Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Interesting…
“Me? No, I’m not ticklish.”
“What? Everyone is ticklish.”
She makes a pfft sound before rolling her eyes. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re ticklish.”
Damn.
She makes a valid point, and yes, I am ticklish, though I can’t remember when anyone tried to poke my ribs or pits to force me to laugh.
Tickling is a form of torture.
I hate it, but that doesn’t make me any less curious, considering I have this vibrating buzzer in my hand.
I’m fascinated by this thing and wonder why I’ve never played with one before—the girls I dated never had one, I don’t think? Or if they did, it wasn’t something they talked about with me or anything we played with together.
Which makes me wonder how often they pleasured themselves without me.
Probably a lot since I wasn’t around much, always traveling or working out or preseason conditioning.
Real fun to date me.
Not.
Fine. I didn’t date all that often. It wasn’t easy with my dad breathing down my neck, browbeating me anytime I took a woman out and it showed up in the media. Or the time I brought a date to an award banquet in college—I had to hear about that afterward. He always had a reason the girl wasn’t good enough or why I shouldn’t waste my time when I had more important things to focus on. It’s almost as if my dad didn’t want me to have a life or a family…he wanted me to focus on the present and not my future.
Unless that future included football and only football.
It’s why the relationship between my parents sucked—though neither of them ever admitted to me that it sucked. But I had a functioning set of eyes and a set of ears, and no matter how high my mother held her chin up, she was just never good enough for my father. I don’t think she felt free until he was gone. I know that’s terrible to say, but I think it’s probably true. If I thought he controlled me, there’s no doubt that he controlled her. My brothers. Everyone around him.
My point is: I’ve never held a vibrator.
The thing continues to whir and whir in my hand, and Posey continues to watch me fiddle with it. I’m truly fascinated. Maybe I’m just being dumb and immature because I feel like a little kid discovering a new toy—it is a toy, ha ha.
In a way, it feels like I’m being given a glimpse behind the secret curtain.
Wait. Should I feel like a pervert, hands all over this thing?
Shit.
I turn it this way and that, studying its pink exterior.
Do chicks wash these things when they’re done?
Does it matter…?
I press it against my palm, moving it up my wrist.
It feels weird.
As if it were making a sucking motion? That can’t be right. Do these things do that? I thought they only vibrated, yeah?
My finger presses into the notched-out area.
Sure enough, it pulls at the tip.
Huh.
Cool.
“Why don’t you put that thing away and focus on the show.” It’s a statement and not a question. The bossy little teacher is telling me what to do.
Again.
I toss the vibrator back on the covers, letting it disappear into the darkened room. Only the light from the TV allows me to see anything.
We keep watching, occasionally laughing at something stupid the host of the show says. The commentary is what makes the show awesome.
I like it ’cause I don’t have to think ’bout it.
Yawn.
I stretch out and let my eyes close, listening to the voices but not looking at them. It’s late anyway, so I should probably get some sleep.
Not in here, though.
Go back to your room, dude.
“Don’t have the energy,” I mutter.
“Huh?” Posey mumbles next to me, and when I glance over at her, she looks half asleep too.
Still.
We keep watching.
Sort of.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep or when Posey fell asleep, but the first thing I notice when I stir is:
The morning light is streaming and causing me to squeeze my eyes shut against it.
I’m hella comfortable but…
Not in my own bed?
I want to peel my eyes open just far enough to discern where the hell I’m at, but I’m too groggy and determined to fall back asleep, despite the sun telling me otherwise.
“Go away,” I grumble, meaning it.
“Let me live my life,” I croak. Where’s my damn blanket? Where’s the pillow, so I can bury my head beneath it.
Instinctively, I reach up to swipe the side of my mouth; sometimes I’m prone to drooling and want to make sure I’ve not done it on her stomach. Posey doesn’t seem to be awake yet, and I’m still drowsy, so I continue to lie here in this position, not wanting to wake her. No idea what time it is, nor do I care.
This is much more comfortable than the hammock…
Posey lets out a little snore. Barely audible but a snore nonetheless.