Pucked Up(8)

By: Helena Hunting

I pull the suit on, tuck my deflated junk away, and follow him downstairs. Randy doesn’t look nearly as rough as I feel this morning.

Two girls—the one who announced the size of my junk to the entire house, we’ll call her Dick Yeller, and another one I vaguely recognize from last night—are sitting at the breakfast bar with coffees. Another one lounges on the couch in the living room, clicking away on her phone. The girls at the breakfast bar stare at me, then drop their gazes to their cups, shoulders shaking.

“Showing off your jewels again, huh, Miller?” Natasha, our trainer, says from the other side of the kitchen, focused on the fruit she’s throwing in the blender. She seems like she’s in a mood, which means our workout is going to be extra painful today.

“Not on purpose.”

She’s got one hand on top of the blender and a finger poised over the button. She looks up as she hits the switch. I don’t have time to cover my ears before she lets it rip. It’s like a bomb going off in my head.

Natasha’s eyes bug out, and she barks out a laugh, dropping to the floor. I’m grateful the blender stops grinding.

The room is filled with snickering. “What the shit? Is everyone high?”

“You said you were going to take care of it,” Dick Yeller says to Randy.

He shrugs.

“Take care of what?” I’m totally confused.

Dick Yeller shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Go look in the mirror.”

I drop my phone on the counter and step into the closest bathroom. On my forehead, in black marker, is a giant jizzing cock. It even has ball hairs. “Who did this?”

“It wasn’t me,” Randy yells. “I can’t even draw stickmen.”

I pump a handful of soap into my palm and rub at my forehead, but the ink stays put. I stomp out of the bathroom and yell, “Get ready for an ass kicking, Lance! If anyone took pictures I’m going to stick you in the balls, motherpucker!”

The two girls at the counter look like they’re trying to decide whether they should laugh or run. Natasha is still on the floor, and Randy has his hand over his mouth.

Lance opens the sliding door leading out to the patio and the pool. “It’ll wash off eventually.”

“I have a goddamn flight tonight. They’re not gonna let me into Canada with a dick on my forehead.”

“That’s tonight?” Lance asks.

“Yeah, man. I told you that already.” At least I assumed I did.

Natasha stops laughing long enough to ask, “Are you going to see Sunny?”

“Not if I can’t get this off!” I point to the dick on my forehead.

“Who’s Sunny?” Dick Yeller asks.

“Miller’s girlfriend,” Randy says.

“I thought his name was Buck.”

“It’s a nickname,” I reply. “What is this? Permanent marker? How do I get rid of it?”

“Makeup remover might work.” the one from the couch says.

“Do one of you girls have some of that handy?”

The two at the breakfast bar shake their heads. The quiet one on the couch perks up. “Oh! I have hand sanitizer!” She jumps up and runs off. One minute later she comes back with three little bottles and pats a stool.

I take a seat. She pours a bunch into her palm; it smells fruity.

“You’re sure this is going to work?”

“It’s worth a shot.” She grabs a napkin and dabs it in the sanitizer. “It’s got alcohol in it.” She starts working on my forehead. “Wow, this stuff is hard to get off.” She uses a bigger glob, and this time it goes in my eyes. It burns like crazy.

“Oh! Sorry! Maybe it’d be better if you lie down.”

“When you’re done with the dick removal, drink this and come outside.” Natasha sets a glass on the counter, along with two painkillers, and saunters out of the kitchen. Randy takes Dick Yeller and the other one at the breakfast bar outside with Natasha.

Natasha’s used to this bullshit, including arriving when there are still leftovers from the night before wandering around the house. Lance’s pad is a revolving door of chicks and parties.

I lie on the floor, even though the couch is less than ten feet away, and the quiet chick sits beside me, crossing her legs.

“I feel like if you’re going to rub a dick off my forehead, I should know your name.”

Her smile is muted by her pursed lips. “I’m Poppy. Lance is a real joker.”

“Yup. That’d be him. Thanks for taking care of the dick on my head.”

“No problem.” She rubs some stinky hand sanitizer into my skin. “Kristi’s been following his career ever since he got drafted.”

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