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ignoring the fact that I already
told her I wasn't interested. But it's her house and she'll speak
when she wants. I swear she senses when I'm having any kind of
pleasure and must try to stop it.
    The big dildo just rests inside the wanton
chamber inside me that used to be my pussy. Not sure if she's there
anymore. She may have gotten up and walked away, mad that I can't
even masturbate in peace.
    My mom finishes describing the scene, urging
me come watch it because it's so "good", then finally says good
night. I watch her through the space between my nightstand lamp and
the wall. She returns to the couch and sits back down.
    Why don't I just close the door to my
room?
    Good question. I don't have an answer for
that. Maybe I do need a therapist.
    I take the chance and begin fucking myself
again.
    It's about time , says my pussy.
    Thanks for not giving up completely on
me , I reply.
    Three minutes later I come.
    Silently.
     

Chapter 6
     
    "You got yourself some mother issues there,
girl," says Isabella as she sips her margarita.
    "Yeah, I know," I say.
    Isabella and I are enjoying happy hour at the
Sunset Lounge. Older crowd, but classy. Not my favorite place, but
you can't beat the view at sunset. The sun is beginning its descent
behind the Miami skyscrapers in a spectacular variety of oranges,
reds, and purples.
    I always feel like I'm on display over here.
I know I'm semi-hot, but when I'm not on a Damien Cage-fueled
adrenaline high being pulled over by cops for masturbating in my
car I'm more of a prefer-not-to-be-ogled girl. Isabella, on
the other hand, thrives on ogling. The more eyes on her, the
happier she feels.
    And there's no shortage of eyes. Isabella
is... how shall I say this?... the most gorgeous girl I have ever
seen in my life. Part Brazilian, part Colombian. Black curly hair
in wild streams. Thick eyelashes. Big full lips. Big brown eyes
that slant upwards a little. Hypnotizing. Amazing perky breasts.
The most perfectly shaped round ass. Long legs that shine and
glisten.
    But what I like best about Isabella's
stunning appearance is that it draws attention away from me. I'm
happily invisible when I'm with her.
    Don't get me wrong, though. I am wearing my tight one-shoulder blue floral mini-dress with Jimmy
Choo pumps and matching blue alligator purse.
    Hey, it is South Beach! Well, close
enough anyway.
    A paunchy fifty-ish man wearing a blue blazer
with a white shirt open at the collar saunters up to our table. A
gold chain hangs over a tuft of gray-and-black chest hair.
    "May I buy you ladies a drink?" he says.
    "No thanks," I say. "Private
conversation."
    My tone is probably a little too nasty. The
oldster snorts and drifts away.
    "Annika!" says Isabella. "Why so nasty? He
was nice."
    "He's a fossil," I say.
    "You're too picky. Not to mention a little
nasty. I spent a night with a sixty year old guy once. He did
things to me with his tongue that no man or woman ever did before.
I'm getting wet just thinking about it now."
    "You're sick, Iz."
    "You have to let go of your rules. You have
too many damn rules. If there's one thing Tristan taught me, it's
to let go and enjoy life."
    Tristan is a billionaire who Isabella can't
stop talking about. He has some sort of weird sexual training thing
in Boston. I say that, even though part of me is considering going
to one of Damien Cage's ass-fisting parties.
    "So why didn't you stay there with him?" I
say.
    "Because he closed up shop," she says. "Fell
for this girl named Meghan. Who was gorgeous. I wanted her myself,
but she was all about Tristan."
    Oh, did I mention Isabella is bisexual?
Probably trisexual, omnisexual, quadrisexual, and pansexual
too.
    She used to be a little weird about it but
since coming home she's proud and puts it out there. Tristan must
have been quite something indeed.
    "Well, I gotta hand it to you, Iz," I say,
"you're living your life, that's for sure."
    "I have sex with the person inside," she
says, "not their physical representation.