Eye Candy

I don’t know what that means. He’s in his twenties—late twenties, but still. I would think every day would necessitate a lone-love session to keep constant hard-ons from happening. But then I do have a higher drive than he does. Maybe he doesn’t need to come every day like I do. I suppose I’ll find eventually out if this is the case, once we’re married and living in the same space. And then maybe he too will want to have sex every day.

“But you—” he flails a hand in my direction. “I’m right here and you locked the door.”

I prop a fist on my hip, intent on making my annoyance clear. I don’t think I’m very convincing what with my being naked and wet from the waist down. “You turned me down. I wasn’t fresh enough, remember?”

“But you’ve showered now.” His expression grows serious. “I want you to come for me like that. Like you just did.”

“Guess you better get to work then.” I hold my arms out, inviting him to take on the challenge.

His face registers shock first. Then determination. Here’s an interesting thing about my fiancé. He cannot resist a challenge. I don’t know what it is that drives him, but when he’s taken to task over something, he likes to be the best at it. Which is part of the reason I initially faked a few orgasms. I think I suffered from orgasm performance anxiety, which drove his.

Also, sometimes the friction gets to be too much when the licking or rubbing becomes excessive. But I’m already primed. I’ve come once. The second time is always faster and easier. I might as well get something out of his current remorseful state.

He grabs me by the wrist and tugs me out of the bathroom, his strides purposeful as he brings me over to the bed. He quickly shoves all the pillows to the floor and turns down the sheets. The mattress sinks as I climb up and stretch out. Pajama pants drop to the floor. His erection bobs as he follows after me.

I keep my legs together. As intrigued as Armstrong might be by what he witnessed, he prefers demure to brazen. Warm, gentle fingers trail up my shins. When he reaches my knees he carefully pries them apart. I provide just a hint of resistance and he glances up. His tongue peeks out to wet his lip.

Armstrong is a gentle, considerate lover. Which is nice. It’s lovely to be worshipped. But sometimes I’d like to be ravaged. Fucked. Sometimes I’d like to be pounded into the mattress, sweaty and sticky with afterglow.

Sex with Armstrong is sweet and tender. There’s no profanity, no dirty talking, no ass slapping or hair pulling. When I whisper a quiet, accidental fuck his eyes lift with their telling disapproval. I censor my pleasure. I try to come. I really do. I get close, but it’s taking too long and I’m too preoccupied with watching my language.

So I fake it. I try to mimic what happened in the shower, but the censored, PG version. I need to figure out how to make this better for both of us. This is what I want. Armstrong is what I want. We’ll have a beautiful life together. He just needs to relax a little. It’s just going to take time; either that, or I’ll have to bury Anarchy Amie forever. And maybe I should, because all she ever gets into is trouble.

*

“Hold this for me.” The words are garbled as Ruby hands me a pincushion. She has three pins poised between her lips. It makes me nervous. I imagine her inhaling them and accidentally swallowing one.

She plucks one from between her lips and threads it carefully through the fabric, then does the same on the other side. “Can you do me a big favor and not lose any weight between now and the Halloween party?”

She’s well aware that this is not a promise I can make. We have two weeks to go, that’s fourteen days of hot yoga. As the party gets closer and my soon-to-be mother-in-law’s involvement in this event escalates, I become increasingly aware of how much more involved she’s likely to become with the wedding as the date approaches. It’s causing me stress. She’s already overly involved. You’d think it was her getting married, not me. So I’ve been doubling up on hot yoga sessions and cardio. I’ve accidentally lost four pounds in the last week and a half. I’ve been adding protein to my morning smoothie to make up for it, but to no avail.

Ruby pats my butt. “You’re going to look gorgeous.”

I smile. “The dress is going to look gorgeous.” The dress is stunning. How she’s managed to make an old costume from the basement of a now-closed theater into something so incredible is beyond me. Ruby has a hidden talent. She can sew. I think if she hadn’t been on the stage she might’ve been behind it, designing costumes. Her personality is too big to be confined though.

My dress is huge, blue, and puffy. It’s going to be incredibly uncomfortable. But I’m used to uncomfortable clothes. I can deal with it for an evening. I would’ve preferred to go as a more interesting couple, like Harley Quinn and the Joker, but Armstrong would never agree to color his hair green, even temporarily, so I’m stuck being Cinderella.

“Have you decided what you want to be?”

“I think I’ve narrowed it down. Wonder Woman is a strong contender, but I need to try on the costume and see what you think. It might be a little too . . . revealing.”

“Well now I really need to see it.”

“When I’m finished with you.”

“You can take a break from stabbing me to death with pins.” I nudge her in the direction of the bed, where all the costumes are laid out.

Ruby doesn’t seek privacy. We’ve seen each other naked probably more times than Armstrong and I have at this point. Which is a little disconcerting, but then Ruby and I have been friends for more than a decade and Armstrong and I have been together for less than a year.

She strips down to her underwear, which happens to be a lacy little thong in hot pink zebra print with little black bows at the hips. I miss wearing fun underwear. Armstrong thinks anything that isn’t pale lace or satin is trashy. I turn back to my reflection and my high coverage dress. I can’t move much or I’ll end up with more holes in my skin.

“Okay. Check it out.” She jumps in front of me.

“Okay. Wow.” Ruby has an unbelievable dancer’s body. It’s almost infuriating how toned and muscular and just fit she is, especially with all the junk she’s constantly shoving in her mouth.

“Is that a good wow, or a bad wow?”

“Well, I suppose it depends. Your ass looks damn well fantastic, but I’m not sure Gwendolyn will survive seeing you in that. I’m also concerned that Bancroft will have zero blood flow anywhere in his body apart from his penis.”

“It rides a little high in the back, doesn’t it?” She checks out her own rear end in the mirror, wiggling it around a little.

“Just a wee bit.” Half of her butt is on display. While it definitely would’ve been something she’d wear to a party back when we were in college, there will be far too many influential people for either of us to attempt something quite so risqué.

She frowns. “I guess this is more like a bathing suit than a costume.”

“Or lingerie.” I’m sort of being sarcastic. Sort of not. I remember the way Bancroft reacted when she was in the fairy outfit. He couldn’t keep his hands off her the entire night.