Page 9 of Spinning Out Of Control

Her husband, James, is unquestionably hot andcompletely unserious, not to mention he has more money than god. I swear, he was made in a factory to be the ideal man for G. He’s become as much of a brother to me as my real brother is, which is perfect because I believe I was put on this earth to be an annoying, pain in the ass little sister. He started teaching at Spin Sync a few months ago, and I get a sick high out of annoying him in and out of work.

A day in my life doesn't feel complete until I've needled Georgie’s husband to the point of exhaustion.

“You did not just call it the ‘gravy plunger’,” Dottie says, leaning over to mock vomit in my lap.

“Calm down, Dottie girl. There’s only so many times a gal can say ‘pegging’ before the word loses all meaning. And it felt crude to ask if Georgie likes to fuck her husband in the ass,” I shrug.

“And the best thing you could come up with was ‘gravy plunger’?”

“Okay, the next person to say ‘gravy plunger’ has to pay me five hundred dollars!” Rachel exclaims, putting an end to mine and Dottie’s bickering. “Georgie, answer the question.”

Georgie looks down at her plate, a blush creeping over her cheeks as she pokes at her hash browns with her fork.

"We’ve done it a few times. James loves it. It’s not my favorite thing, but that’s just because I’m lazy. Mostly, I prefer to just lay back and be maneuveredaround like a doll, but when the mood is right…yeah. I’m Team Pegging, too," she says with a smirk.

I slap a hand down on the table. The silverware rattles and people at nearby tables turn to look, but I don't care.

“That’s my fucking girl, Georgie. All this time I thought you were this sweet, innocent little dove, but you’re out here doing your feminist duty by strapping up and pegging the patriarchy like a good girl!”

"Keeks, you shouldn’t say stuff like ‘peg the patriarchy’. You make it sound like there's something wrong or less than if a man is into having his ass played with," Rachel says with a shake of her head, but she’s still got a smile on her face.

"You know that’s not what I’m saying, Rach. It’s just that all these white male billionaires are out there destroying the climate and hoarding the world’s wealth. It's nice to know that at least one of them is too busy at home being dommed by his hot, bisexual wife to focus on ruining the Earth twenty-four-seven. That was a James and Georgie specific observation."

"Kira," G says, shushing me between giggles. "Someone could hear us."

"They’d have to be eavesdropping to hear us, G. And if they are, that’s their choice." I shrug and lean over to steal a piece of sourdough toast off her plate. People are always telling me I'm too loud, too much, not demure. But I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman. Idon’t have it in me to give a flying fuck what people think about me anymore.

Don't get me wrong, I'm mindful of my volume. Someone would have to be sitting pretty close and be actively trying to listen to hear me. I'd never want to be rude or intrusive, but I'm also not going to completely dull myself down for others. If people around me are eavesdropping on my conversations and don't like what they hear, that's on them, not me.

"Wait, okay, I feel left out now. Should I be pegging Stephen?" Dottie asks, and I put an arm around her shoulder. Dottie is my oldest friend; we go all the way back to kindergarten. Her boyfriend Stephen grew up with us as well back in our small town of Fox Hole, Tennessee. They were high school sweethearts, but broke up when we were all eighteen. Over the holidays last year, they reunited and the two of them moved here to San Francisco.

"Don't feel left out, Dottie girl. I haven't pegged anyone either, I've just fucked my battery-operated boyfriend while reading about it," I say as I squeeze her shoulder and pull her close. She fake sobs and pouts.

"How do you even bring that up? Like 'hey babe, the girls and I were talking at brunch, and I think I want to try fucking you in the ass?'" she says.

"You could try that if you want to scare the hell out of him. You two were practically virgins when you got back together. I think if it's not his idea, it might be better to ease him into it. Drop a few hints," Georgielaughs and Dottie furrows her brows. Rachel leans across the table and puts her hand on top of Dottie's.

"Next time you're going down on him, just give him a little tippy-tap behind his balls with your pointer finger and work your way back towards his ass. See how he reacts." She taps her pointer finger on the back of Dottie's hand, demonstrating.

"And what do you do if he tenses up or freaks out?" I ask, fighting the laughter that wants to bubble out of me. I can't help it. I might be a grown, mature, tax-paying woman of the world, but talking up the butt—anyone's butt—will always be enough to give me the giggles.

"I don't know. Apprehension in the bedroom has never really been a problem of Am's," Rach says with a laugh.

"If he tenses up, just pretend like it never happened. Or tell him it was an accident. It's easy to get lost down there, he'll understand," Georgie says in a tone that is so serious, it bursts my bubble. I throw my head back and laugh, garnering more judgmental looks from the surrounding diners.

"Do you think the guys talk about the three of you and your sex lives when we're not around?" I ask when I finally settle down.

"Hmm," Georgie hums, looking like she's contemplating hard. "If I know my husband, then absolutely. The man was born with the gift of gab. I can almostguarantee he's yapping away to his besties as we speak."

"Between Am's complete lack of filter and his and James’ borderline romantic relationship with each other, I'm going to agree with Georgie," Rachel says. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't texting each other like teenage girls after G and I fall asleep at night."

"I know for a fact they're chatting away and exchanging stories. Remember when Stephen first moved out here and James and Am took him golfing in Pebble Beach? He came back absolutely scandalized," Dottie chimes in, and I hope to myself that someday I find a chatty man of my own to fit in with our weird little group.

Not that I mind being the only single gal left in our group. Georgie, Rachel, Dottie and I decided a long time ago that while romantic partners may come into our lives, the four of us will always be soulmates. It also helps that two out of three of the Pussy Posse men are billionaires whose black cards I have access to.

But it would be nice to have someone to go home to when the brunches are over.

We settle back into our meal and drinks, catching up on everything and nothing. As we discuss the horrors of sex on a beach–something Dottie tried recently and adamantly does not recommend–a middle-aged woman with a “Kate Plus Eight” haircut approaches our table with an ugly sneer on her face. She'd been sitting inawkward silence with a man at the table catty-corner to ours a moment ago. She points a spindly, French-manicured finger into my face.

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