Everyone loves anal
JENNIE
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Two days later as I get ready for work, I still haven't figured out how the hell to get that damn vibrator to switch off, and it's driving me mad. I turn it off with the power button. Buzz, buzz. I throw it at the wall. Buzz, buzz. I'd throw it out the damn window if I could, but I'm late for work and I'm afraid it might kill someone. I'm meeting Chaeng at the office today, so I really don't have time to get arrested. Imagine telling that story in jail. Although, it would be a great excuse to avoid this wedding. Finally, I shove the vibrator in my top drawer. I'll deal with it later. I grab my purse and phone from the kitchen counter. I'm just about to check on the location of my Uber when I see I have a text from Lisa.
Lisa: Buzz, buzz.
I roll my eyes and let out an impatient huff.
Lisa: You still in the land of the living, Pop Tart? Or did you fuck yourself into a coma with my toys?
I stare at the text and debate whether to reply, but I'll be damned if I let her have the last word. I type out a quick response as I exit my building and hop into my awaiting Uber.
Me: I haven't used your sex toys, nor do I ever intend to. Who really knows where they've been?
Lisa: Ouch, that stings. Say, speaking of stinging, did you pull that stick out of your ass yet?
Me: The only pain in my ass is you.
Lisa: Well, not yet, but I'm down for anal.
Me: Why does that not surprise me?
Lisa: Should it? Everyone loves anal.
Me: No, they don't.
Lisa: You've tried anal? Do tell. I love story time.
Despite myself, I laugh. Horrified by this, I glance up. My driver meets my eyes in the review mirror, and I cast my gaze back to my phone.
Me: No. Not ever.
Lisa: No, you won't tell me, or no, you've never tried it?
Me: No, I won't tell you.
Lisa: Remind me to get all the gory details from Chan then, will you?
Me: You wouldn't dare.
She wouldn't. Would she?
Lisa: By the way, want me to come over and show you how to use your toys?
Me: Thanks, but I have it under control. I didn't fail Sex Ed like you. Really is a shame, that. You've probably given half the women in Manhattan syphilis.
Lisa: Hey, I'm completely clean. I always wear a rubber.
Me: What a pity. I was sort of hoping karma would bite you in the ass and you'd die from one of those venereal diseases you've contracted. After all, sharing is caring.
Lisa: You don't want me dead, Pop Tart. You just want me.
I scoff at my phone.
Me: You're right. I want you . . .
I chuckle to myself to let her stew for a bit.
Me: . . . to go away.
Lisa: You say that, and yet you're still responding.
I glare at her text, type out a reply, and then shake my head and throw my phone on the seat beside me. She's right. What the hell am I doing? I hate this girl, and yet here I am, almost looking forward to our stupid exchanges. There's something wrong with me. I mean, something more than just being lonely. What does it say about me that I love texting a girl who has tormented me from the time we were twelve years old?
I need a hobby. No, better yet, I need this promotion, and then I'll get a hobby, and maybe even one day when I'm not so focused on my career, a man. For right now, I need to quit talking to Lisa Manoban, and I need to prepare myself for my first meeting with my bride, because god knows it's bound to be awkward enough.
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