered by hair––a prickle of familiarity runs up my back. I lean in for a closer look and the cringey creepy feeling gets stronger. Naked guy stirs, shifts onto his back, and my worst fear is realized. The room starts to spin and takes my heart and the air in my lungs along for the ride.
I know those lips…I know that face.
I know it because I spend an unseemly amount of time staring at it in English Lit. Dallas Van Zant is my guilty pleasure. Some girls have shoes. Some reality TV. Mine happens to be daydreaming about Dallas…and doughnuts. I mean, if I’m being completely honest.
He’s the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. There’s art dedicated to ones as beautiful as this one. Songs written. Statues carved. He’s so pretty it makes my stomach hurt just looking at him. And so out of my league that the closest I’ll ever get to him is if I throw my body in front of his speeding Porsche. That’s pretty much the only way I’m touching him without an arrest warrant being issued.
Which I’m totally down for…I mean him staying in my dreams, not the roadkill part. Boys like Dallas––the “unattainables”––the ones so far out of reach they may as well hang in the heavens, they belong in the realm of fantasy. Not in real life. Because Dallas Van Zant is the opposite of boyfriend material. He’s the anti-boyfriend, more likely to give a girl a nervous breakdown than his heart. To be honest, I actually feel bad for whoever finally does succeed in getting that slippery organ because I have a hunch it’ll be hard to hang on to.
His full lips purse as he blows out a deep breath. For a moment, I catch myself wondering what they feel like. Are they as soft as they look? Warm? I’m tempted to touch them, to run the tip of my finger along the seam.
Jesus, who am I? This is so out of character for me that I’m a little high off the thrill of it.
Other than breathing, he barely stirs. Basically, he’s unconscious and Dallas is never still. He has a tornado-like energy that sucks up everything and everyone around him. Including this girl.