We Are Never Meeting in Real Life. by Samantha Irby

Author:Samantha Irby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2017-05-30T04:00:00+00:00

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On dildo night Mavis cooked dinner at the lake house in South Haven: salmon, rice, bok choy, and these purple green beans from the farmers’ market that turn green after you cook them. Miniature lemon chess pies. Bourbon. Glasses of wine. This was going to be an event. We crawled into bed afterward, queueing up that Denzel drunk-pilot movie on the iPad, and I was asleep within thirty seconds, not even kidding. Mavis nudged me awake with a rolled-up New Yorker, peering at me disgustedly over her reading glasses, hair tied up in its bedtime topknot. “Seriously? You’re just going to sleep?!” And at that moment I turned into every chubby sitcom dad on every show you’ve ever watched while picking at the peas on your dinner plate.

“Nope!” I rolled out of the bed and into the bathroom to change into my night caftan, this gauzy black thing that your aunt Susan lent me and that I think is pretty sexy but am probably totally wrong about. I tore open the nondescript plastic pouch the harness came in, slipped my penis through the rubber O-ring attached to the back plate, and secured it at the base. Once I was satisfied that it was firmly in place, I stepped awkwardly through the nylon leg loops, then pulled the loose ends through the backpack strap fasteners to tighten them under my butt meat. Mavis looked on, unimpressed. This is worse than waiting for some flaccid dude to get his dick hard. I connected and tightened the top strap and immediately started giggling because my nipples fucking got caught in that shit and I had to, like, free them. I don’t know what the fuck I was picturing. I mean, I guess I thought it would be like a horn sticking out of my stomach or something? But the fabric backing molded to my mons pubis and the dick dangled between my legs like, well, like an actual dick. Except purple and silicone and unlikely to require Plan B. “IT FEELS WEIRD,” I said, frozen, standing next to the bed like an idiot.

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I lay on my back and she straddled me, grunting as she struggled to jam my huge member into a vagina that had clearly dried up while watching me fool around with all of those stupid levers and pulleys. I circled my hips and laughed while she humped me, feeling nothing below my waist other than a leg cramp that, with my luck, was probably a blood clot. She dismounted moments later, her smoking inner thighs smelling like a Barbie doll someone had set on fire. “That was dumb,” I whined. “Let’s just eat some more pie.”

She e-mailed me her feelings about the whole thing afterward, because that is what some ladies do.

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