Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Wanda’s still breathing hard.
“I can’t believe it,” she mutters on the other end of the line. “I can’t fucking believe it.”
Oh no. My friend’s reached the point of no return. Sometimes this happens with her. She gets fixated on something, and can’t let go. It’s like a dog with a bone. She’ll chase it to the ends of the Earth, grab it between her teeth, bury it, dig it back up, and then gnaw on it some more. Wanda just can’t let go, which makes her a really great investigative journalist, but a really bad friend sometimes.
“Wan, please,” I say patiently. “Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.”
“But this is so wrong!” she screams again. I can practically see her red hair standing on end in protest. But this time, I set my foot down.
“No, it’s not wrong,” I say, my voice a little cold. “I told you. I’m okay with what happened, and Ranger and Ryder made me feel wanted and cherished. Yes, threesomes aren’t exactly standard in the United States –,”
“A threesome?” she shrieks, nearly blowing my ear off. “You had a threesome with two hot physicians?”
Now, I’m really puzzled, but Danny starts crying on my lap and I do my best to shush him by rubbing his back in soothing circular motions.”
“Yes, I thought I said that. I made love to them. Why, what did you think was happening?”
“I don’t know!” she practically spits in my ear. “I thought that you made love to the two guys separately, like you were one-on-one with each man.” Her voice is practically shaking, she’s so emotional. “But instead, you had sex with two gorgeous, rich doctors who thought your pussy was tight,” she says in a quaking voice.
“That’s right!” I chirp cheerfully. “And they confirmed my initial diagnosis – I do not need a vaginoplasty, thank goodness.”
Hearing that, Wanda hangs up with a click, and I sigh again while putting my cell phone down and re-balancing Danny in my lap. My friend is so dramatic sometimes, and this was just another example of her antics. Everything is always on maximum overdrive with her. She’ll get over it though. After all, I’ve gotten over it, so she should too. This is my life after all, and while everyone has different opinions on how to live, why should someone dictate what I do? Why does it matter if I’ve chosen to date two men simultaneously? Why does it matter if I’ve chosen to give myself to two men who treat me well, and who cherish and care for me? If anything, it’s double the love and energy.
After all, I’ve been dating Ranger and Ryder for a few weeks now and the experience has been been amazing. We have incredible conversation ranging from current events, to politics, to the costumes worn at the Met Gala. And I mean costumes, because some of those outfits weren’t meant for real life.
“What, you think people should wear huge ostrich feather peacock hats while walking down the street, like Celine Dion did?” I ask Ryder teasingly while nuzzling his neck. We’d just finished a session in bed, and I’m cuddled between the two of them, my curves flushed and sated. Both men are huge, bronzed, and incredibly gentle with me as they press soft kisses against my neck and shoulders.
“Well, maybe not down the street,” drawls Ranger.
“See?” I squeal triumphantly. “If you can’t wear it out in real life, then it’s a costume, and not just fashion.”
Ryder chuckles deep in his chest.
“But even if I wouldn’t wear ostrich feathers out in real life, it doesn’t mean that someone can’t. Maybe Rihanna or Cardi B. Or maybe Celine herself. After all, I thought she looked good,” he says diplomatically.
I think back to the paparazzi photos I saw of Miss Dion. They were engaging, for sure. Celine is obviously in her fifties, and yet this is a woman who knows herself, and who does what she likes. She wore a glittery, showgirl outfit to the Met Gala, complete with a three-foot tall headpiece and dramatic yellow make-up. Yes, canary-yellow shadow highlighted her eyes, which was strange, and yet compelling too.
I think a bit more. Miss Dion has my respect, definitely. Maybe I don’t love her songs because her English has always sounded a bit weird to me, and the tones tend to soar for minutes before coming back down, but I have to respect her for what she’s achieved.
“You know, I think you’re right,” I say slowly. “Heck, Celine could wear that headpiece down Broadway if she wants. She’s a superstar, so why not?” I muse.
Ranger drops another affectionate kiss on my shoulder.
“Exactly,” he says. “There’s a place for everyone in New York, so if you want to swan about, then wear what you please,” he adds. “Make yourself happy, as long as it’s not something offensive.”