Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

I ponder this while I lie there, restless, conscious of it next to me but afraid to touch it. Afraid? Please, don’t be ridiculous.

Intimidated, maybe. Clueless, absolutely.

What does a person do with it, anyway? Put it all the way inside and crank up the power? Rub it around the outside? It’s not that I’ve never felt around “down there” with my hands; I’ve just never used a toy.

So what if everyone is doing it? So what if sex toy sales skyrocketed during the last global pandemic? How would I even know if I was enjoying it?

I am not a prude.

Am I?

I sigh, slightly bored and not even close to drowsy.

The weight of “The Quickie” is like a thousand elephants beside me, bogging down the mattress, a distraction I did not need tonight.

Really, Chandler? You couldn’t stand the distraction of perhaps loosening up a bit after the longest day of your life?

Just do it. What’s the big deal? No one is here. No one can see you. No one can hear you. Zero people. If you’re bad at it, who is going to know?

Me. I’ll know.

You don’t count, you chickenshit. It’s a vibrator, not a taser. Chill.

My hand finds it in the dark, my cheeks flaming hot all the while—I don’t have to feel them to know they’re red. On fire.

I hold the power button down; it lights up.

I’m wearing pajama bottoms—do I hold this thing over the top of them? That seems counterproductive, and I chuckle to myself as if the thought is absurd, moving the pink machine over my thigh, letting the quiver hit my skin. Teasing the leg of my sleep shorts, the hem short enough that the barest brush of a hand would expose my goods.

This feels as awkward and as unnatural as an author must feel reciting sex scenes into a dictation app.

The pink glows in the dark as I lead it to the inner crux of my thigh, dragging back and forth, experimenting. Close enough to the mound beneath my underwear, but far enough away that I’m not officially masturbating yet.

It still feels peculiar.

Maybe pull your shorts down, weirdo.

I bite my lip.* * *What is that damn noise?

It sounds like banging—no, not the sexual kind of banging; I’m talking about the sound of someone knocking on a door.

Obnoxious and annoying so early in the morning.

What time even is it?

Early—my alarm hasn’t gone off yet and that’s set for eight.

I suck in the saliva that’s dripping down the side of my mouth and crack an eye open, the sun blinding me with its beaming rays of light.

Ugh. Too soon, TOO SOON.

I throw an arm over my eyes. Where is that damn eye mask when you need it?

Knock-knock.

Ding, dong. Ding.

Dong.

That’s weird. Now it sounds like the knocking and doorbell are coming from inside my place.

I roll to the side, eyes cracking to stare at the blank, white wall. I really need to hang up some artwork—so blah. So boring.

My phone buzzes.

Grabbling for the nightstand without having to roll toward it, I feebly feel around, fingers making contact with my cell, blurry eyes coming into focus.

Hollis.

I swipe to answer, pretending I’ve been awake for hours. “Hey!”

“Let us in.”

“Let you in?” I repeat, confused.

“We’re outside. No worries—I have coffee and donuts.”

Outside. Coffee. Donuts.

Knocking.

“Oh shit, oh shit.” I throw back my covers, kicking them off. “Shit, what time is it?”

Hollis laughs. “Don’t worry, we just got here. We’ll sit on the steps and eat your crullers while you get dressed. Take your time.”

I love crullers—they are my all-time favorite donut! “Don’t you dare!” I threaten.

“Mmm mmm mmm,” my cousin taunts before hanging up. “Yummy yummy.”

I palm the phone and glance at the time.

8:05

My alarm never went off! Or…I never set it?

Does not matter—I’ve got to hurry!

Get dressed. Brush my teeth. Brush my hair! Oh god, there’s no time for that.

I’m so embarrassed—not that my cousin is the epitome of being on time, but because they’re here to help and I’m still in bed. Instead of crawling back under the covers, I want to crawl under a rock.

I stumble to the closet, the boxes of clothes still mostly packed away, but at least I know what’s in them. That one is jeans, that one is leggings and sweatshirts, and that one is…

That one…

Oh my god WHO CARES you are wasting time!

I pop open the one with leggings inside, snatching up the first pair I find on top; they’re brightly colored, covered in pops of pink, periwinkle, and sage green, a kaleidoscope to cheer me up when I can barely focus.

On goes a tank top—oops, but first a bra—a neon pink bro tank with my old grocery store’s pig logo and Piggy Wiggly, Shop the Pig! tagline emblazoned on the front. I won it during a raffle fundraiser and why have I never thrown it out?