I have reached a new level of mad, sad horniness.
My new vibrator plugs into the wall. As I move a night stand to expose a power outlet, I shudder with mortification, realizing that I’ve graduated from battery-generated pulsing pleasure to something that needs to connect to the city’s power grid to get me off.
But my desire to be satisfied conquers the shame and I am ready, no excited, to test out the upgrade. Already twinging with little throbs in neglected places, my hand trembles a little as I plug my new electric boyfriend into the wall. A pre-work orgasm is just the thing I need to help me face the workday’s guaranteed stresses—because being the general manager/program director/producer of a small alt rock radio station brings way too much anxiety. Luckily, I think I’m going to love this amped up toy just as much as I do rock and roll.
Gosh, I hope I don’t blow a fuse.
Reclining on my bed, I flip the switch to ‘on.’
Whoa. This is going to be fun.
Pushing all thoughts of work aside, I settle into my go-to fantasy: a lonely beach at sunset. Ending a relaxing day nude sunbathing, my skin is slick with coconut oil and warm from the tropical sun.
The silhouette of a perfect triangle of broad shoulders and narrow waist emerges from the waves nearby, an Anonymous Adonis. Muscles ripple under tan flesh that’s sea salt wet. Without hesitation, he comes to me and kneels beside my towel. His big rough hands massage my breasts and inner thighs, his kisses hot and deep. He flicks his tongue on my nipples and then works his way down. My legs shake as he works my clit with his mouth. He knows the exact right moment to enter me with his perfect cock, a deliberate slowness that both teases and….
I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL
That’s the ringtone I use for work, but I am ignoring it. Anonymous Adonis is just starting to thrust into me.
I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL
No, no way. I am on a beach right now, slippery from suntan oil and wet with desire and the entire AC current of Paramus Power and Light vibrating inside me, making my teeth chatter and my…
I LOVE ROCK ‘N…
Yank goes the cord from the wall. “What?" I yell into the phone, shaking with anger and thwarted arousal. This had better be really goddamn important.
“Rose, you have to come to the station.” Chris, my senior citizen program director, speaks with a quiver in his pack-a-day raspy voice.
“What is it?” I sound miffed. I am miffed. “Was there another fire in the breakroom?”
“I wish,” Chris mutters. “But no. Mr. Morning has lost his mind and locked himself in the DJ booth and…” He stops to take a breath like he’s afraid to say what’s next.
“And?” I shut my eyes in preparation. Is Mr. Morning racking up FCC fines by going on a curse-laden tirade? Is he bashing all of our old equipment with a baseball bat?
“It’s Katy Perry. He’s playing her on loop. Same song, Dark Horse, over and over and…”
“Shit.” My heart jumps in my throat. I can literally hear the station advertising revenue falling with each chorus. “I’m coming,” I say. “Try to talk to him. Or maybe cut the power to the booth."
I check the time and feel the prickles of panic settle in, a thousand needles stabbing my chest. It’s rush hour. Prime time for listeners.
I take a breath to calm myself. Perhaps all is not lost. Our station owner Doc Bing doesn’t usually listen this early in the morning. Maybe none of his friends will call him to complain. Maybe our listeners will think it’s a funny prank.
But my phone alerts me with a text message from the only member of our sales staff, Becky Lynch. WTF!?! I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.
Not if I get there first.
I scramble into jeans and my fave Muse tee, then head downstairs to see my roomie Geo sucking on organic coffee and twisting the white girl dreads she’s trying to nurture in her Scandinavian blond hair. “Morning,” she says. "Want some coffee?"
“Thanks," I reply absently as my eyes dart around the kitchen for my keys, “but I gotta get to the station. Emergency.”
“Shit, Rose. Another ramen noodle fire?” She dangles my missing keys in her delicate hand and my soul is overcome with love for her as I snatch them from her fingers.
I shake my head. “Worse. Much worse.”
I head out the door and hear Geo shout after me, “Don’t forget to line up the interview for our podcast next week!” I make a mental note somewhere at the back of my racing mind as I leap into my old maroon Mustang and floor it out of my parking spot.
Our station, W-ALT, blasts in my ears at top volume, and sure enough, it's Dark Horse still. This is it, this is how I am going to die: in my beat up Mustang, stuck in rush hour traffic and being tortured by Katy Perry. I hear that fucking song 8 times before I pull into the W-ALT parking lot.
I dash out of the car and up the walkway where I spot Chris taking a drag off a cigarette.
“Who knows about this so far?” I demand.
He shrugs his shoulders and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “Just me…and whoever else is listening to our station at 8 am in the greater NYC area.”
“Fantastic.” I sigh as I throw open the door. Once inside, I don't stop until I reach the DJ booth window. Mr. Morning—legal name: Clive Dunby—has 100% lost his shit. I see him dancing with Blowsy, the blowup doll our noon DJ left in the studio as a joke. At least she’s still wearing one of my old bridesmaid dresses and isn’t stark naked.
Mr. Morning is in his 40’s and has more tattoos than a biker, overweight enough that I can see his hairy belly button poking out from under his Danzig tee. As he waltzes with dead eyed Blowsy, I see the phones are lighting up behind him. I’m sure that has to be a bunch of W-ALT fans calling to find out what the hell.
I bang on the window to get Mr. Morning’s attention and he grins and bends the arm of Blowsy to wave to me. I curve my finger to him. “Come out now,” I mouth with a stern face.
He locks eyes with me and then shakes his head, then Blowsy’s head. His eyes are wild, his hair disheveled, and I just know this has gone far beyond his typical freak outs.
“What do you want to do?” Chris is standing behind me with Night Vixen, our overnight DJ, who they clearly asked to stick around in case we ever lure Mr. Morning out of there. Her jet black hair is sticking to her face, and she’s raccoon-eyed and sluggish but awake. She smiles at me and rubs her eyes, making her look even more like a trash panda.
I refuse to let the station go down like this. Time to put on the big girl panties, stop the madness, save W-ALT (and all our jobs), and get Mr. Morning out of that booth. Permanently.