Page 41 of Gin and Lava

Now it’s finally our turn and it’s Limp City?

Cock! You need to get your head back in the game. Or all the blood back to your head. Or whatever the fuck you need to stop thinking about the blonde Viking who’s threatening to ruin a sure thing. Heck, I can compromise. Imagine it’s Naomi as we bouncy-bouncy Annabelle on your half-time show.

My cock doesn’t even stir.

I feel like I just discovered I’m into men. I’m not, but it’s like the female species just lost its allure. I look at Annabelle and her friends. They’re all cute. What about a threesome, cock? Three girls desperate for me to pussy pound them into tomorrow? What about that? That’s the winning lottery ticket. How can you resist?

I pour another drink and keep eyeing Annabelle’s table. She and her friends are stealing glances at me, giggling, and tossing their hair over their shoulders and adjusting their tank tops so their tits practically spill out. But I’m broken downtown, and there’s nothing worse than inviting three hot chicks back to my office and not being able to perform. I have an internet reputation to uphold, and the last thing I want is to prove my big dick can’t get hard.

I’m going to have to blow them off somehow.

Damn, am I really thinking that?

Yup, the universe has thoroughly kicked me in the dick. It’s almost poetic, owning this tiki bar, but being limp as a fish, especially when you consider all the blow fish and broadbills lining the walls of the Gin n’ Lava—all puffed up and long-nosed and mocking me.

I thought the forbidden fruit of Naomi was a God-send, a little poetic justice for the everyday asshole who’d never stand a chance. But now I think the universe is just laughing in my face, and I’m the douche who fell for the scam.

12

NAOMI

Ilove yoga and meditation, but they aren’t doing much for my libido. I’m sitting in the middle of a sound bath meditation, knowing full well the whole idea is to empty my mind and be present, but my monkey brain is hijacking everything.

You know what’s empty?Monkey Brain asks.Not your brain, butyour Hoo-ha! And I know one potty-mouth dick who would be happy to fill it. Let’s bail on meditation and relieve anxiety a better way.

I acknowledge the thought and let it go.

I take a deep breath and focus on the reverberating bowl sounds.

Big red monster trucks are great for big hot Mason cocks!

I acknowledge the thought and—

Only now I’m imagining Mason dressed up in an orange monk robe, sitting at the front of the studio, playing the sound bowls like he’s my own personal guru.

“Empty mind. Empty vagina,” Monk-Mason chants softly. “Empty mind. Empty vagina.” He stirs the sound bowls, but he’s using a carved wooden dick to swirl the opening of the bowl’s rim. Clearly, I’m deranged in the head.

I curse under my breath, earning me a nasty look from the person meditating to my left. Hey! Let it roll off, man. Be one with the present. Accept what’s happening around you, acknowledge it, and let it go! Right?

Not that I should talk.

I’m stupid horny, and it’s ruining all the things that once made me centered and calm.

I don’t regret sleeping with Mason. It was the best decision I’ve made since my breakup. But the unexpected catch is I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m like a heroin addict that got her one hit and is going to slippery slope her way into ending up on the streets talking about mythological Mason dick.I tapped it once man, and now I’m ruined for life!

How is it possible that no one knows what Mason is packing? Have the penis shirts and mouth-vomit been such a turn off that he’s seriously cock-blocked himself? Or maybe, I’ve just lost my mind, because in what world is Mason’s availability a serious conversation?

Acknowledge the thought—or eight billion thoughts—and …

Yeah, this isn’t working.

Meditation is out.

I get up and weave through the attendees of the class, trying to stay as silent as possible. My T-rex sized libido doesn’t need to cramp anyone else’s Zen, even if it’s throwing a temper tantrum in my pants promising enlightenment at the Gin n’ Lava. In my libido’s world, enlightenment equals orgasms, and on that front, I won’t deny it has a point.

In the hall, I pull my purse out of my cubby, thankful to see my phone is buzzing with a call—because even thinking about Mason’s phallic Hawaiian shirts has me feeling unruly—and I desperately need something to distract myself.

Shauri’s name blinks brightly on the screen as I press accept.

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