I’ll never forget my first date with Otto.
We met at his mom’s record store. I was browsing through records I’d never buy, and he sidled up to me and asked me if I needed help. I didn’t, but I admired his strong arms as he flipped through the albums and gave him my number. We texted back and forth for a couple of days before deciding to meet up. He had a cute smile and could type in full sentences, so I figured, why not?
He met me on my turf—Queens, New York City, or as Otto calls it, the mainland—and took me out for Mediterranean food at one of the fancier neighborhood hot spots. As he got the check, he said, “By the way. I’m bisexual, polyamorous, and I don’t want kids. I’m incredibly into you and love your vibes, but if any of those things are deal breakers for you, let’s just be friends.”
It’d floored me at first. Not exactly what he’d said (we’d unpack each of those items later), but the way he’d said it. I was used to men hiding their truths like razor blades between their teeth. They’d say whatever they needed in order to get into my pants, and only after they were satisfied, they might come out with, Oh, by the way, I’m married.
Otto was different. Otto told the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
And damn if that wasn’t an aphrodisiac.
I could barely wait to get him back to my place before I had him up against the wall.
I lived (and still live) in a six-story walk-up. I share an apartment with a roommate, a cat, and a whole zoo of critters in my walls that I really try hard not to think about.
Hard to think about anything, really, when I had this beautiful man wedged between my body and the wall. I ravaged his mouth with mine, and he ravaged me right back. His large hands ran down my back until they found the roundness of my ass, and he cupped me there, held me flush against him. I ground my hips into his, and he groaned into my mouth—a deliciously dark, wanting sound that made my skin burn.
My fingers made deft work of his button-up. His shirt hung apart, revealing a slender, hard body underneath.
“Nice scar,” I murmured. I traced the raised, pink scar that looked like a crescent moon across his abdomen, vanishing under his belt line.
“I’ll tell you all about it.”
I nipped his bottom lip. “Later.”
I kissed his jaw. His throat. He ravaged me with his hands and his lips, sloppy, hungry kisses. But when I went to unzip his jeans, he suddenly, gently, held my wrists.
“Wait,” he said.
I blinked. “Everything okay?”
He nodded. “I just…need a second.”
I tilted my head. “First time?”
An amused smile crinkle around his eyes. “No.”
“Has it been a while?”
Those intense, blue eyes met mine. “No again.”
“Then what’s up? ’Cause you’re frantic, babe.”
“I just feel like I’ve been waiting for you…for a very long time. And I want to remember this.”
When he kissed me again, it was deep. And slow. When his tongue swirled and licked the inside of my mouth, I felt it through every inch of my body. He held me in his arms and kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me, and I felt like I could come from his lips alone.
I did come that night. Against the wall. On the floor. In my bed. We fucked like people starving. We fucked until my lips felt swollen and my cunt felt so wonderfully sore and I’d sweat straight through my sheets.
“Jesus Christ.” I laughed, swiping my fingers through my damp hair. “What planet are you from?”
He’d just grinned.
Still not entirely sure he isn’t alien.
I knew the type of guy Otto was from the first moment we met. He’d told me. He was a fuckboy with commitment issues. A privileged white boy who could afford a bohemian artist’s lifestyle. A mama’s boy who’d always gotten what he wanted and assumed the world would bend to him, not the other way around. And that was fine. My plan was simple: I’d ride golden boy’s golden cock until I got my share of toe-curling orgasms, and then I’d ghost him when the real thing came along. You know—someone with a three-piece suit and who didn’t break out in a sweat at the prospect of so much as swapping keys.
The way I saw it, our relationship had a two-week expiration date, tops.
That was six months ago.
Ever since that first night, Otto and I haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other. Otto lives a whopping ferry ride and a trip on the LIRR away from me, but still we make time for each other.
As I got to know him, I began to unpack those truths he’d told me on the first date.
Bisexual. He’d dated both men and women in the past. Didn’t discern between the two but tended to lean toward women. Always practiced sex safe, got tested frequently.
Polyamorous. This did not mean a free-for-all sleeping with anyone who showed him the slightest bit of attention. It also didn’t mean he was incapable of monogamy. Rather, it meant that, should the right person come along, someone who had that special spark and connection, we’d talk about it, deliberate, and if we were both comfortable with it, there’d be an option there for exploration.
As someone who’d been cheated on consistently in this past, this didn’t bother me in the way I thought it would. Instead, when I really took it apart in my brain, I realized it wasn’t sharing the other person’s body I had a problem with. It was the lying. And Otto was nothing if not open.
Lastly, no kids. Well, that one was pretty self-explanatory.
I did push him on it, though. Once. His response?
He shrugged, then said, “I’m just not really the kind of guy you want to make long-term plans with.”
But he was wrong. Because he’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had, and with each passing day, I’m finding it harder and harder to see my future without him.
And, I think, Otto is getting comfortable with me, too.
I keep waiting for it to slow down. I keep waiting to get bored of him. But neither thing ever comes. Otto is a firecracker, constantly. Every date feels strategically designed to blow the last date out of the water. Every time we have sex, it seems more explosive than the last.
