Confessions of an Alli Cat

You. Me. Wine. My patio.  Tonight.

I send this to Sara.

And then I add, You’re lucky that I haven’t hired a hit man.

I stay in my office as much as I can all day for two reasons.

1)      Because my crotch hurts too much to walk; and
2)      Because I will die if I have to look Alex in the eye right now.

I try to decide how best to handle this.  I can’t believe he saw my dainty lady bits from under the table and I am absolutely mortified.  Alex is going to think that I’m a flipping freak.  And I can’t believe that he even said anything!  But to be fair, I did tell him that I never get offended.  And that’s partially true.

I’m not offended.

I’m humiliated. And there is a difference.

Good Lord.

I re-position myself in my seat trying to stay off of said dainty lady bits.  I do a quick search online to see when I can expect the pain to subside.  Most articles say that the pain should’ve decreased after the first night.

Wrong.

I cringe as I move.

This is horrible.

Absolutely freaking horrible.  And it is the last time I listen to Sara. Ever.

My pity-party is interrupted by Taylor knocking softly on my door.

“Hey, boss,” she says, coming in before I tell her to. “This was just delivered for you.  It says private, so I didn’t open it.”

She’s holding a little box with a card.  She’s clearly curious.  As am I.

I take it from her and start to open the card before I realize that she’s waiting to see what it is.  I raise an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Oh, no problem,” she answers.  She stays put, still waiting.

“That will be all,” I say, hinting again .

She looks at me.

“Oh!” her eyes widen.  “Okay.”

She turns around and walks out with a bewildered look on her face.  I can understand her confusion.  She has practically shared every part of my life since she came here.  She takes care of my calendar (including doctor’s appointments), and opens all of my mail, including the court papers from the divorce.  There has never been anything marked ‘Private’ before.  She’s dying to know what it is. And I am too.

I open the card.  Bold handwriting is scrawled across a linen card.

Alli Cat,

You said that you weren’t sure what you wanted.  So I decided that you need to connect with your inner Freak.  You need to let loose every once in a while.  It’s fun.  And it’s good for you.

Wear this on your date tomorrow night.  I will have the remote control with me.  Text me where you will be.  I’ll be there too.

XX,

Shade

I am instantly nervous as I open the little white box.  As well I should be.

A long silver egg slides out from the tissue and into my fingers.  It is cool to the touch and heavy.  I stare at it for a moment before I realize what it is.

It’s a vibrator.  And it’s meant to be worn internally.

Oh, sweet Mary.

I’m shaking my head as though Shade were here with me right now.  I’m not wearing this.  I’m not doing it.

My phone buzzes.

Have you received my gift?

Shade.

I practically pant now.  Both from the gift and from the idea that Shade sent it and expects me to use it.

Yes. I text back.  And there’s no way in hell.

There is a pause.  Then a reply.

You’ll do it.  Because you’re daring and fun.

I pause.

Am I?  Daring and fun?

Maybe once upon a time, back before Rick the Dick.  But being married to him sucked all of the fun out of life.  And out of me.

But you’re not married to him anymore, I remind myself.  Shit.  Do I really need to do this to prove that I’m still daring and fun?  I mean, I already got a Brazilian wax and had sex with a gigolo.  But honestly, in the face of those things, this is a small little thing.  Right?  It’s just a tiny little vibrator.  How much of an impact could it possibly make?

I sigh.

Fine.  I reply.  I’ll do it.  I’ll text you the info later.

Think about me this afternoon, he answers.

I shake my head and put my phone away.  I can’t carry on like this at work.  I need to concentrate.

Right after I go to the bathroom and rub a piece of ice on my crotch.

By afternoon, and three pieces of ice later, Bald Brazilian (whom I have affectionately dubbed, BB) is feeling surprisingly better.  Apparently the websites that said that the pain should subside within twenty-four hours were right.  It doesn’t make me less irritated with Sara, but still.  It feels good to walk normally and in an upright position again.

Brian, however, is acting strange around me, which is precisely why I didn’t want to date someone from work in the first place. And I realize, too, that I haven’t gotten to the bottom of how Sara talked him into asking me out.

So I take a little trip to his office, which just so happens to be located on the second floor in Accounting.  Like me, he is an Executive Director and has a corner office.

When I walk in, he is sitting with his head buried in a spreadsheet.  I sigh.

This is one of the reasons why I know that he and I would never click.  He’s a numbers guy.  I’m a creative girl.  I interact with him when I need to get his input on numbers for my projects, but other than that, we don’t even move in the same circles.  We don’t think the same way. Plus, he’s got a little coffee stain on his chest.

And yes, I’m a bitch today.  But I knew that I would be going into the day.  And that probably means that I should call my vagina Bald Bitch, instead.  It’s ever so much more fitting.  Plus, I like it.  It makes me feel spunky.

BB and I sit down and I have a little chat with Brian, who is boring, but still nice.  I insist that there’s no reason to act strangely, that we’re just going to dinner as friends.  He smiles and acts relieved and then admits that I intimidate him.

“I intimidate you?” I repeat, staring at him in confusion.  “Then why in the world would you ask me out?”  I pause, then smile.  “I forgot.  My friend Sara got to you. Tell me, Brian.  How exactly did she do that?”

“She friended me online,” Brian admits, somewhat sheepishly. “She’s very nice.”