I wasn’t planning to, as Miles said, fuck up my life. But I was planning on taking a few more chances. Living out loud a little more. If I made mistakes, so be it—I’d own them.
Miles came out onto the porch with his duffel, his computer bag, and his coffee. “Ready?”
“Yes. Just let me put this book back.”
He tipped his head too read the cover. “Ah. That’s a good one. I got it for my mom for Christmas one year after hearing Mary Oliver on NPR. I doubt she ever opened it. Want it?”
“I can’t take your mom’s book,” I said, rising from my chair. “But I might buy my own copy. I really like it.” After I replaced the book on the shelf, Miles locked up the house.
“Want to take the top off?” he asked after throwing his bags in the back and his coffee in a cup holder.
“Sure.” I put my coffee in the car too, helped him remove the roof panels and stow them in the back, then jumped in the front seat.
Miles slid in behind the wheel a moment later and surprised me by grabbing my face and planting a huge kiss on my lips.
Butterflies took flight inside me. “What was that for?”
“For being brave,” he said, starting the car. “I’m so fucking proud of you.” He threw an arm across the back of my seat and looked over his shoulder as he reversed out of the driveway.
“Thanks. I’m kind of proud of myself, even though my life feels a little upside down right now.”
He grinned as we started down the highway. “Told you it was me.”
It took me a few seconds to realize he meant Madam Psuka’s prediction. “Oh, stop. That wasn’t real. You didn’t upend my life, you just helped me see that I needed to make some changes. Have more fun. Explore a new side of myself.” I cocked my head. “Hey, what did you call me in your article, by the way?”
“Cinnamon Buns.”
“Cinnamon Buns!” I yelled, my eyes bugging. “That’s the anonymous nickname you gave me?”
“Yeah, why? You don’t like it?”
“No! For one thing, it will be totally obvious to anyone who knows what I do for a living, and for another, I thought it would be something sultry and glamorous, like Svetlana.”
“Mmmm, Svetlana.”
I hit him on the leg. Hard.
“I’m kidding,” he said, laughing. “You’re much hotter than Svetlana. Beautiful girl next door with hidden dirty streak beats Ukrainian acrobat any day. And anyone who reads this article will agree with me. Trust me, it’s highly complimentary.”
“When can I read it?”
“Right now if you want. It’s live.”
“It’s live? I thought you were going to let me see it first, at least!” Diving into my purse, I scrambled for my phone. “Oh, God. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m telling you, it’s all good.”
My heart thumped hard as I searched for his blog, my body prickling with heat. What had he said about me? I saw the right link in the search results, clicked on it, and began to read.
Want a Better Blowjob Tonight?
I thought so.
And I’m here to help.
Last night, I had quite simply the best blowjob you can possibly imagine. I’m talking the Aston Martin of blowjobs. The Stanley Cup of blowjobs. If blowjobs had a World Series, this girl was Ty Cobb, Roger Hornsby, and Joe Jackson COMBINED.
I’ll call her Cinnamon Buns. Because she looks as delicious and smells and tastes like the best one you’ve ever eaten.
This blowjob from Cinnamon Buns was clearly a gift from the heavens, and I feel strongly that the gods bestowed it upon me because they knew I would act benevolently. Thus, I share with you my experience not to inspire envy or resentment, but in the hopes that you can find a way to get your girlfriend’s eyes on this article and inspire her to blowjob brilliance as well.
In return, gentlemen, you will please follow this link to an article called 10 Ways to Get Her Off Tonight (You’re Doing It Wrong, Asshole).
OK. Let’s begin. You with me, ladies?
First, I want to commend you for reading. You’re clearly smart, sexy, and fun, which makes you the hottest woman he has ever known even before you put that gorgeous mouth on his unworthy dick. You are a goddess. (See what I’m doing here, guys?)
Now, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’ve had a lot of blowjobs.
But this one.
This one.
As I watched Cinnamon Buns get to her knees on the floor in front of me, my dick sprang up like one of those inflatable Bozo the clown bop bags I had as a kid. I’d push it down and it would pop right back up again, ready to go.
Not that there is anything funny about my dick, of course. It is very serious. Let me rephrase.