Page 4 of Reality Girl, Ep. 3

The thought of eating anything starchy made my stomach heave. I reached for a piece of melon and popped it into my mouth. “I’m on an all-fruit diet. This is as starchy as it gets for me.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head lightly. She was disgusted with me, that much was clear.

I grabbed another piece of melon. “I’m serious.”

“Listen to me.” Her tone was stern. “I need to make sure you get him as excited as you can right after he gets here. I want the viewers to know he’s hung like a mule. They need to see a bulge.”

I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?”

“His cock,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want everyone to know what he’s packing.”

I tossed the piece of fruit into my mouth and murmured my response as I chewed. “I’m not fucking this guy, I can tell you that right now.”

I was tempted to tell her I knew about the blowjob bonuses and everything else, but bit my lip instead. The last thing I needed was for the show to be cancelled, or for me to get fired.

She crossed her arms and shot me a look. “I didn’t tell you to fuck him, did I?”

“No.”

She pointed to her crotch. “Just make sure the audience is fully aware of what’s going on down there.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Do I really need to give you examples?” She glanced to the side and gave a slight eye roll. After expressing her disgust, she let out a sigh and looked at me. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

I grabbed another piece of melon and tried to recall what Eric looked like, but came up short. I did, however, remember his thick cock. Forgetting it would be like forgetting a trip to the Grand Canyon.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes.” She waved her hand toward the pantry. “Eat some bread.”

“I’m fine.”

“ETA in three minutes! They’re on Torrey Pines Road,” someone shouted from the living room.

I grabbed another piece of watermelon and let out a sigh.

Shit.

“Do something with your hair and get your ass into the front room,” she hissed.

“What’s wrong with it?” I reached for my hair, and realized it was in a messy bun. Fixing it in five minutes wasn’t going to happen. “I’m not fixing it.”

She shook her head and turned toward the doorway. “Fine. It’ll be fitting. He’s from Nebraska, and you’re from Kansas. We’ll call your meeting the hillbilly hoedown.”

“I’m not a hillbilly.”

“You’re pretty close,” she said over her shoulder.

I took exception to her statement, but I wasn’t about to get in an argument about it with her. Wearing jean shorts, a tequila-stained tee shirt, and parading through the house barefoot with the sassiest red toenail polish Sephora could provide, I looked no different than half the pre-thirty-year-old female population in southern California.

I gave her back a look and then poked a piece of watermelon in my mouth. “You look like a fucking hooker.”

I couldn’t believe the words rolled from the tip of my drunken tongue. Even while sloppy drunk, I had fairly good judgement. Maybe she’d just pushed my buttons one too many times.

She spun around and cocked one of her curvaceous hips. Her lips and eyes thinned simultaneously. She drew a few long breaths through her nose, each one causing her boobs to heave out of the plunging neckline she’d created by forgoing the top four buttons of her blouse.

I’d already dug my hole, so I decided to stand firm and own the statement. I swallowed the melon, glanced at her 4” black patent leather heels, and then slowly brought my gaze up the length of her goddess-like frame. After pausing for a moment and studying her see-through blouse, my eyes met hers.