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Obviously, she’d never let me live this down, but at least I’d keep my job.
The phone rings.
Speak of the devil.
“Hi, Ava,” I say, snatching up Precious. “Are you having a slow day at the hospital?”
“How did your meeting go?” she asks. “Any impaling I should be aware of?”
I tell her everything but tone down my reactions to my boss’s boss because… well, because.
Sure enough, she’s choking on laughter when I get to the part where I lost my sex toy tester to a convent.
“So,” I say at the end, “there’s a pretty big favor I want to ask you.”
“Noooo,” she squeezes out in between hysterical giggles. “I’m not having cybersex with you.”
“That wasn’t the favor,” I lie. “I was wondering if—”
“Dude,” Ava says. “You don’t have a problem.”
“I don’t?”
“You should test it on yourself,” she says with a giggle. “It’ll be fun, and you haven’t had an orgasm since what’s-his-name before Bob.”
“But—”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to loosen up a little?”
I squeeze Precious tighter, the mention of my ex and the phrase “loosen up” tempting me to say something very unkind to my bestie.
The reason He Who Shouldn’t Have Been Named broke up with me was that I wasn’t “adventurous enough, sexually.”
Those words sting to this very day, especially because there might’ve been a kernel of truth in them. Not that Bob was any kind of wizard in bed… not even a Hufflepuff.
Ava’s tone turns serious. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. I just stuck my big foot in my mouth.”
“More like your whole butt.” The grumpiness in my voice is only partially faked.
“Look,” she says with a sigh. “If you really insist, I’ll think about being your tester.”
“No, it’s okay.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You might have a point. I shouldn’t ask you to do something I’m not willing to do myself. The problem is, even if I do it, I still need a guy for the male toys.”
She snorts. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Crook your finger at the first male you see, preferably of legal age, and he’ll test whatever you want.”
“Uh-huh. It might work like that for you.”
“It would work like that for pretty much anyone with a uterus. But let’s say it doesn’t. You can still get on Tinder or something like that. Tell the guys who match with you that you want cybersex before your dates and see how enthused they’ll get.”
That actually does sound more plausible, though when I try to picture it, I feel deeply uneasy. Also, for some reason, the only image that forms in my mind is of lapis lazuli eyes and—
“Ooh, sorry,” Ava says. “They’re paging me.”
“Wait, I—”
The phone goes dead.
Paging. Still. Leave it to the medical profession to live in the Stone Age. I wonder if they also have dialup modems at the hospital, or cassette tapes.
