Page 79 of Unmatched

“Chocolate Fudge Brownie is currently doing everything for me.”

She pauses, her voice turning more playful. “It’s Friday night. Maybe what you ought to do after your lactose delight is take out that new vibe you bought and have a little post-dessert fun.”

“Caprice.” My face flames hot as soon as I process what she’s suggesting. “Why would I do that?”

She laughs. “Always makes me feel better!”

“I don’t think so,” I say, though I kind of sound like a Catholic school nun.

I haven’t looked at or touched the rabbit since the day Anton left. Just picturing it reminds me of those last few hours, when everything seemed like it might come together—until it all fell apart.

“You’re no fun.” She sighs. “Suit yourself.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, watching the dog wander around the yard.

“Be careful this weekend,” I say in an effort to change the subject.

“I will literally have a US Marine sleeping on my couch,” she says, though she sounds tired. “I’ll probably be safer this weekend than I have been for a while.”

“Okay, but still. Text me next week, and we’ll figure out where to go for lunch. I’m dying to hear why your brother suddenly flew halfway across the country to see you.”

“Will do,” she says. Then, after a pause: “Hang in there, Lyd.”

I step out of the shower to find my phone notifications surprisingly empty. No one calling in sick tomorrow, no contractor hurdles, not even my mother questioning my life choices. Without a work crisis to solve, I wrap up in my robe and wander into the living room, ready to lose myself to a TV mystery. Except about halfway into the first episode, I realize my head is just not into it. My mind is wandering. I keep having to skip back and rewatch parts when I can’t follow what’s going on.

I try to give it a second episode, but when I realize I don’t even know the main character’s name, I sigh, turn off the TV, and head back to my room. My laptop is on the nightstand, and my first inclination is to busy myself with work. Emails, supply orders, or some task related to payroll. The problem is, I’m already caught up. I guess this is what happens when you start work before six a.m., stay through lunch, and make sure not to go home until after dinner five days in a row. There is literally nothing of any substance left to do until tomorrow.

I guess the single life will be good for productivity. Ugh.

I pick up my phone, thinking maybe I’ll download a book or read mindless celebrity news or something, but when I open my browser, I find myself staring at the tab open to “The Classic Guide to Blowjobs.” My lip curls as memories flood in from the last time I looked at this site. Was it only a week ago? I’m about to close it when I notice a menu with a host of links, including: “The Classic Guide to Arousal,” “The Classic Guide to Sex Toys,” and “The Classic Guide to Orgasms.”

Curiosity nudges my thumb to explore. More than a few times since he left, my mind has grudgingly wandered back to the night Anton used the rabbit on me. I’ve had orgasms before, but I’ve never felt quite the way I did that night, and I’m not sure why. Had we just been lacking a battery-powered pink column of silicone all this time? Or did using it change something else? I have to admit, I haven’t been able to forget the look in Anton’s eyes when I handed him the box.

“The Classic Guide” claims to educate people on how to give (and receive) sexual pleasure, and while I’m not sure what I could learn here that will help me now, I keep reading.

Arousal. For women, touching, kissing, and even talking can lead to arousal, which may then turn into desire. But it might not be spontaneous the way it is for men. Some women may find that engaging in stimulation, even when they’re not feeling it, may actually help get them in the mood.

I raise an eyebrow. Something about this rings true. If I’m honest with myself, I have always been reluctant to get started having sex. Even ten years in, it’s just embarrassing and hard. But there have been times, like last week, when I found myself getting more into it the more we touched. Maybe that’s what Caprice meant about getting my engine going.

It’s difficult for some people to stay present and focused during sex. Letting go of other things on your mind can improve your enjoyment. Stop worrying about what you look like—your partner’s just glad you’re naked. You don’t need to think about doing the dishes. And that work project can wait till tomorrow.

I lay my phone on my chest and close my eyes when I read this. I can’t count the number of times I have literally been under Anton thinking about payroll or going over my weekly to-do list. No wonder I’m bad at it.

Get to know yourself: Spend some time with yourself alone, using mindful masturbation. This can be done with sex toys or just your fingers. Get comfortable with your body and learn what you like. Self-love tip: 1/3 of women can only orgasm through clitoral stimulation.

I scroll through several more pages, stopping when I get to a step-by-step guide to female masturbation. At this point, I have to set my phone aside, pull my robe tight around me, and wait for my face to stop burning. I’ve never actually touched myself without Anton. Maybe because we met so young and only ever explored sex together. I know lots of people masturbate, and obviously the website I’ve been reading indicated it’s normal and healthy, but something about it has always seemed...I don’t know. Not exactly wrong. But it didn’t seem like there was much point without him.

Then again, when I try to imagine touching myself with Anton, I get even more squeamish. Like it’s not something I want him to see. Or, if I’m honest, something that embarrasses me.

My eyes flutter closed.

Maybe none of this matters anymore. Anton’s far away in Dallas; he’s probably not even coming back. And I’m here. Just me.

After crossing the room to close the door, despite telling myself no one’s going to walk in, I slide open the drawer of my nightstand and remove the toy tucked inside. The salesgirl suggested I “practice” anyway, so I guess that’s what I’m going to do. I pull the drawstring of the black velvet storage bag it came with and pull out the silky pink phallus, examining it in my palm. It isn’t as heavy as I remember, but when my thumb locates the on switch and it buzzes to life, I let out an audible gasp.

Heartthrob raises his head from where he’s snoozing in his dog bed, and I click it off quickly, then laugh at my own mortification over my dog seeing my sex toy.

I try the power button a few more times, cycling through different patterns and levels of vibration—all of them somehow too loud—turning it over in my hands. I’m not sure why, but the little rabbit ears appendage intimidates me more than the big hot-pink shaft.

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