Whatever he finishes that sentence with, I can’t hear, because I’m screaming again.
He screams too.
It’s high-pitched and girly.
No.
Not him.
It’s—
Are you serious right now?
It’s a little girl.
“Out!” I shriek. “Get out!”
Curtain.
Shower curtain.
Hide.
Hide hide hide.
My damn fingers refuse to work as I reach for the one thing I have for protection between my naked body and this man and child.
But I fumble, miss, andI slip in the damn bathtub.
I’m back recording for Cheeky-Cheeky, having opted not to wear underwear beneath the towel while I talked to the camera about the flaw in bathroom designs of towel racks always being too far from the shower or tub.
No panty lines if there’s no underwear.
Plus, I was way overdue on laundry and didn’t have any clean pairs.
And my audience expects authenticity from me, so I ran the shower and got the glass door good and foggy before stepping into it and starting filming.
And my social media followers—all six hundred of them—love a livestream of behind-the-scenes.
And that’s how I ended up broadcasting myself live from my phone as I slipped on a puddle of water on the tile floor in my bare feet while making my entrance onto the studio camera, going ass over teakettle and losing my towel—just like I’m flailing here in the bathtub—flashing mostly my vagina to the livestream.
They’re calling me theCheeky Beaver.
And now I’m recreating the entire thing while a massive mountain of a man and an innocent little girl are exposed to my naked body.
My head tilts under the pressure of the towel, taking me backward.
My legs fly up.
The base of my skull knocks against the edge of the tub.
My vagina flashes in full view to anyone and everything.
Again.
“Owwwwwwwout!” I shriek.
I yank for the shower curtain again. There’s a creak, then a snap, and dust swirls down on me as the whole contraption pulls off the wall, screws and all, and hits the toilet with a metallic clang.
