Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

I strip down to nothing so I don’t have to worry about getting this stuff on my clothes. It takes longer to apply than I’d banked on. I have to go all the way to my second knuckle and up to my shoulder, minus my pits, so it’s not uneven and funky looking. I set the timer and get out the video game console.

My elbows are the only part of my arms without the cream crap on them. I rest them on my knees so I can play in relative comfort. However, by the thirty-minute mark, my arms feel like they’re on fire. It’s making me lose games. I check the instructions again. It’s tiny, pain-in-the-ass print. This stuff better work for all the discomfort it causes. Plus it has this horrible chemical odor masked by a fake flowery smell. I can’t tell if my whole condo smells like the stuff, or just my arms.

Ten minutes later, I can’t deal with the burn anymore. I’m en route to the bathroom when the intercom buzzes. I debate ignoring it, but it could be Violet, or maybe even Sunny. I hit the button and call out a greeting.

“I’m back!”

It’s Violet. “Can you come back in fifteen?”

“Why do I need to come back in fifteen? It’s eight billion degrees out here. I have underboob sweat from walking to the door from my car. Let me in.”

“Hot. Can you see it through your shirt? Is it embarrassing?”

“Will you let me in already?”

“I can’t. I’m airing out my ball sac. Enjoy the sunshine.” This part is actually true. I haven’t put any clothes back on since I applied this crap. It’s getting to the point where I want to scratch the stuff off, even if my skin comes with it.

“Airing out your berries? Doesn’t the yeti fur impede that?” she yells.

“Berries? My balls are the size of grapefruits.”

“Pfft. Only after you’ve been bit by a spider. Now let me in. I’m not wearing sunscreen. I’ll be the color of a tomato in fifteen minutes, and it’ll be your fault. Alex will punch you in the face again.”

“How is it my fault you’re pasty?”

“Screw you, wildebeest. Never mind. Someone’s going to let me in. You’re a dickface.”

Static follows, along with some muffled conversation between Violet and what sounds like several guys. The door buzzes, and I can’t hear her anymore.

Sometimes it takes a few minutes for an elevator to get to this floor. It’s the only drawback to the building, but it’ll give me enough time to wash the acid cream off my arms so I can put clothes on.

I turn on the shower; the burning is almost unbearable, and the smell is just as bad. I step under the spray to rinse my whole body since the pain has caused me to sweat. All my parts need to smell good when Sunny gets here, especially my balls—in case she wants to put them in her mouth or something.

The cream immediately washes down the drain, along with patches of hair from my forearms. It doesn’t take long before the burning feels more like fire ants gnawing at my skin, followed by a hot lava shower.

I might be screaming. It might be high pitched, but no one’s around to hear me, so there’s no way to prove it happened.

I’m quick to get out from under the scalding spray. The arm hair, which should’ve magically disappeared, is patchy, and my arms are an angry red color. A loud rap tells me I’ve run out of time. I wrap a towel around my waist and head for the door. Leaving Violet in the hall is a bad idea at the best of times—she’ll talk to anyone, and she can be loud.

“Take something! My arms are about to fall off,” she bellows when I let her in.

She’s laden with bags. She unloads everything but one of them into my arms, which leaves me unable to ensure the security of my towel. It feels loose.

“I think your neighbor might be a porn star or something.” Vi crosses to the kitchen and drops her bag on the counter. Two lemons roll out and bounce to the floor.

“Why do you think that? Did you see her up close? Does she have huge fake boobs?”

“Why is it always about the boobs? Three guys were in the elevator with me on the way up. They were all disgustingly buff, and they knocked on your neighbor’s door.”

“And she answered it naked?”

“No, I didn’t see her. I’m surmising based on the sounds we heard this morning. And they were talking about how hard it is to have a four-hour hard-on.”

“Really?”

“No. I made up the last part. But who else has three overly buff guys with unattractive faces over unless they’re in the adult movie industry?”

What my neighbor does or doesn’t do for a living isn’t something I care about right now, so I derail the conversation by asking an unrelated question. “How’s Sunny? How soon is she gonna be here? Did you make sure the waxer played nice?”