I’m flying high with him, and still, my cynical ass is waiting to hit dirt.
We’ve had this date on the books for a while. On our third date, he found out my favorite band was an all-female indie punk band called Crystal Savage. They were playing at a Christmas show at an intimate venue called the Banana Peel in December. The tickets were too expensive for me, so I just mourned the loss and figured I might try scalping tickets at the door the day of. Instead, Otto surprised me at the end of our date with a pair of tickets.
It seemed crazy to me…but not so crazy that I wasn’t about to take them. It was July when he gave me the tickets, and I figured if we’d broken up by then (which, with my track record—yeah, we probably would), I’d just take one of my girlfriends.
Instead, here we are. Five months later, still going strong, and actually going to the Crystal Savage concert. Together.
The fluttering in my stomach is the stuff of romantic comedies, and I need to pull myself together. Especially because I’m packing some very uh…intense…goods between my legs.
After work at Pure Bean Coffee, I have just enough time to book it back to my place and get changed for the concert tonight. It’s a Christmas show, so I’m going in all red. Red, tight jeans and a red tank that clings to my curves. Gold hoops in my ears, an explosion of glittering makeup around my eyes, a puffy jacket, and Doc Martens, and we’re in business, baby.
The last piece of my outfit is my little early Christmas present Otto got me. The toy is discreet, a pink, U-shaped silicone toy. It’s egg-shaped on one end and flat on the other.
I confessed to Otto once that I had a fantasy of being controlled. Otto took my fantasy and ran with it. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. No stone left unturned.
And they say gentlemen are a dying breed.
Some women might prefer diamonds. Jewelry. A nice dinner. And, trust me, I like those things, too. But…
I like having fun more. And Otto is more than capable of feeding all my kinky desires.
I have a full-length mirror by my bed. I rinse off the toy, take off my pants and panties, and sit on the edge of my bed. I check to make sure it has batteries (it does, praise Otto), and then watch myself in the mirror as I spread my legs. My little bedroom is a mess, but considering it’s the size of a closet, it’s only fair that it’s half bedroom, half closet, half everything else. I move the toy between my legs and slip the egg-shaped end against my seam.
I’m already wet. Just the thought of spending the night with this inside of me has me worked up. I bite my lip as the soft egg rubs against my sensitive bits. I gently press it inside of me and gasp when it slides in with zero resistance. The material is soft, comfortable, and even though there’s definitely something curled inside of me, it’s not unpleasant. The U-shaped arm is bendable, and it wraps around, fitting snugly between my lips and resting against my clit.
I already feel my body buzzing with excitement at the sight of it. I take out my phone, spread my legs, and snap a picture of myself in the mirror. I send it to Otto with the text:
[text: me] Ready for tonight.
He responds only seconds later:
[text: Otto] Jesus.
[text: Otto] You’re so bloody hot.
[text: Otto] I nearly fell out of my chair.
I can’t help but grin. A worked-up Otto is my favorite type of Otto.
[text: me] Wanna test it out?
[text: Otto] Later. I’m writing.
Otto’s writing time is sacred. He writes slice-of-life stories, quasi-autobiographical pieces about living in Long Island, being an outcast, feeling strange in your own skin. He got a kidney transplant at the age of twelve. Plus, he grew up with two dads and a mom, who all live together in a polyamorous triad. So he has a lot of material to work with. His short stories have been published in literary magazines across the state, and I’m proud of him.
But I’m also needy.
[text: me]
[text: Otto] Be good.
But I’m not good at being good. Especially when I’m already pulsing around the toy, and I want so badly for Otto to flip it on and bring me to a quick, explosive climax.
So I snap another picture—this time, I’m flipping him the bird.
In response, Otto sends me a selfie of himself mid–eye roll.
I can’t help but cackle a laugh.
Otto is a guy who likes nice things. He likes dressing up, combing back his hair, buzzing out the perfect soft shadow of stubble around his jaw, and adding a touch of cologne. He knows the best angles for a group photo and how to wear a million-dollar smile.
But here’s a secret I’ll never tell him: I like him most like he is in the selfie he sent just now. Untamed hair, tired eyes, glasses on, semi-slouched in his chair. He’s such a picture-perfect guy that I find him most attractive when he’s just a little bit messy.
So I send back:
[text: me] Fiiiine.
[text: me] Can’t wait to see you tonight.
[text: Otto] Can’t wait.
I shoot him a kissy-face emoji for good measure. Then I shimmy my clothes back on and adjust the toy a bit inside my pants to make sure there’s no awkward bulge. It stays put surprisingly well, and by the time I finish getting ready and make my way onto the subway, I’ve almost forgotten it’s there.
There’s one errand I want to run before showtime.
K-Records is a record store on St. Mark’s Place, an alternative, hip street in downtown Manhattan. I used to come here to trade in my shoes at the used clothes store, which always had leftovers from the old, crusty punk generation. While the street still retains its old favor, it’s grown up over the years and is now pocketed with upscale boutiques and yoga studios.
But K-Records is its only little blast from the past. It’s a basement-level store, and I descend the steps to the entrance, where immediately I’m blasted with a hard-rock ’90s band wailing on the stereos.
