1
Aubree
Ikick the covers gathered at my feet in frustration.An hour—a whole fucking hour of trying to take myself on a magical journey to Orgastopia and what do I have to show for it? Tired fingers, an almost dead vibrator, and a light sheen of sweat covering my body.
Why can’t I get there?
It’s been an issue that has plagued me since I started having sex about five years ago. Losing my virginity at twenty-two already had me behind the curve. I’ve already alienated an ex with trying a million things to get off and never getting there. He thought I was a sex maniac, and all I wanted, was an orgasm.
Here I am, twenty-seven years old, at the end of the year, and I’m still no better off than when I started. I’d been excited to get this new vibrator along with sensitivity cream in the mail when I returned home today from my last day of work. Both products promised excellent orgasms; I couldn’t wait. After dinner, a glass of wine, and a shower, I dove into bed hopeful and excited.
A wave of sadness washes over me. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly to push away the tears that are threatening to escape. Dejected, I amble toward the kitchen to get a drink—something much stronger than wine. I make my tequila sunrise, naked because I hate wearing clothes, and it’s a perk of living alone.
I take a few sips on my way back to my room. I put it on my nightstand after an additional sip, grab my new worthless toy, clean it, and throw it in the draw with all of the other disappointing tools. I’m pretty sure it’s me and not them, but it’s easier to be mad at the toys.
Back in my room, I settle into bed with the covers pulled up to my waist and my back against my headboard and the wall. I tap my e-reader and pull up my latest book. I’ll just read about another woman who thinks she cannot have an orgasm until she meets the right guy. I call bullshit, but the fiction makes me hopeful. Can a woman really have an orgasm deficit disorder until she meets some guy with a magical wee to fix it? If so, I wonder who that guy would be for me? I close my eyes and try to imagine a dream lover who could swoop in and make me feel what I haven’t felt ever. Would I care about how he looked—maybe a little? He would have to have the power to turn me on. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to create a list when the banging starts.
My eyes pop open. I grab my drink and take a gulp. Here we go, again. I want to be dramatic and say it’s every night, but I think it’s mainly Thursday through Sunday. It never fails. The banging starts first, then the wild moaning, then some variation of, ‘Oh, Jason’ will be screamed or moaned dramatically. One of his conquests chanted his name over and over again as if she was a very eager cheerleader. For the second time in eleven minutes, I call bullshit. We haven’t seen each other, but with the crazy amount of poon he’s shuffling through his home, I must assume he’s distractingly handsome.Hasto be. Because of his possible good looks, some of the womenmustbe faking it, just to stay on his good side.
Then, I begin to wonder; what if he’s just that good? Usually, I try to drown it out by putting on headphones or going into the other room, but I’m actually interested in being nosey today. I go make another drink before it gets too good. I’ve learned his stamina is impressive.
I press my ear against the wall, upon returning with a fresh drink. Maybe there’s something I can learn from this—from him. Drink in hand, I close my eyes hoping to hear better. Bringing the straw to my mouth—it’s easier to drink and eavesdrop this way—as I focus on him and not the banshee he’s screwing.
This time, I hear the deep rumble of his voice through the wall. I’m surprised that my skin tingles. I can’t hear the words, per se, but the inflection in his voice; his man moans as he speaks, and the vibrations against my ear on the wall makes some of the arousal I lost resurface. My nipples tighten and I squirm at the moisture and low-level throbbing between my legs. Just as I consider touching myself, it’s over, after one sexy ass growl from him. Things are quiet, except for the sound of me slurping the minuscule drop of my drink hiding somewhere between the ice. Then, about ten minutes later, I hear his front door open, then close, as he undoubtedly sent his latest conquest on her way. Just like the rest—gone, after he cums.
Like I have before, I cross the living room and peek out the window to watch her Walk of Shame – Adult Edition. Her black hair is wild from the sex, her clothes are sloppy as if she hastily redressed, and her super tall stilettos are dangling on her finger. I have yet to see him keep one overnight. Ah, a Lyft— just like the rest. I imagine he sends them off with a, ‘Your ride is waiting’ or some other form of douchery.
