Page 23 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

CHAPTER SEVEN

KAITLIN

RULE #4: IT’S NOT A RELATIONSHIP. IT’S A TRANSACTION. HE’S NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND.

My hands are a mess, a riot of smeared bold acrylics in pastel hues. I’m supposed to “get my hands dirty” making this painting; that’s the assignment. Using the pads of my fingers to drag the vivid pigments across the canvas looks great, but my grimy paws are a different story. Painting is such a joy for me, I can’t help but smile.

My phone starts vibrating. Using the clean back of one knuckle to accept the call, I manage to keep the screen clean. I had the foresight to put my earbuds in while my hands were clean. It’s Hunter, wanting to send me a request call. It’s my day off, but I don’t mind chatting while I work.

“Hot Tub Randy? Cool.” She connects us and hangs up. “Randy, how are you? It’s been a minute.”

“I’m great,” he says, and I strain to hear if the hot tub is whirring in the background. “Got the hot tub working again.”

“Your hot tub’s working again?”

“I fixed it myself. Couldn’t take the chance that they’d send an invoice to the house with the exact nature of the problem,” he says with a laugh. “My wife would be most displeased.” We chat, catching up until he makes a soft, gloopy splash, sliding into the hot tub. “She knows I have a thing for quicksand. She’s fine with that, but would not be nearly so fine about the repair bill.”

“And you remembered to turn the jets off before adding the oatmeal this time?” I ask.

“I sure did. I’m not making that mistake again,” Randy replies, excited like a kid waiting to open birthday presents. “My wife left for a girls’ weekend this morning, and I turned up the temp on the hot tub and went straight to the Costco and bought twenty-five of the family-sized bags of oatmeal, ten pounds each. I told the nosy lady at the register I was buying it for a daycare. I’m ordering online next time. I also got a bunch of cornstarch. It really helps with consistency.”

“And what have you learned?” Why do I persist in asking questions to which I do not want to know the answer?

“Forty or fifty bags would be perfect, but twenty-five is close enough without making cleanup a nightmare. I wonder what it’ll be like tomorrow after it sits.”

Gross, Randy. It’ll be fucking gross with more protein in it.

“Where are you?” I know exactly where he is, but he loves saying it. I mean, he really loves saying it.

“I’m in my hot… Oh my god, I’m sinking.” A guttural moan. “Oh no, it’s quicksand! I’ve stepped in quicksand, and I can’t get out. I’m sinking!”

You cannot make this shit up.

“Stop moving, or you’ll go under!” Teehee.

He sounds panicky, hamming it up. “I’m sinking in, oh god… quicksand!” He moans every time he says “quicksand.” “Kait, help me.” Randy won’t be getting an Oscar. Shameful levels of overacting are happening. The Actors Studio would not approve.

“When you start panicking, you go deeper into that life-threatening quicksand. Calm down, or you’ll sink. You’re in danger! You are in life-threatening peril!” I say “danger” and “life-threatening” a lot on our calls because it gets him going.

My palette is set up with white, a nice bright yellow, and multiple shades of electric pink, fuchsia, black, and lime green. The assignment is to paint a traditional scene with a heavy emphasis on nontraditional colors, like a fruit bowl but with black and white paint. I decided on a sailing ship with lots of black, fuchsia, and lime green. The brown wood of the hull, cream sails, blue ocean, and white clouds will be traded for vivid tones.

Randy squeals, “Throw me a rope or a branch or something!”

“I’ll take that under advisement. I like how panicked you sound. I’m enjoying this soooo much.” I’m tormenting him and blending pigments.

We go back and forth like this for a while, him begging and me refusing. The slosh-slop grows louder. “Kait, help me!”

“No.” I sketch in the schooner with all of its sails unfurled. When I do this for myself, the work is colorful. I rarely use traditional colors. This is me being assigned to create in my personal style and getting a grade for it. #winningatlife

“Kait, what do you mean, no? Don’t let me die here.”

“What’s in it for me, Randy?” Shit. The tip of my braid touched my palette. Good thing acrylic is easy to get out of hair when it’s wet.

“What do you mean? I’m in quicksand. I could die.” He’s getting worked up, his voice pitchy as he flails.

“Watching you squirm and sink deeper and deeper is…” I let out a long moan. “Hot. It turns me on to see you helpless.” Faking ecstasy, I pant and moan.

“I’ll do anything.”