Sighing, aware that The Quickie is nestled not-so-innocently inside the swag bag I set on the counter, I remove the offending wig on my head and shake out my natural hair—the real stuff underneath—and give my scalp a good massage with my fingers, basking in the relief. It was hot and itchy having that thing on my head for the past several hours, and I set it next to my bachelorette goodies.
The townhouse I’m renting from Hollis (which my father is irritated about, because Westbrookes do not rent, especially from each other—they own) is mostly empty, except for my bed and a suitcase, the rest of my things arriving tomorrow morning.
Wig off, I pad absentmindedly to the bathroom, the echo of loud music still reverberating through my eardrums, the last bar we ended at more of a concert hall with a million amps and scores of people.
I can’t hear myself think, just the sound of electric guitars wailing and pop stars singing.
As my hair goes back in a tie, my eyes stray to the tired, mascara-smudged bags beneath them and I cringe, rooting for a cotton ball, swiping it over my face, removing the makeup caked on there. It takes four until I have everything off and I feel like myself again, the cold water splashing on my face a marvelous sensation.
Ahh.
Never go to bed with makeup on, my nonna used to say. Keeps the wrinkles at bay—and Pond’s Cold Cream.
Cold cream. She swears by it, and so do I because Nonna says so.
The gooey, white concoction gets its turn on my skin, completely drenching it with moisture before I clean it off. More water. Rag. Toner.
Why does it take so damn long to get ready for bed? Men have it so easy…
Once that’s all out of the way, I brush my teeth. Floss. Brush out my hair, braid it.
Pee.
Flicking the switch for the bathroom light, I groan when I see the kitchen light still glowing above the sink. Pad to the hallway and…
My eyes latch onto the swag bag still sitting on the counter, untouched and unpacked. I haven’t even emptied it yet.
So I walk over, hold the canvas tote open, peer inside, and reach a hand in. I pull out a bottle of rosé—blush pink wine in a bottle with my cousin’s and her fiancé’s initials intertwined. A wine glass with my initials. A bottle opener with a pink ribbon tied to it.
A wedding party survival kit in a cute zippy pouch: folded ballet flats so we can take our high heels off and dance, tiny bottle of vodka, travel toothpaste and toothbrush, Chapstick, mints, breath spray, and—a condom in a pink wrapper.
Pink furry slippers—so cute.
A satin robe with a W on the back.
I’m not one of Hollis’s bridesmaids—I haven’t been around enough to have earned that title—but I feel special going through this bag of goodies, knowing only a few select people received these things.
And there’s only one thing left at the bottom.
The Quickie.
Hot pink box. Hot pink vibrator.
I haven’t opened it, but I remember what it looked like when Ginger was showing it off: sleek, rubbery, and dick-shaped.
Phallic.
The box is rectangular and glossy. Expensive-looking and not at all the kind I imagine you’d find at an adult toy store, not that I’ve ever been inside an adult toy store. Not that I’ve imagined it.
Cough, cough.
The box rests in my hand.
I wonder if the vibrator is charged.
Stop it, Chandler—you aren’t going to use it.
Why not?
Because you have no idea what you’re doing!
No one is here to see you—what could possibly go wrong?
Ha! What could possibly go wrong?! Famous last words, ones I’ve said hundreds of times right before things went horribly wrong.
It could zap you in the crotch.
Oh my god, be serious—it’s not going to zap your vajayjay.
But it could. Freak accidents happen all the time, and my parents would die if I had to call them from the hospital the weekend before Hollis’s wedding because their daughter’s junk was electrocuted.
I study the side of the box intently, reading from the side: This hot little pleasure ride is authentically designed with a raised vein texture, penis tip, and five adaptable speeds to customize your experience. Tailored for the novice, this pretty pink vibrator is the perfect shape and size to coax one orgasm after another out of you!
Pretty?
Dicks aren’t pretty and neither are the plastic versions of them, thank you very much. Someone should send a memo to men: no one wants a dick pic—at least, not one that’s unsolicited.
Not that I’ve ever received one, which kind of feels like an insult…
Still, I pry the box top off and gape down at the pink silicone toy, nestled in a bed of satin, its gold metallic accents shining back at me. One button. Five settings.
Settings? What do they mean by that?