Page 1 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

Iwonder if it’s socially acceptable to let a guy, who’s currently having sex with you, know that you’ve forgotten his name. For the past three minutes I’ve been staring at the ceiling, trying to remember, but—nothing. John? Jacob? Jingleheimer Schmidt? It’s something basic, like him… like the date… like this sex.

A small part of me thought he’d be a freak in bed—classy in public, then BAM! Mr. “I’ll Fuck Your Brains Out” would show up with some massive cock for me to worship all night.

But no. Not this Friday night. Not for Delaney Caputo.

Remind me to slap my bestie Stacie for setting me up with this guy. I’ll never trust her judgment again. Ever.

This is a blind date, and even though I’ve got a birth control implant, there’s no way I’m letting some random dude go bare in my “love canal.” I offered him a condom, but he declined. He brought his own… smaller ones. Great. Just great.

I give up trying to remember his name and glance at the clock. Four minutes in, and it looks like he was ready to blow his load two minutes ago. What a champ, holding on this long.

I catch sight of my brunette hair in the lamp’s reflection, and… is that a gray hair? I swear, if it is, I’ll riot. I’m only twenty-six! I’m too young for this. Too young for bad sex, too, and yet… here we are.

I should make an appointment at the salon. I’m due for a root touch-up anyway. I wonder if my regular stylist will be there. I need to update her on my next taboo stepbrother romance idea. (Hint: there are two stepbrothers. Twins. Eeek!)

His sweaty body shifts on top of me, and I remember I should be moaning at the right times, so I do. A little “uhh, yeah, right there” for motivation. I give his shoulders a small squeeze to seem like I’m into it. And of course, I’m squeezing my Kegels too. I have to get something out of this.

We all know pelvic floor strength is important for women’s health.

Finally, he finishes, flopping over like a sweaty, huffing mess.

Thank God that’s over.

Dude-man is barely able to move his arms, and his hands are floppy as he tries to form a coherent thought. He looks like a ridiculous T-rex. Just when I think he’s about to ask,“You came too, right?”—he lets out a snore.

Cross my heart and hope to die, he fell asleep no more than ten seconds after coming. And—insert green “I’m gonna be sick” emoji—he’s still wearing his tiny condom.

I sit up, the sheet draped around my chest, and cover my face with my hands. A literal face-palm.

Why me?

I sigh and check to see if Bob is available tonight. Of course, he is. My little pink battery boyfriend is always ready. “You’re the only dependable thing in my life, Bob,” I mutter, heading to the bathroom. Oh my god, I almost forgot my ear pods. That would have been tragic.

I scroll through my favorite faceless, thirst-trap creators for a good moaning audio. Thank you, Moanster23, for your service. We salute you.

I hit play with my ear buds giving me a surround-sound experience of a lubed hand sliding up, what has to be a massive cock. Bob buzzes to life, eager to serve and in 90 seconds, he does what Mr. Forgettable failed to do in five minutes. I wash my hands and face then pop in a probiotic suppository. Thinking about some titles for my next book, I go to my notes app to jot down ideas.

Just as I’m heading back to bed, I hear the little bell notification, letting me know that Moanster23 has posted a new audio. One more won’t hurt, right?

I cut my eyes around my bathroom like someone is here to judge me and I decide another wonderful orgasm is definitely what I deserve after this night.

So, getting on my knees, I crank the volume and intensity up. Bob does it again, and I bounce up and down like I’m riding the cock I deserve. Moanster and Bob are my perfect partners. I watch the scrollbar on the video, timing it so I come when Moanster does and we all crescendo together to a second glorious orgasm.

Washing my hands again, I flip off the light and pad out to the darkened bedroom, remembering dude-face is still here. I debate waking him up, but then I notice the saggy condom still on his now-shriveled penis.

I actually do gag this time.

Grabbing a few tissues, I wrap them around his penis, and remove the condom, cleaning up his–mess. I toss it into the wastebasket next to the bed. There is no way I’m letting hisgoopstay on my bed all night just because he couldn’t be bothered to clean himself.

I’m too tired to deal with anything else, so I settle into bed. In the morning, I can kick out Mediocre-Marvin, hit the corner bakery for a flaky croissant breakfast sandwich and call the salon.

The sun shines bright, and the smell of bacon fills the air. I take a deep, appreciative breath before my eyes snap open. Wait a second—where’s homeboy?

The bed is empty, and I growl in irritation. I had planned to tell him to hit the road this morning, but it looks like he wants to hang around for a post-bad-sex breakfast. Well that isnothappening this morning.

I throw on a knee-length, silky robe and tie it at the waist. Hmm, I’ll brush my teeth later—my morning dragon breath might help scare him off faster. I open the bedroom door, and at the same time, my bathroom door behind me opens. And there stands… Peter?

Ugh! Not even seeing him awake is helping me solve the mystery of his name. I should have looked at his ID last night. I’ll remember that next time.

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