Page 13 of Choke

A few hours later, I smudge out the liner around my eyes. I haven’t gotten ready for the bar in years and already profoundly regretagreeing to go out tonight, but Juliana’s teasing was in my head when Rosie called to ask. Since I met her, Rosie called at least every other week, practically begging.

“Come on, Lex. Please. You never come out. You’ve been in my city for years and have never come out. Please.” She’d whined over the phone earlier.

I wish I could have seen her face when I said okay. Like a teenager, she squealed, letting me know she expected me at her house early to get ready. So, here I am. She shot down my outfit choice immediately, letting me know this isn’t a business event.

“When was the last time you got some? That thing will seal over if you don’t use it, ya know?” She teases.

“I use it plenty. I have zero patience for boys dressed up as men.”

When I moved back to the country, I set a lofty goal, which I’m close to. However, men are a distraction I can’t afford.

“Vibrators don’t count.”

She sighs and laughs as she skips to her sizeable walk-in closet inside this massive downtown condo. I’ve never asked her how she can afford this place, although I doubt she works. I guess I’ve always assumed she comes from family money. Taking a sip of my drink, I watch as she throws tiny squares of fabric onto the bed.

Those cannot be dresses.

“Rosie, what am I looking at here?” I ask, “Those aren’t dresses.”

Her voice is high and almost childlike when she replies, “Of course they are! Not a business meeting.” She reiterates.

I’m going to need to be a lot less lucid for this. I finish my drink in one gulp. It takes only a few moments for its warmth to wash over me, my fingertips tingling most deliciously. Emboldened, I step up to the side of her bed and sort through the options.

“What are you wearing?” I ask.

She pulls out a shimmery gold… thing… It looks about the size of a dish towel. The straps seem as if a stiff breeze would snap them. I tilt my chin and glance between her and the “dress.”

“What the actual fuck is this?” I laugh. “Rosie, this is not a dress. This is a tea towel.”

“Gotta show off my money makers!” She giggles, wiggling her ass and tits back and forth.

She strips down to a lacy thong. I’ve never noticed her tits before, sitting high on her chest and unnaturally round.

They’re fake—they gotta be fake.

My hand moves before I can stop myself; my face must show intrigue, shock, and slight jealousy.

“You like! They’re still pretty new.” She exclaims, looking down at them. “You can touch them, they feel… different.”

She pushes her chest out toward my hand. I gently squeeze the left one. They’re not exactly hard, but they don’t feel like my full natural boobs. I switch to the right, then place both hands on each breast. Her nipples harden under my touch.

Damn, these are nice.

I look up at her face, her eyes hooded slightly, her lips parted. My heart rate kicks up, and heat builds in between my thighs. Withdrawing my hands, I clear my throat.

How many drinks have I had?

“They’re great, babe. How was the surgery? I can’t even see any scars.” I inquire, trying to bring us back to getting ready and girl chat and push us away from being turned on by my hands on her body.

Her eyes open, and her playful expression returns to her face. She shifts and shows me a small scar on the outer side of her breast—a lot smaller than I expected. She tells me all the details about the procedure. The pain was minimal, and it took a few months for the scars to fade and for them to fall to a more natural area of her chest—laughable, as they are still nearly in her collarbones—and the cost.

“I should do this. They seem great. My thirties are impacting me,” I laugh. “I don’t know if you have ever told me what you do for work. How do you afford all this?”

She has returned to her closet, pulling out too many options for me. Without turning to face me, she responds, “I’m an escort, silly.”

My eyes widen. I turn back to the dresses.

Don’t react. Don’t react.

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