EXES AND OH'S

Like All Screwed-Up Single Girl Stories, It Started With A Wedding

This is not a fucking love story.

Well... Maybe this is about love. Not the typical love, love. But definitely not a story about two people who had fallen head over heels with each other. You know - playboy meets pretty blue-eyed girl in a bar, guy gets whipped, girl falls in love, and they get married. Happy fucking ending.

Just kidding. 

That's my boss I'm talking about, Jesse Titsman Akerman. Oh, I love this guy. Don't get mistaken, it's not the love you're thinking about. It's very platonic - maybe more like brother-and-sister kind of love. Given that he's Jaime Lannister and I'm Cersei Lannister. 

Again, kidding. Fuck, I'm so screwed in the head.

Alright, maybe for a time I wished he'd stick that D up on my snatch, but that was ages ago. I realized that it's better we're friends. I'm his assistant after all. Sure, I love getting a really good orgasm and I heard that Jesse was pretty excellent in that area. But fuck, I love my job more. Checking out up and coming Indie artists, going to bars, scouting new talents - doesn't feel like a job at all. Okay, maybe every now and then I'm signing a few documents, arranging Jesse's schedule, and proxying in his meetings whenever he's busy banging his girl K. I mean, that's easy-peasy. 

So yes, I definitely won't be screwing anyone in Aperture because I fucking love my job. I have Daggins to do the job, anyway. You might be wondering who in the friggin hell Daggins is. Read on, you're almost there.

Wink, wink.

"Heels, check. Dress, check.  Plane ticket, check.  Charger, check.  Daily Planner, check. Wedding gift, check." I tick off everything in my mental checklist, trying to focus if I had forgotten anything I needed for Jesse and Kristen's wedding tomorrow. My flight to Maine is scheduled in two hours and I have to get to the airport already. Fuck, I hate weddings. But I have to be in attendance or else Jesse will have my cute ass in a pike.

I walk around my bedroom eyeing all the mess I've made on the floor, the vanity, the closet, the top of my bed. It's like I'm living in a dumpster. Holy Crapola, how do I even find anything in here if I've really forgotten to bring something? Ah, fuck it. Whatever I packed will do. 

Unconsciously, I pulled open the bedside drawers, thinking I might find whatever it was that my mind was kind of forgetting. Top drawer, Catcher in the Rye, and a twisted pink thong. Dirty? I don't know. Hell, I'm not going to smell that even if it's mine. Scrap that. Carefully holding it up with my thumb and index finger, I shoot it at the bin beside my vanity. 

Second drawer, just some rubbers. I won't need them. I don't have a date to the wedding anyway. And if someone has the mind to fuck me he better be a boy scout and produce one from his very own pocket. I ain't bringing no condoms, I'm one fine lady!

Last but not the least, third drawer - ah, there's Daggins. 

Daggins is purple, stands ten inches tall, and has balls - unlike my douche exes who were all hiding their bare pussy slits behind their strap-ons. Guys, either they have too much testosterone or they have none. Like, really. 

I've been out of the dating scene for a while now. A while being a thorough understatement. Shit, I've been single for two years. But that's perfectly alright. I know how to keep myself warm and wet, I'm actually looking at him right now. Daggins is my company during those cold and lonely New York summer nights,  my undemanding friend, my faithful dildo. 

Yes, Dildo Daggins you got it right. I'm a sucker for epic fantasy books so that's that. I was pretty close to naming him My Precious, but I thought that's just really lame - not to mention creepy. I don't want to be writhing in orgasm screaming 'my precious!'. Man, that's fucked up. Besides, I want to do Bilbo Baggins justice because he's rad. He may be a hobbit but he's literally the man.

Jesus Christ, I'm pretty sure J.R.R. Tolkien is rolling in his grave right now. 

Okay, you might think that I talk like a pirate and I'm too horny for my own good. Trust me, all girls are like that. They just don't unleash what they really are inside. No one's pure. Heck, Snow White was literally screwed by all the seven dwarves in its gruesome origin story. And you know what's more fucked up? She liked it. All of it.

I'm just true to myself. I am me and I'm not changing what I am just to please anybody.

As for my filthy mouth, well I guess that's what you get when you spend your early teenage life in foster care. My father was a gambler and an alcoholic, while my mother was a coke whore and heroin abuser. First, my dad killed himself because of a debt that he couldn't pay. And shortly after, my mom died in her sleep - choking on her own vomit. You might think I've been traumatized with that shit. I actually was for a time. That haunting image of her in my head - gray and lifeless, her mouth swarmed by flies, and the reek of her puke, certainly did me some damage. But I was kind of expecting that to happen. She was like a ticking time bomb - she and my dad both. Surely it screwed me up, but foster care was filled with shrinks for kids like me.

So I've jumped from one foster home to another. There weren't many couples in Staten Island who wanted an angry, hormonal teen. They usually went for the cute little ones, toddlers whom they could still brainwash and make-believe of the purity and perfection of the world. I've been with weird foster parents. There were the bible-thumpers, the white supremacists, the pretentious city yokels, the middle-aged spinster; all of them just had me on trial, never really having the intention to adopt me and make everything legal. 

And then there's the gay couple, Tim and Phil. The minute they walked into the home to look and shop for a kid, I honestly thought they were those typical gay dudes who wanted pull a Brangelina. You know what I mean. But no, they went with me. I'm not exactly sure what happened, I was just by the stairs to the hall listening to Wu-Tang Clan's C.R.E.A.M. in my dad's old DiscMan when they sat beside me, looked me in the eye, and told me they wanted me. I, of course, wasn't all for high hopes. I knew they were going to put me back in care after the trial period. But no, they really decided to keep me. 

Tim and Phil really outdid themselves. They bought me nice clothes, they put me in a really nice school, paid for my extracurriculars, and most of all, raised me in a good, loving home. I couldn't be more grateful. At least I didn't end up with a child molester.

My phone buzzes on top of my unpacked luggage, pulling me out of my sob-story. I pick it up and look at the screen to see who's calling. Jesse.

"Howdy," I greeted on the speaker phone. Jesse was mumbling something about Oliver, an Oak dresser, and a pair of silver cufflinks. "So you wanted me to call Oliver, go to your dad's house, check out the oak dresser and get your cufflinks. Did I get that right?"

Mumbling. Endless mumbling. I roll my eyes as I listen to this cute Jewish fucker on the other line. "Alright, capisce." With a sigh, I tapped on my phone and ended the call.

Well, good thing I haven't left for the airport yet. I mean, who packs a suit and forgets the cufflinks? I know he's all pressured and shit with his wedding, but that's just plain stupid. 

Stupid Jesse. Stupid wedding.

And stupid me, going on a stupid wedding without a stupid date. Fuck, I'm so single. Maybe I should have agreed when Tim and Phil offered to get me on that blind date with their other gay couple friends who had a son that worked in Broadway. But then again, if a guy worked in Broadway, he probably lacked testosterone. And you know me, I'm just not in for other people's drama. I have enough of my own.

Oh, alright. 

With a semi-heavy heart and a throbbing pussy, I grabbed for my old chum Daggins and tucked him safely inside my luggage. If no one's going to fuck me tomorrow night, I'm definitely going to get crazy drunk in Jesse and K's wedding and fuck myself in my hotel room until the break of dawn.