“We were. But it wasn’t the height of the bed that she needed to save me from,” he says. He sighs and then presses his hand to his chest. “Sorry, this is tough to talk about. Pips, do you want to take it?”
Uh…no.
Because I have no idea what you would need to be saved from while sleeping in a sleeping bag.
“You know, it’s all still fuzzy to me,” I say, circling my hand over my head.
“Not me.” Wilder shakes his head. “I remember it like it was yesterday.” He stares off into the distance as he lies out of his ass, telling a story that I’m sure will end up incriminating me. “I was naked, ready to have some birthday fun with my wife, who had just given me the best day frolicking under my favorite lighthouse. She was naked as well and looking so fucking fine.”
I mean, thank you, but please stop talking about me naked.
“Can I be explicit when talking to you?” Wilder asks.
Please, God, no.
“No judgment here,” Sanders says, setting the football down and instead picking up a baseball that he starts tossing in the air.
“Thank you. Well, I was hard as a fucking rock, we’re talking full mast, ready to go. Pips had me turn away from her because she wanted to try something new. All for it, I turned, and she wrapped her arm around me to start stroking me. It was heaven. Then she saw that I didn’t zip the sleeping bag all the way up, so she leaned forward, pulled it toward her, and, in one tug, zipped up the sleeping bag and my frenulum along with it.”
Oh my GOD!
Also, who saysfrenulum?
“Shit,” Sanders says in a whisper and a wince while he slowly closes his legs together. “We’re talking your penis skin, right?”
“Sadly, we are.”
Horrified, because how loose is the skin down there if a “full mast” penis can be zipped up, and needing to desperately defend myself, I say, “I…I didn’t know his penis was there.”
“She always underestimates the size of my dick. The only time she remembers is when I bottom out inside her and she can practically taste me in her throat.”
I seriously think I might faint, because the wheels have fallen off.
“Anyway, that night, she became the Serial Zipper.”
Serial Zipper? How on earth did he come up with that nickname that quickly?
“A name that I don’t like,” I say. “Because it was an accident.”
“We had to get the zipper surgically removed,” Wilder says. “I was wheeled into the emergency room, wrapped up in the sleeping bag, praying to the penis gods that everything would stay intact. The surgery took two hours and a heavy dose of anesthesia, but I left with light scarring and some pride still intact.”
“Wow.” Sanders shakes his head. “And I’m assuming there was animosity from her zipping up your penis.”
“No.” Wilder shakes his head. “None.”
“Then how did your Montauk trip kick off your problems?” Sanders’s brows pull together in confusion.
Funny.
I have the same question.
“I’m glad you asked,” Wilder says. “Pips, tell him.” Wilder gestures toward Sanders.
I hate him.
I truly do.
I’ve never in my life hated a person this fast in my entire life, not Finky, Brad, Chad, or even Duncan. Took them at least a whole day. Wilder is setting an all-time record.
