WallBanger (camren)

Chapter One

A few hours later, with the imprint of the couch cushion pressed firmly into my forehead, I made my way back to my bedroom to go to sleep. Normani had organized my closet so efficiently that all I had left to do was to hang pictures and arrange a few odds and ends. I quite deliberately removed the pictures from the shelf above my bed.

I was taking no chances tonight. I stood in the center of the room, listening for sounds from next door. All quiet on the western front. So far, so good. Maybe last night was a one-time thing.

As I got ready for bed, I looked at the framed pictures of my family and friends: my parents and I skiing in Tahoe; my girls and I at Coit Tower. Dinah loved to take pictures next to anything phallic. She played the cello with the San Francisco Orchestra, and even though she'd been around musical instruments all her life, she could never pass up a joke when she saw a flute. She was twisted.

All three of us were unattached at the moment, something rare. Usually at least one of us was dating someone, but since Dinah had broken up with her last boyfriend a few months ago, we'd all been in a dry spell. Luckily for my friends, their spell wasn't quite as dry as mine. As far as I knew they were still on speaking terms with their Os.

I thought back with a shudder to the night when O and I had parted ways. I'd had a series of bad first dates and was so sexually frustrated that I allowed myself to go back to the apartment of a guy I had no intention of ever seeing again. Not that I was averse to the one-night stand. I'd made the walk of shame many a morning. But this guy?

I should have known better. Brad? blah blah blah. His family owned a chain of pizza parlors up and down the West Coast. Great on paper, right? Only on paper. He was nice enough, but boring. But I hadn't been with a man or a girl in a while, and after several martinis and a pep talk in the car on the way, I relented and let Brad "have his way with me."

Now, up until this point in my life, I'd shared that old theory that sex was like pizza. Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good. I now hated pizza. For several reasons.

This was the worst kind of sex. This was machine-gun style: fast, fast, fast. This was thirty seconds on the tits, sixty seconds on something that was about an inch above where he should have been, and then in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out.
But at least it was over quick, right?

Hell, no. This horribleness went on for months. Well, no. But for almost thirty minutes. Of in. And out. And in. And out. My poor hoohah felt like it had been sandblasted.

By the time it was over, and he yelled, "So good!" before collapsing on top of me, I had mentally rearranged all my spices and was starting on the cleaning supplies under the sink. I dressed, which didn't take that long as I was still almost fully clothed, and departed.

The next night, after letting Lower Lauren recover, I decided to treat her to a nice long session of self-love, accented by everyone's favorite fantasy lover, George Clooney, aka Dr. Ross. But to my great regret, O had left the building. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she just needed a night away, still experiencing a little PTSD from Pizza Parlor Cory.
But the next night?

No O. No sign of her that week, or the next. As the weeks became a month, and the months stretched on and on, I developed a deep, seething hatred for Brad. That machine-gun fucker...

I shook my head, clearing my O thoughts as I crawled into bed.

Clive waited until I was situated before snuggling into the space behind my knees. He let out one last purr as I turned out the lights. "'Night, Mr. Clive," I whispered and fell right to sleep.