No, but seriously. I’ve had more orgasms in the last two months than I have had in the last ten years.
I should have known my housewarming gift from Skye would include an assortment of new toys for me to try out.
And try them out, I most definitely have.
Chase never wanted me to have anything for self-gratification, claiming that if I used a toy to get myself off that meant he wasn’t enough for me.
He had all sorts of reasons for this twisted logic, the majority of those reasons some form of Scriptural manipulation, wrapped in fancy Jesus paper and tied with a bow of shame.
But no matter the reason, the core truth remained the same: my self satisfaction fed his insecurities.
It’s truly infuriating how many ways I willingly made myself small for that man.
Never. Again.
When I get to the kitchen, Skye is barefoot, crouched over a paper bag and inspecting a suspiciously large takeout order.
“What did you do?” I ask, arching an eyebrow as I lean against the counter.
She looks up, grinning like a raccoon who just found a box of donuts.
“I panicked and ordered one of everything.”
“Literally one of everything?”
“I had a coupon,” she says, pitch so high I wouldn’t believe her if she swore on her dead mother.
“You’re lying.”
Skye shrugs, not even attempting to keep up the charade. “I’m absolutely lying. But the point stands—we have drunken noodles, red curry, green curry, spring rolls, and what Ithinkare crab rangoon, but I’m not entirely convinced.”
“I thought you were just going for dish soap?”
“I did get dish soap. And then I got sidetracked by the call of coconut milk and MSG. Blame capitalism.”
I laugh and grab napkins and chopsticks while she opens containers like a magician revealing tricks. Steam wafts through the air, the scent of lemongrass and chili hitting me in the face like a warm slap.
God, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I’m fairly certain I forgot to eat lunch today.
We sit cross-legged on the couch, food balanced in our laps, the coffee table a mess of plastic lids and sauce packets. The apartment smells like curry and soy sauce and something vaguely sweet that might be coming from the candle I forgot to blow out in the bathroom.
“So?” Skye asks, mouth full of noodles.
“How was day one?”
I take a bite of red curry, the heat catching me by surprise and making my eyes water just a little. “It was... fine. Dr. Johnson is a sweetheart. Very Mr. Rogers meets Einstein. There’s a binder with all the instructions I could ever need. And the HR lady gave me a tour that somehow didn’t feel like a punishment.”
“See? Already thriving.”
“Let’s not go that far. I nearly cried filling out a W-4.”
She winces. “Yeah, that'll do it. Nothing like federal tax paperwork to remind you that you're single and slightly unhinged.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into a comfortable rhythm of chewing and casual commentary, the kind of quiet companionship I didn’t realize I’d been missing until I had it.
For a moment, it feels like I’m part of something again. Safe. Unwatched. Not weighed down by someone else’s disappointment.
