Perfectly Adequate(48)

“No!” Dorothy jerks her head to the side when I lean in to kiss her. “I don’t want to taste myself. Yuck … nope. No way.” She peeks open one eye.

“But you wanted me to do that to you.”

“Yes. But I don’t want to do it to myself.”

I step back, adjusting my cock before it pokes a small child in the eye. “Okay then.”

“Are you mad?”

“No. Painfully turned on? Yes. But that’s why God made cold showers and three-year-olds.”

“Okay. Well …” She shrugs. “Thanks.”

I shake my head on a small laugh while using the back of my hand to wipe Dorothy’s “yuck” from around my mouth. “Anytime.”

“We can hug.”

I laugh again. A hug—the ugly stepsister to the French kiss and the blowjob.

“Okay.” I try to wrap my arms around her, but it’s like we’re two people trying to get past each other instead of hugging. She can’t decide which way to move her head. If she were my height, we would bonk heads.

It’s an odd hug. I can’t explain it. Before, when I’d held her to me and kissed her passionately, she grabbed my arms or my shirt, sometimes even the back of my neck, and pulled me to her with such need and desire. We had doggy style sex earlier today. And I just went down on her for about four and a half minutes including a successful conquer of her G-spot.

But after all that, the one thing Dorothy Mayhem truly sucks at is hugging. So I hug her to me like I do to Roman when he doesn’t want to be hugged. And she gives my back a very awkward series of pats.

Pat pat. Pat-pat-pat-pat.

It doesn’t even feel like a hug, more like two strangers forced to move together in a tight space to let someone else by.

“We’d better go.”

“Yep.” She quickly releases me, not that she was really holding on to me. “I’ll get him off the Xbox while you wash your hands.”

For the record, I planned on slipping into the bathroom to wash my hands before getting Roman. I swear. But the fact that Dorothy insists on it before I have the chance to do it, only magnifies the huge difference in the women I’ve chosen to be in my life.

During the end of our marriage, when Julie was evidently experimenting with her new personality, the one she tested a few times with me (unbeknownst to me), she sat naked in bed, back against the headboard, legs spread wide, and she masturbated in front of me. Then she stuck her wet fingers into my mouth and told me to taste her. But never did she suggest either one of us go wash our hands.

“Great. Thanks.” I grin as Dorothy opens the door.

“Sure. No problem.”

I love this. It fills me to the brim with happiness—the way that Dorothy shifts from a vixen telling me to find her G-spot to a polite “no problem,” like I just spilled a few drips of coffee on my shirt and she’s going to watch Roman while I slip into the bathroom to pretreat the stains.

As much as I want to believe I know Dorothy Mayhem, I’ve only caught tiny glimpses of her. Each one so luminous, I know she’s too bright for anyone to ever truly see all of her.

After I wash my hands, I make Roman go to the bathroom before the car ride. Dorothy waits outside for us, already changed into yoga pants and Nikes that match her burnt orange T-shirt.

“Bye, Dorfee. We … we will be back. I will play EssBoss.”

“Bye, Romeo.” She hunches down in front of him and gives him a wrinkled-nosed smile.

Roman tackles her with a hug. She falls backward, lying stiffly on the ground with Roman’s arms encircling her neck.

“Whoa, buddy. That’s enough hugging.” I peel him from her body and hold out my hand to help her up.

She brushes off her backside and laughs. “He’s quite the little hugger. I’ll be ready next time.”

I bite my tongue as the words “you could learn a few things” sit idle between my pursed lips. But she said she’d be ready next time, and that means she welcomes more hugs from my son.

“Have a great walk.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She holds up her hand in an awkward wave as I carry Roman to the car. “All these leftovers sat in my car.”

“Oh … shoot. Can’t eat them if they haven’t been refrigerated.” She shrugs.

“Sorry. I know you were really wanting them.” I smirk.

She returns a tight smile, her weak version of lying.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





Gleaning 101


I make it three days before pressing SEND on my phone to call Dorothy. Aside from her random sexual demands, which happen with a moment’s notice, she qualifies as the world’s least needy girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

That’s a weird word for me to have in my thirty-eight-year-old head. Is she my girlfriend? I’m nearly two decades behind on the dating scene, so maybe girlfriend is an outdated term.

She doesn’t answer my call, even though it’s past her scheduled time at the car and dog wash. Maybe she’s still walking. Before I can speculate anymore, my phone vibrates with a text from her.

Dorothy: What do you need?

Me: I need to talk to you.

Dorothy: Texting not work for you?

I chuckle.

Me: I like the sound of your voice.