The girl turns and frowns at his house before folding herself in the backseat and closing the door. She should have known this is possible, right? Don’t the majority of one-night stands end with one ghosting the other? Why do people continue to jump strangers, then be surprised when that same stranger sends them on their way? It’s illogical to me—it just doesn’t compute.
“Okay, Spock,” I can almost hear my best friend say.
Chloe is all emotion and feeling, and I’m rules and logic.
Could be why I can’t get off. I think bitterly as I jump back into bed. It’s late. Hopefully, I can fall asleep with two drinks in my system. I find myself opening my eyes twenty minutes later to stare into the darkness. This jacked-up sex life of my mine is weighing on me more than usual. Sex is scientific, yet I cannot find the proper formula to make it worthwhile.
It could be the alcohol talking, but the thought of having a tutor—some sort of sex coach— sounds like a fantastic idea. I believe a sex doctor would be over the top or expensive; also, I don’t have a partner to go with me. I’m not interested in being in a sex scandal while trying to find an escort. I would have to talk a guy into helping me.
Soft music on the other side of my wall brings my thoughts back to ‘Oh, Jason.’ I wonder if he would… I shake my head and my bonnet drags across my pillow as I exorcise that thought. He sleeps with too many women; it would crush my soul if he rejected me. Plus, I don’t know if I want him to touch me. A guy who switches partners that much must be sleazy. He’s probably attractive in that greasy, Jersey Shore kind of way—too much hair product and slightly orange skin—although I don’t see how that would relate in Texas. Would women here find that look attractive?
Either way, the idea somehow takes root and grows into a possibility I cannot ignore, to the point I found myself knocking on his door the very next morning.
2
Jason
I’m usually not up this early, and it hurts. I lean against the shower with both palms pressing the mosaic tile shower wall. I hang my head and let the warm water soothe my muscles. After training the new girl how to close last night, giving goth girl—I really need to start learning their names—some orgasms, and lying in bed, wondering who my abnormally quiet new neighbor is, I’m beat. I’d figured he or she must be a serial killer. No normal person is that quiet. After a few murder dreams, my alarm pissed on my morning. I did promise Carlee, however, that I would bartend Remy’s company holiday brunch while they were out of town. I groan in the shower. This is why I keep a low number of friends; my extra loyal ass likes to make and keep promises.
10:00 A.M. isn’t the earliest part of the morning, but when you average going to bed around 4:00 A.M., it’s a bitch. At the age of thirty-two, this life is starting to catch up with me. I pray this bartender isn’t as flaky as the one I had to fire at the beginning of the year. If she is really as good as her resume, I won’t have to be there all of the time. That was my plan, after all, build a self-sufficient business and collect a check, end of story.
If I must work, I’m loving these cushy ass jobs as a private bartender; awesome pay for half the effort required to run a business. Conditioner rinsed, I shut off the shower and grab a towel. The event starts at noon, so I have a little time to get my head into the game. I pad across my room until my toe gets caught on something. Bending over to pick it up, I discover it’s Goth Girl’s lacy underwear. I hope she didn’t think leaving them here would prompt me to call her. I don’t remember her name; I damn sure didn’t store her number. That reminds me…I throw them in the trash on the way to the laundry room. The moment I move my covers from the washer to the dryer, someone starts knocking on my door.
I sigh, it better not be one of the girls I’ve sent home. I tell them upfront, ‘I’m only interested in a fuck;’ yet, some of them think they’re going to change me. Every time I announce it’s time to go home, most of them give me a blank look. I swing the door open, part of my attitude projected in my stance, as I glare at the person on the other side of my door.
I blink a few times as my brain scans through pictures of women’s faces. I’m terrible with names, but I know faces. I’ve never seen this one. Cute girl. Meagan Good vibes—if Meagan Good had black glasses with lime-colored rims, didn’t wear make-up, and had her hair in a ball on top of her head. The full lips, pretty skin, and surprisingly big tits for such a small frame is the same. I lift my gaze from her baby tee, back to her eyes. They are studying me like I’m an exhibit at the museum.
“So,you’re,‘Oh, Jason?’” Her lips tip up slightly.
“What?”
