I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the term ‘bag of dicks’ used in a positive light.
CHAPTER 2
SAMANTHA
“Can I talk about something?” I ask slowly, not sure I want to do this. I sit back on my yoga mat and look at my study group buddies. Sara, Katie, Natasha, and Daphne are also sitting on mats in the rec room we use for our study sessions.
They’re also psychology graduate students, but our future focuses are as different as we are. Katie has plans for family counseling, Natasha for behavioral therapy. Sara specializes in PTSD, and Daphne hopes to be a school therapist. Somehow, our differences have never held us back from practicing a little therapy with each other, though we tend to drift off-topic and rant more than is standard in professional sessions. That’s what makes us friends, not just colleagues.
“Of course,” Katie answers, centering her full attention on me. Her bright blue eyes soften, and she pushes her blonde halo of curls behind her ears. “What’s up, buttercup?” As the words leave her mouth, she winces. The greeting is a verbal habit she’s trying to break after a professor told her it sounded flippant, but a lifetime of saying it hasn’t made it easy.
“I mean, what’s on your mind?”
I smile at her correction and pseudo-neutral tone, which makes her sound like a television version of a therapist. “I have a friend who invited me to a party. Well, not a party, exactly, more like an opportunity. But I’m not sure if it’s right for me. It’s . . .” I trail off, not sure how to describe Bedroom Heaven.
“Did you get tricked into a cult?” Natasha quips. She laughs at the absurdity, but she’s maybe not that far off. At my head tilt of uncertainty, she spins her denim-clad legs around, sitting back on her heels. “Tell us everything. Is it a religious thing? End of the world? Sex club?”
Despite working on my blank face, I must have a tell because Daphne’s interest piques. “Sex club? For real? Can I get an invite too?”
I shake my head at the sudden rapt attention all four women give me. Maybe Kara is right and sex is what sells, even if it’s just the promise of better sex.
I dive in, explaining about Bedroom Heaven and my worries about its implications, both positive and negative, in my future as an intimacy therapist. “I’ve looked through the contract with Bedroom Heaven and our code of conduct for the psychology program backward and forward and every way in between. I’m in the clear, but am I crazy for considering this?”
Sara, who’s been silent the whole time, finally speaks. “You’ve done your due diligence, already know what you’re going to do, and don’t need our permission to do it.”
She dips her chin, making sure I heard her loud and clear. Of all of us, she’s the most naturally gifted at therapy, but that skill has come at a price. She’s been in therapy herself since she was a kid after a traumatic childhood that was only made worse by therapists who didn’t know what they were doing. She now wears those scars inside and outside, which is why she wants to specialize in helping people with PTSD.
“Thanks,” I tell her, recognizing that she’s one hundred percent right.
Katie holds her hand up. “One question . . .” I look her way, and she grins widely, looking much less angelic than usual. “Can I see that catalog? A girl needs a little variety, and my Little Bunny Foo-Foo is on his last hops.”
“Little. Bunny. Foo-Foo?” Daphne echoes. She shouldn’t judge considering she’s walking a thin line of being a Disney adult, wearing various character and park shirts almost daily. In fact, she has on a Thumper T-shirt right now, so it’s probably a good thing Katie didn’t name her vibrator after Bambi’s rabbity friend.
“Me too,” Natasha adds. “Not the Foo-Foo part, but the variety. I’ve sworn off men for a while after my last date.”
I dig into my bag, pulling out a couple of the catalogs Jaxx gave me. Katie and Natasha crowd around one, Daphne takes another, and Sara uses her phone to snap the QR code on the front so she can shop privately online.
Natasha continues, “Did I tell you about my date? Rugby player, hot as hell, able to string together more than three words, so I—”
“Took him home,” Sara finishes. “You really need higher standards. You deserve more than that.”
Not giving a shit, Natasha ignores Sara’s advice. “Went with him back to his place,” she corrects, as if that makes a difference. “It was going well, too—kisses in the living room, pressed me up against the wall in the hallway, then into his bedroom, where he threw me on the bed. I was ready to get my world rocked!” she says wistfully.
“But no amount of using his ears as handlebars and leading him straight to X marks the spot worked. I swear, he nutted in three minutes, climbed off, and collapsed. I mean, rugby requires some endurance, right?” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Apparently not. And when I went to the bathroom?” She pantomimes gagging. “It was a hazmat zone. I don’t think it’d ever been cleaned, like, ever, which means he was that disgusting too. Can’t get clean amid filth. I left while he was snoring, and when I got back to my place, I scrubbed every inch of my body—and I do mean every single inch and orifice—and ghosted him. Not that he texted, anyway.”
She sounds annoyed at that last bit, but we all know the truth . . . she’s hurt. Sex is intimate by nature. That doesn’t mean it needs to be all roses, sweet nothings, and promises of forever. Hell, it can be a rough, filthy, one-night stand and still be intimate. But if it’s a disappointing experience, it still hurts on some level.
Which is where handling things yourself comes in.
At least for Natasha, because she’s already flagged three different products. “Put me down for these, with whatever STAT shipping I can get.”
“Because you’ve sworn off men,” Katie reminds her.
By the time our group pseudo-session ends, all four women have ordered gift boxes, and I feel significantly better about my decision to become a Bedroom Heaven representative.
Two weeks later . . .
“I cannot believe I’ve sold almost two hundred dicks,” I murmur to myself as I drive down the highway in my rusty, yet trusty, Nissan Sentra. She might not be the most stylish transportation, but she’s dependable enough to get me where I need to go, and today, that’s to the Grand Hotel for the Bedroom Heaven quarterly party.
Most of my sales have been specific items from the catalog, which ship directly to the customer in discreet packaging. But with Jaxx’s help, I’m almost sold out of gift boxes. If I can sell just a few more at the sales portion of the quarterly party, I might still qualify for the bonus.
I send a silent prayer up to whatever sex god is listening that the sales flow as readily as the strawberry flavored lube that Bedroom Heaven is widely known for, because I’ll admit that I’ve got plans for that cash. Exciting things like rent, and maybe a new vibrating treat of my own.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the stash of products in my backseat, considering which one I’d like to try. Definitely not the U-turn, which is girthy enough to concern me, or the Diesel Stroker, which has a thrust mode with thirty speeds and patterns that promises to match or be better than any human male could be from any position, but it costs over two hundred dollars. I’ve got a small clit vibrator and a bare bones dildo already, so maybe something a bit more exciting that won’t break the bank?