A Damn Fine Lay

This guy is a really good lay.

It wasn’t until I stepped out of the shower this morning that I noticed the beautiful pink handprint he left on my butt; a red, possessive shadow with five long fingers claiming every inch. I blush and look over my shoulder to admire it, skimming a palm over the offending mark to savor the sting.

That’s hot.

I can’t tell which of the peanut gallery has piped up but there’s more than one voice who approves of this small, carnal measure of possessiveness. An educated guess would have me postulate that Jackie and Millie are the most likely candidates: one is brashly proud of herself and the other finds it so sinful that it locks her in sexual fantasy.

Millie relishes the reminder, Jackie wears it like a badge of honor to boast her skills…

And once again, I’m staring at myself in the goddamn mirror, all round curves and freckles and wet hair

Some would call that vanity.

Yeah, I fucking know that, Margot.

I sigh and I’m alone again. I shake my head to deflect my reflection and go about dressing for the day, trying distinctly not to think of how big and strong his hands are and instead of how I have to have lunch with my parents in less than an hour.

After a moment of reminiscing, Margot can sense that I’m smiling and immediately sets to rectify this malfunction. I tell myself he probably only enjoys my company because of our physical bond, which Margot argues to remind me of with boring logic like neurotoxins and physiology.

It’s only the hormones racing through your body that make you so attracted to him. You know this. Oxytocin is a woman’s worst nightmare when it comes to men. It’ll be Don all over again and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself for getting all tangled in something so needlessly messy.

Millie is the first to rebut this time, stunning Jackie and Bianca into respectful silence.

He must enjoy your company too. Don’t you remember how you caught him staring at you from underneath your hair, just holding on and watching you? What about that?

Bianca knows Millie’s an idiot, knows it’s only the tits and girly face that he’s interested in. She knows this so implicitly and with such strength of conviction that all she has to do is look at me and I can read her loud and clear. The razor’s edge in her eyes is judging me for even considering that this might be anything other than two people rutting like hounds.

But still, he’s a damn fine lay. Even Bianca will give him that.

Margot tuts from behind a large, leatherbound volume, never once breaking her gaze from the line of marks she’s writing with a fine ballpoint pen.

I’m the one who goes over the accounts, dear. I do believe this one has graduated from ‘lay’ to…She pauses and bookmarks her place with her finger to flip through earlier pages for a consultation on the title these few fellows were afforded. After a moment she taps her finger onto a paragraph. Well, it appears you haven’t had a boyfriend since 2006, but there have been plenty of ‘men.’ That seems to be their only relation to you. With a simpering tilt of her head, she uses a pinched smile to conceal her judgment, but eventually, the words come spilling out: maybe if you weren’t such a slut you’d have more boyfriends than fuck-buddies.

After a poignant stare, she then severs the gaze and goes right back to balancing the emotional checkbook.

Bitch.