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One
Cali
When I tell people what I do for a living, nine times out of ten, their first response is an inquisitive: “Oh, really?” Then they lean closer with a crooked smile and a slight eyebrow waggle, probably hoping I’ll spill some sordid secret. Believe me, I have a story or two to tell, but according to the law, I can’t utter a single word. Well…that’s not one hundred percent true. I can give vague generalities, like the time I saw the world’s smallest penis or the pecker that permanently pointed toward the man’s hipbone.
However, one nine-inch tale will go with me to the grave. Brady Luck is a cocky, well-hung Chicago baseball player who claims he’s having a hard time getting hard, but after seeing him “rise to the occasion,” I know otherwise. Even without measuring, he sports the largest tool in the toolbox I’ve ever seen, and I’ve encountered hundreds.
I don’t work on a porno set or a questionable street corner in stilettos. I’m a physician’s assistant for a group of dick doctors—an illustrious PA who tends to trouser snakes of all shapes and sizes. The practice’s slogan, “you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” applies to the everyday care and maintenance of Chicago’s weenies. That is, until Brady Luck strutted into our office a couple weeks ago with his package. Since then, my life has been turned upside down. Or is that inside out? Let’s just say, considering my profession, it’s been nuts.
The problem in Brady’s pants—though I do believe it’s more in his head; the top one versus the one below his belt—has created a dilemma for me as a woman and medical professional. I can’t even discuss the situation with my best friend due to HIPAA laws, and I need to talk to someone. It’s bewildering. I’ve never wanted to jump a man’s bones while, at the same time, despising him with a fiery passion.
Maybe it’s the passion part that confuses me, or the way he claims no one can get his penis to cooperate but me. What a line! I’m sure it’s not his gorgeous blue eyes, lickable jawline, chiseled chest, sculpted forearms…and don’t get me started on his tight tush that has me all disorientated. Hot guys like that stalk me every day…in my dreams.
Anyway, I want a day to regroup before going back to work tomorrow. Monday’s are hard enough, so I’m declaring this Sunday a Self-care Day. I haven’t had one of these in…well, like ever. First things first, I need to call my best friend in hopes she can join me for mimosas and shopping before taking a nice long nap.
“Cali, do you know what time it is?” Taylor mumbles into the phone after the fourth ring.
A quick glance at the clock on my nightstand says it’s after ten, which shouldn’t elicit such a sleepy response since she rises and shines with the sun.
“It’s time to get up and go to brunch. Sound good? Maybe Magnolia’s.” I hear a raspy male voice in the background. She’s not alone. Obviously. And talk about working fast. When I left her last night at the bar, she wasn’t even talking to a guy, and that was after midnight.
“Actually, I’m…well, it’s complicated,” she says, then whispers something I can’t quite make out, like she’s pulled the phone away from her mouth and is speaking to the mystery man in her bed, or maybe she’s in his. I rack my brain with guy possibilities, and not a single one comes to mind except the hot bartender who kept throwing free drinks our way.
“Okay. But you’d better call me later with all the details.”
As my feet hit the floor next to my bed, a bolt of lightning illuminates the sky outside my bedroom window, followed by an exploding blast of thunder that makes me jump. Another streak of light flashes, and I count between it and the sound of thunder.
“One-Mississippi. Two…” The heavens clash before I get to the second Mississippi. The storm is right on top of me. “Guess I’m staying in today.”
Why am I talking to myself like a crazy person? Two words. Brady Luck.
It seems logical to blame him. I’ve been “off” since the day I fell at his feet…or more like swooned until I hit the floor of a bar in his presence. I need to explain this incident in greater detail. I’m not a boy-crazy, weak-kneed type of woman. I usually learn a guy’s flirting with me after Taylor kicks me in the chin to get my attention and raises her brows suggestively.
My woes began a few weeks ago when Taylor and I were at a local club here in Chicago. At the time, I was the head cheerleader for Brady Luck fangirls—at least in my head. Yeah, I had it bad for him. When Brady showed up later, along with his teammates, he spotted me in the crowd of batting eyelashes. Stunned he even noticed me, I slithered off the barstool in a swoony type of motion onto the floor. It was a proud moment for me. Actually, I wanted to die of humiliation.
After I assumed my position on my seat…with Brady’s assistance, I watched him walk away with his friends. I thought it was my brief shining moment with my crush, until I walked into an exam room where a new patient was waiting inside. It was Brady under a fake name, but I’d know that lopsided grin and gorgeous face in a room as dark as midnight.
Long story short—or is it the short story that became long?—he was able to get his formerly limp equipment to work in my presence. And for some crazy reason, he thinks he can only get a hard on if I’m around him, or when hears my voice. So, guess who’s been stalking me? He even followed me into the infant department at Nordstrom and proceeded to tell me how he wants a ton of kids. I think the entire department store heard my ovaries explode. I had to hightail it out of the place before we started making babies near the bibs and blankets.
Well, enough is enough. I don’t want to be his erection booty call, so I’ve refused to see him as a patient anymore, even though he calls the office several times a day.
While stewing over my Luck issues, I pop a bottle of sparkling wine—aka cheap girl champagne—and pour half into a small pitcher with some fresh O.J. I’m skipping coffee this morning and going straight for the hard stuff. I throw a couple frozen waffles into the toaster—and voilà! Breakfast.
I prop my pillows against the headboard, making a comfortable nest for my brunch in bed, place the mimosa pitcher on my nightstand—I can refill my glass from the bed. Win! I snatch up the erotic book I started this past week from where it’s laying on the floor. The story was getting to the good part last night. I thought the couple was finally going to give in to their forbidden desires, but then, sadly, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, and the book must’ve fallen from my hands.