There, in bold but small numbers, is a phone number.
I pull out my cell and quickly enter the number, before it can accidentally get smudged, and then carefully fold the damp panties up into a ball, shoving it into my pocket.
This isn’t the first time a woman has thrown underwear at me (although usually I get bras, not panties), but I'll admit—this is the first time that I’ve wanted to keep the underwear in question. I’m already planning on getting myself off to them tomorrow. I may not be able to remember fucking Ms. Gisele Taylor, but I'll remember jacking off to her thong.
And for now, that cold second is what I have to settle for.
133
Gisele
It’s Friday night, and I’m binge watching “Orange is the New Black” on Netflix, but let’s be honest, I’m really just throwing a one-woman pity party for myself.
#1 – I slept with Stone Slayer again, and he doesn’t remember it again (am I really that forgettable?);
#2 – Work sucks even more than normal right now;
#3 – Despite literally throwing my panties at Stone, he hasn’t called me. Or texted me. Or even, you know, sent me flowers. Or something. Something to let me know that he’s thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about him.
Which, I’ll admit, is ridiculous. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Here is a man who quite literally cannot keep his cock in his pants, who's probably under criminal investigation—I make a mental note to look that up for my article—and, when he's awake, doesn’t seem to find me even slightly attractive. That, or he’s so used to having women throwing themselves at him that me tossing my panties at him, number scribbled in a brilliant red, doesn’t even register on his radar.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t know which of those realities is the most depressing to me. I’m not exactly used to being forgettable.
I run through my list of friends, trying to come up with someone who I a) want to hang out with enough to get off the couch and get dressed in order to go hang out with them, and b) isn’t snuggled up to some hot guy already. Even Kathy, one of my few remaining single friends—it really isn’t fair how many of my friends have been hooking up with some new guys recently—already has a date for tonight. Of course she has a date. She’s hot and she’s fun to be around, and all the guys drool whenever they get within five feet of her.
I guess I could’ve gone on a date tonight. Greg from the legal department has been asking me out for ages, but I just can’t fathom wanting to go on a date with him enough to get my sorry ass off the couch and out of this tub of ice cream that I’ve practically emerged myself in.
Hmmmm … bathing in ice cream …
To be honest, it sounds super cold and sticky and one hell of a mess, but … on the other hand, oh-so-delicious.
I stare down into the tub in my hands, ignoring Piper and Alex’s argument playing out on TV. How many tubs would I have to buy in order to fill my bath—
My phone starts vibrating next to me on the couch. I jump three inches into the air. When I come back down with an ooof, I grab the phone, staring at the screen. It’s an unknown number, which probably means—okay, maybe means—Stone Slayer?
“Hello?” My voice sounds confident. I’m so good at faking it, I almost believe it myself.
“Hey.” His silky smooth voice comes through the speaker clearly. “Is this the hot chick who signed her underwear with lipstick and then tossed them at me?”
I stare at the far wall for a minute. Stone thinks he’s being funny, but I decide to be even funnier.
“Yeah…?” I say, as if hesitating. “Sorry, which one is this?”
“What?” he yelps, all suaveness gone.
Yup, I definitely broke his shell of confidence. I grin to myself and start drawing on the arm of the couch lazily. Really, this is what he gets for waiting a week to call me.
“Well, it’s kinda hard to keep track,” I say innocently. “Now, if you could just describe to me what your cock looks like, that’s how I would best remember which one you are.”
“You want to know what my cock looks like, huh?” he says, and his rumbly deep voice is back. Despite my best intentions, a shiver runs down my spine at his words. “Long—really long, actually.”
“Really long?” I repeat, my voice as breathy as his. I hate myself for that, but I close my eyes, shutting out “Orange is the New Black” and imagine his giant cock in my hands—in my mouth.
Really long is actually an understatement, if we’re being truthful.
“I think some women have even called it massive.” Now we’re getting closer to the truth. “A thick vein runs up the side of it and when I’m really turned on, the head turns this dark purple color, just begging to get inside of your pussy.”