For the first time in months, I’m completely by myself. By some miracle of scheduling, all of my housemates have places to be this afternoon, and I don’t. Well, at least not for a little while. My shift at The Gatehouse doesn’t start for a few hours, so I have some time to kill before I slip on my uniform so I can wait tables at the fanciest restaurant in town for the dinner shift. I’m just grateful for the hours, so I’m not complaining. Being an equipment manager for the hockey team takes up most of my free time, so I’m lucky that The Gatehouse keeps me on the schedule, even if I can only manage a few shifts a month. Tips are tips, and as a college student who’s paying her own way, I’ll take every penny I can get.
That’s why I’m still here at the hockey house, honestly. There’s no way I’d pass up free housing, even if it means I have to deal with Blue Halliday’s entitled ass. This house is palatial.There's a pool, a sauna, a hot tub, a weight room, and a movie theater. Between the ridiculous amount of square footage and the fact that I live here with ten other people, you wouldn’t think it’d be hard to steer clear of a certain defenseman who manages to piss me off just by breathing. Somehow, though, it’s nearly impossible for me to avoid the guy. Our schedules are way too similar, and he has the annoying habit of being exactly where I need to be at the same time I need to be there. Like just now, for instance. Who sleeps on the couch until noon? And then gets mad that someone has the audacity to run the vacuum?
Blue Halliday, that’s who. He’s the most infuriating human being I’ve ever met. He walks around here like he owns the place, and from what I’ve heard, he probably could. Blue comes from a family with more money than they could ever spend in a lifetime, and that’s just one of the many things we don’t have in common. While I was working two jobs in high school just so I could afford my car and my phone and anything else my peers all took for granted, Blue was vacationing in exotic locations and attending one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country.
He and I will never see eye-to-eye. We’re just too different. But I’m not going to waste my precious free time thinking about Blue. I’ve got work to do.
After storing the vacuum in the hall closet and checking to make sure that the front door is locked and the alarm is set, I head back to my bedroom. I close the door behind me, and turn the lock for good measure. I’m being paranoid, and I know it. This isn’t a big deal, or at least, it shouldn’t be. What I’m about to do is totally normal. People do it all the time. Every day. And that’s fine. It’s good, even. Great. Wonderful.
And the orgasm I’m about to give myself is going to be exactly that. Wonderful.
At least, that’s the plan.
I take a deep breath and shake my head, like that will clear all the confusion and apprehension out of my brain. It’s not like I’ve never done this before. I’m no pro, but I can get the job done. Usually.
But right now, the pressure is on. I have about an hour before my house starts filling up with people again, and since I have to complete my first entry for the study by midnight tonight, I need to put on my big girl panties and make myself come. Well, I guess it’ll work better if I take my panties off.
I strip out of my clothes and crawl back under my covers. Dammit, I should have cranked the heat up. It’s cold in here, and I can feel goosebumps pebbling my skin as I smooth my hands over my naked body in an attempt to get myself in the mood. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work. I’m not in the right headspace for personal sexy times right now, but the clock is ticking and the deadline is looming.
Agreeing to do this study was a mistake, but when I signed up, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Last semester, I participated in a sleep study for the psych department. It was easy to do, and I was paid for my time. I had to take some notes on my daily habits, fill out some questionnaires, and sleep in the lab a few times, but that wasn’t so bad, and the check I received more than made up for any inconvenience.
On the last day of the study, I was chatting with Natalie, one of the researchers, while I finished up my paperwork. She mentioned that she was doing another, longer study in the spring semester, so I happily signed up for that, thinking it’d be more of the same.
Boy was I wrong.
This study isn’t about sleep schedules or Circadian rhythms. It’s about the female orgasm.
Fuck. My. Life.
Or rather, fuck myself.
Because that’s what I need to do, and then I need to jot down the details of the experience. Yep. I have to keep a log about my orgasms, how I achieve them, how long they last, and how satisfying they are. There’s a bunch of other stuff, too, but I’ll worry about that after I get this part over with.
Closing my eyes, I let my hands roam over my body again, but this time, I go a little slower. It doesn’t make any difference. No part of me feels sexy or aroused right now. I just feel rushed and embarrassed. I should back out of the study, but I know they’re counting on my participation. Besides, I’m counting on the stipend I’ll receive. If I can do this successfully, I’ll have a little room to breathe this summer instead of working myself ragged like I have for the past few years.
With a determined sigh, I move my hands to my breasts, letting my fingertips graze over my nipples. They’re hard, but that’s because I'm cold, not because I’m turned on. Still, I’ve got to start somewhere, so here goes. I do my best to relax and let my body get lost in the sensation, but after a few minutes, I’m just bored and frustrated. Grabbing my phone, I check the time and am reminded that I need to get myself in the mood before the guys get back. They’re good roommates, for the most part, but they’re not quiet, and they have no sense of personal boundaries. If I don’t hurry up, I’m bound to be interrupted by someone banging on my door and asking if I’ve seen their AirPods, or if I want a burger, or if I know how to use an iron.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I reach into my nightstand drawer and pull out the box that I shoved there a month ago. After I realized what the study was about, I had the brilliant idea to buy myself a vibrator. I’ve never owned one, and this model came highly recommended by strangers on the internet. It has about a million five star reviews and it sold out after only a few days on the market. I’m one of the suckers who fell for all the hype, but I haven’t had the guts to use it yet.
I haven’t even opened it yet. I didn’t even know it had been delivered until I watched in horror as Leo Santos unwrapped it, thinking it was his gift from Secret Santa. I’ve never been so mortified in all my life, and looking back now, I probably should have played dumb and let him have it.
But I didn’t, and now I own a limited edition vibrator that took the internet by storm with its dual action capabilities. On paper, this thing is a miracle worker. But now that it’s in my hand, I’m not so sure. I’ll admit to being intrigued by all the features, but there’s one thing I can’t get past, no matter how hard I try.
It’s a reindeer.
A mother-effing reindeer vibrator.
And yes, its nose is red, and yes, it blinks when it’s charging.
Why did I ever think this was a good idea? And how am I the only person on the freaking planet who thinks it’s cuckoo bananas to stick a vibrating reindeer up your hoo-ha?
Knowing I’m not going to get anywhere with Rudolph’s filthy cousin, I shove it back into my drawer where it belongs. The problem is that I’m not sure what to do next. I’m definitely not feeling sexy, but for some reason, I really want an orgasm now. Maybe it’s the power of suggestion or the looming deadline for my first entry, but there’s an undeniable need forming low in my belly, and I’m not sure how to satisfy it. It’s been way too long since I’ve been with anyone, and even longer since I’ve been with a guy who knew what the hell he was doing.
Swiping my laptop from my bedside table, I open a browser tap and type a few words into the search bar. I scroll through the page and immediately dismiss the dick pics. That’s on me for typing the words “masturbation tips”. There are a whole lot of…uh… tips. And oh my god, are dicks really bent like that? I haven’t seen a ton, but the ones I’ve been up close and personal with have all been straight up and down. There’s been nocurvature. And definitely no piercings. And holy crap, why are there so many dick pics on the internet?!
Finally, after scrolling through the cock parade, I refine my search terms. This time, instead of actual dicks, I get a slew of silicone ones. I wish I would have bought one of these instead of the creepy reindeer, but now is not time for shopping. I need to orgasm within the hour, and even with rush shipping, that’s impossible. Unless…oh my god, can you doordash a dick?
I don’t want to know the answer to that question.
