Page 37 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I’m stunned.

“I have eight hundred more things to try on,” Henry pouts. You’d think he’s been asked to carry the weight of the planet. “I’m going to put you down for a second.”

“Hi, I’m Saoirse!” Who lets their phone sex operator talk to their sister? No one. Ask me how I know.

Unicorns.

“Kait, when are you going to visit? He said you two haven’t met in person yet. He’s been vague, making you infinitely more intriguing.” Good tip, keep it vague. “You’re in Columbus, Ohio, right?”

Henry told her about me? Is he delusional?

She continues. “It’s not like you live in Hong Kong. It’s like a thirty-minute flight. You should come to Sunday dinner. You haven’t suffered until you eat with my six shithead brothers.” Her feminine lilt is such a contrast with her colorful language. It’s hilarious. Or it would be if I weren’t busy trying not to have a stroke.

“Uh, yeah, so that’s no pressure at all, you know, to come to Sterling family dinner, meet all forty-two of you at once, and be stuck there for hours.” She has no idea I’m Henry’s phone sex operator. Should I pretend to get disconnected?

Saoirse laughs. “You’re right. Mom would take him shopping for engagement rings the next day.”

Henry interrupts. “Saoirse, what did you say? Kait sounds like she’s going to vomit. Give me the phone. Didn’t Mom teach you about touching things that don’t belong to you?”

“I’m okay, Henry.” I’m not okay. “Uh, Saoirse, we haven’t set, uh, a time frame for meeting. I don’t even know what he looks like. We’re in the get-to-know-you phase.” No, we’re in the I’m-his-phone-ho phase.

Saoirse doesn’t hesitate. “I can take a picture right now. Let me find him. I could get one with his shirt off.” We decided early on if he couldn’t see one of me, I wouldn’t look at one of him. Quid pro quo and all that. Still, I totally googled him and was one click from seeing his face before I stopped.

“Erm, I’m on a landline at the moment.” There’s no cone of candor if I’m not talking to Henry, right?

“Oh, well, I can tell you.”

“Saoirse, these pants are a hard no,” Henry grumps. “No skinny jeans, no skinny anything. And no turtlenecks. I look like that Dr. Seuss turtle, what’s his name?”

“You don’t look like Yertle, but objection heard. And potentially ignored.” She comes back to the phone. “He’s so picky for someone with no fashion sense.”

My imagination goes into overdrive. Henry barefoot and shirtless, jeans open, sexy underwear peeking out. Yum.

Saoirse flips through clothing racks while she talks, the slide of each hanger rhythmic, and she whispers a tiny no, no, no with each one, then a small hum of approval. “This is a yes, Henry.”

To me, she says, “So, you don’t know what Henry looks like, hmmm. He looks like a guy who thinks athleisure should be worn in public. He’s incorrect.” More hangers and fussing. “What kind of dating app doesn’t make you share a photo? I want that. A world with no dick pics from random dudes? Heavenly.”

Vague, keep it vague. “You can share photos. We were enjoying imagining each other completely hideous.”

“That makes total sense to me. Henry, V-cut notwithstanding, is the ugliest Sterling boy duckling, six of six, so he should keep your expectations low. He’s also secretly my fave. Shortest too. Luckily, his abs are pretty spectacular.”

“Henry?” I’m still on speakerphone. “Are you holding out on me? Do you have cum gutters?” Baby jeebus, help me be strong.

Saoirse’s laugh is infectious. “Cum gutters! Like he’s ready to audition for Magic Mike 17.” She’s positively cackling, and it makes me giggle too. “I cannot wait to tell Sky about this.”

“Stop saying cum gutters,” Henry hisses. The admonition makes me laugh even harder. “Saoirse, you aren’t ninety. You don’t need to yell at the phone! And stop saying the f-word. Kait, I hear you laughing. You are not helping.”

“Dang, Henry,” I tease. “I’ve heard you say cum gutters and use the f-bomb multiple times this week.”

Saoirse makes a dramatic gasp, saying, “Kait, you heard Henry say fuck? Like the actual curse word? Not ‘f-word’ or ‘f-bomb’—he used the actual word fuck?”

“Yup,” I confirm, nodding even though she can’t see me. “More than once.”

“Henry, I’ve only heard you use the word shit twice in our whole lives. First, when you broke your wrist, and then when your lunatic girlfriend asked Deck for his autograph.” More clothing rustling interrupts the thought. “Plus cum gutters. Bravo, Kait. Bravo.”

He hisses, “Stop saying cum gutters in Christian Dior.”

“So we can say cum gutters in Calvin Klein?” Saoirse asks, taunting him. “That’s fine.”