Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“We’re just having fun,” I say lamely.

“So you’re banging, but you’re not dating.”

“Yes. No. But we… I—”

“That’s the twenty-first-century definition of a fuck buddy. Don’t feel bad about it. It doesn’t make you slutty. I mean, shit, you spent seven years dating that Benji douche. You deserve a fuck buddy, or seven.” She thumbs over her shoulder to Charlene. “If anyone’s slutty, it’s this one. She had three FBs going at once our last year of college.”

Charlene shrugs. “It was a phase. I’m way past that now.”

“Anyway.” Violet turns back to me. “So you’ve only had sex with the lights off, you’ve only ever had your hand on his dick, and he doesn’t like blow jobs. Doesn’t anyone else find this odd?”

“I find it weird,” Charlene agrees.

“Maybe he’s shy,” Sunny says.

“Uh, have you read any of the stuff girls say about Balls?” Violet asks.

“You know I don’t look at social media. It creates problems,” Sunny replies.

“True. But some of it has merit.” Violet ponders while sipping her wine. “How big is his dick? I know what the bunnies say, but they all like to exaggerate.”

“It’s big.”

“Like, hammer of death big?”

“Um, we use the gold condoms, not the regular ones.”

“Well. That’s, uh…” Violet nods her approval. “High five, girlfriend.” I high five her. “So he’s packing, and I’m assuming it works fine.”

“We used an entire box of condoms the last time he came to Guelph.” I might be a little braggy about this.

“Holy shit. Over how many days?”

“One.”

Violet puts her hands on my shoulders. “Does your beaver have super powers? Is it made out of titanium?”

“Um, no.”

“That’s insane. How’d you manage walking the next day?”

“Carefully.”

“Okay, so let’s line up the facts and see what we know.”

“This is like the game of Clue, but about Randy’s penis,” Sunny says.

“Exactly!” Violet exclaims, clapping her hands together. “So once the wood is sheathed, lights come on and covers come off. No blow jobs, but no issues with longevity, and he’s hung. Do I have all this right, Lily?”

“Pretty much.” Individually, those things didn’t seem too odd. But now, talking about it with the girls—particularly Violet and Charlene, who seem to have a much broader wealth of experience in this department—makes me wonder exactly what the deal is. All together, Randy’s sex quirks add up to a big WTF.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might provide clues as to what the real issue is?” Violet asks.

“Oh!” I sit up straight. “He has a scar. It looks like it could be from an appendectomy, but way low, and it seems like he had a butcher for a surgeon. He has another scar on the inside of his leg. I saw it once—never mind, that part doesn’t matter.”

“So he has scars near the wood, eh?” Violet taps her lips again.

“Above the wood, and below, but that doesn’t mean one is related to the other.”

Sunny’s on her phone. She looks up and says. “Hockey accident.”

“Why would you think that?”

“’Cause that’s what Miller just said. I messaged him about it. He won’t give me details, but he said it’s from a hockey accident, and Randy doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Wow. That must’ve been some accident if he ended up with a nickname like that,” Violet says.

“That’s a pretty awful nickname,” Sunny says.

“I’m sorry, Lily. I wouldn’t have made a joke out of it if I’d known Lance was being serious and not just a jerk.” Violet actually looks taken aback.

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m curious, too. I didn’t realize it was something so—”

“Sensitive?” Sunny says.

“Yeah.” Now I feel bad, too.

“Well, mystery solved, I guess.” Violet has recovered. She rolls off the couch and opens a set of cupboard doors. “We should play Scrabble!”

“I hate Scrabble,” Sunny complains.

“We’ll play partners,” I offer.

“And we’ll make it dirty. Only pervy words allowed.” Violet sets the game up on the floor because the coffee table’s too full of stuff.

Sunny’s first word is hoor. No one says anything about the spelling.

At midnight, the guys finally roll in—well, almost all of them roll in. Lance is absent. I assume he picked up a bunny and went back to his own house. Randy’s the last to come in. He stands at the back of the group, hands shoved in his pockets. He glances at me, gives me a small, strained smile, and then his eyes dart around the room.

I’m drunk, so I don’t have much of a filter left, but he looks uncomfortable.

Alex surveys the living room. The coffee table is covered in empty wine bottles and half-eaten bowls of chips and popcorn. Bits of food litter the floor. The Scrabble game is still set up and covered in dirty words.

“What’d you girls do tonight?” Alex leans over Violet and kisses her forehead. Then he adjusts her tank top so she’s not flashing so much cleavage.