My index finger pokes the fake dick.

It’s not soft or pliant as I’m expecting it to be, but it’s not hard as a rock either. Not really as realistic as they’re claiming it to be.

My cheeks flush and I leave it in the box, set it back on the counter with the rest of the bachelorette goodies, and flick the kitchen light off. Pad back to my bedroom, where the bed and bedding have been set up, and pull back my top layer.

Climbing in, I let out a huge sigh when my weary head finally hits the pillow. Hands folded across my stomach, I let my eyes drift shut. Breathe in and out then roll to my side, uncomfortable. Sigh. Roll to my back, then to the other side.

Sigh.

My eyes open and I look to the white wall next to my bed, though I can’t see it in the dark, imagining what the place will look like once the furniture is moved in, pictures hung, knickknacks put out. Hard to do when I haven’t spent any actual time in my new place, having gotten into town less than twenty-four hours ago—just in time for my cousin’s stag party. I moved in a few boxes and managed to assemble my bed, unpack some toiletries, get dressed, and not be late for the night out.

I’m exhausted, and the wedding fun has just begun.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day,” Madison told me earlier in the evening, and my thoughts go from the unloading and moving I have to do tomorrow to that little pink dick in a box on my kitchen counter.

It’s not a dick, it’s a dildo.

No it’s not—a dildo doesn’t move by itself.

Stop internal dialoging, you freak.

I close my eyes, determined to fall asleep. Toss a few more times, unable to find a spot that’s conducive to passing out, the new sounds outside my window doing nothing to lull me into slumber.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”

I turn.

Flat on my back, I feel around on my bedding for the black satin eye mask I tossed there when I put the sheets and pillowcases on. Cannot find it without turning on the light.

Sigh.

Counting sheep? Do people do that anymore, or is that for children? I suppose I could find a soothing, spa-like playlist and listen to a babbling brook—but then I’ll lie here listening to the babbling brook and forget that I’m trying to sleep.

I drum my fingers against my quilt.

I shouldn’t have had any alcohol. I’m about to catch a second wind—I can feel it in my bones.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”

Take the edge off? It’s not like I necessarily had a rough day—just a long one. But maybe there’s something to be said about men and sex and their falling asleep so soon after they orgasm.

Should I…

I cannot get my mind off that vibrator. Or the face of that guy standing next to the table tonight, dressed as if he worked at the axe throwing place.

Vibrator.

Lumberjack.

Vibrator.

Lumberjack.

Vibrator…

Not that I’d have a clue what to do with it.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I let my body slide off the mattress, feet hitting the floor, on autopilot in the dark, leading me back to the kitchen counter and that glossy box I know the exact position of. Toss the goodies back into the tote then snatch up the vibrator. Bring it back to the bedroom with me, pulling off the lid and letting the box hit the sheets.

I slide back in.

Half in, half out of the covers, my thumb presses the little gold button at the vibrator’s base—but it doesn’t turn on.

Huh.

Maybe it needs to be charged?

I try again, holding the button down longer, the small pink wand buzzing to life, a low purr filling the quiet room.

It hums.

Quivers in my palm.

I hold it up and can see it moving via the small light glowing from the power button, clicking it a second time.

The pink bullet pulses.

Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt.

Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt, faster and faster and faster, changing cadence with each click of that gold button.

My thumb presses down, and it shuts off.

I lay it on the mattress, curiosity appeased. It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it—ha! As if.

I wonder if I could sell this thing; I certainly don’t need to keep it around if I have no intention of using it. They’re expensive—I bet this was at least a hundred bucks!

Lord I’m cheap if I’m thinking ’bout selling a vibrator to make some cash. Oy, if Hollis knew…

Madison? She would have a fit.

Lying there, wide awake, my hands still flat on the bed, fingers mere inches from the “pleasure ride”. Also, how is it a ride if you’re not on top of it?