“Miss Kenzi?” I call out.
The record store has crates and crates of records on display. Vintage finds on the back wall. New releases near the door. Bowls of pins. Novelty T-shirts. They have K-Records shirts (I own one myself) on display: black shirts with the mascot, a hip muskrat DJ spinning records. No idea how Kenzi picked muskrat, but it’s a cute logo.
I go to the desk, a glass case with bits and pieces of local jewelry on display underneath, and lean over it to try to find the owner. “Hello? Anyone here?”
“Hi!” Kenzi peeks her head out of a door in the back and calls out over the music, “Be right there!”
She closes the door, and I rest my elbows on the counter and wait. I’m only waiting a couple of minutes before Kenzi re-enters, looking a little disheveled but smiling widely.
“Good to see you, Naomi. Sorry, I was doing a bit of organization in the back. Let me turn this down—jeez, I didn’t realize how high I’d cranked it.”
“I like it,” I tell her.
Kenzi is the kind of woman I want to be when I’m her age. Curvy, confident, with long dark hair that she’s dyed blue at the tips. She owns the record store, which is how I got to know her initially.
Falling for her son was just the cherry on top of an already sweet cake.
She picks up a remote and turns the music down just a bit so we can actually hear each other speak. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the concert tonight?”
“Yep. I just wanted to grab something first. Are you still holding Doolittle?”
A smile climbs Kenzi’s face. “Is it time?”
I shrug. “Tonight just feels special.”
She’s been holding the Pixies’ album Doolittle for me for almost a month now. It’s $40, which is big change when you’re a tattoo artist who spends most of her money going back and forth to Long Island to visit her practically long-distance boyfriend. But the Pixies are Otto’s favorite band, and he gives me so much…
I just want to give him a little something in return.
“Jason!” Kenzi shouts over her shoulder. The back door cracks open, and a man sticks his head out.
“Yep?”
“The Pixies. Doolittle. Third shelf on the left.”
“Copy that.”
The door closes, and seconds later, Jason comes out with my record in hand. He steps behind the counter, slots himself behind Kenzi, and sets my record on the counter.
“Hey, Naomi. How goes it?”
“Good, Mr. King.”
He scrunches his nose. “That’s my dad. Just Jason.”
“Sorry, Mr.…Jason.”
It’s been drilled into my head to be polite to your partners’ parents, and it’s a hard habit to kick. Jason is Otto’s dad—well, one of Otto’s dads. Otto has two fathers, technically: Jason and Donovan. Jason, Donovan, and Kenzi have been together for years. When Otto told me the first time, it blew my mind. Now? I kinda love it.
It also helped explain his aversion to the one-partner idea. His parents make the poly thing look so appealing.
And by appealing, I mean…appealing.
Jason is well over six feet, with raven-black hair, a linebacker’s body, and the same piercingly blue eyes that Otto has.
Is it wrong to thirst over your boyfriend’s hot dad?
Ugh.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Jason is one of the good ones. He does that thing that good guys do when a hot twenty-four-year-old saunters into their personal space wearing combat boots and a ready to fuck in the alleyway attitude. He holds his wife a little tighter and nuzzles into the crook of her neck.
Again. A good guy.
“How’s the…um…organizing going?” Kenzi asks.
“Super organized,” Jason replies, arm hooked around Kenzi’s middle, and presses a kiss to her neck.
Kenzi blushes, and it’s obvious that they’ve been doing everything except organizing the closet.
I snort a laugh. I want to tell them they don’t have to hide from me; it’s refreshing. My parents barely held hands in front of their kids. It’s nice to see people who can’t keep their hands off each other, even after years together.
Otto spent most of his life without a father. He didn’t meet Jason until he was already twelve. Yet somehow, the two have a lot in common. A chiseled jawline. That boyish, lopsided smile. And, apparently, a hell of a sex drive.
Like father, like son.
Kenzi rings me up with a “That’ll be $20.”
I blink. “Is it on sale?”
She just gives me a knowing smile. “Friends-and-family discount.”
“You really don’t have to—oh.”
But my sweet, heart-warming moment with Otto’s mom is cut short.
Because suddenly, I start vibrating.
The toy between my legs buzzes. It’s quiet, but I can feel it, a rapid hum massaging my inner walls. Nestled between my folds, the arm buzzes directly against my sensitive nub. The pleasure is so intense that, for a second, my breath catches in my throat and gets stuck there.
It’s a shock, and I stumble forward. Jason’s reflexes are quick, and he reaches across the counter to grab my shoulder, holding me upright.
“Hey,” he says, those blue eyes flickering between my own, examining me. “Are you okay?”
When he’s not screwing his wife in the back room, he’s a surgeon at Hannsett Island. Their top surgeon, actually. So I recognize that he’s trying to be helpful, trying to make sure I’m not about to faint in their shop.
But I don’t want him to see my dilated pupils or my flushed cheeks or the way my thighs have to squeeze together.
I bite the inside of my lip to keep from moaning out loud and pull myself together. “Yeah—no. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a…weird spell is all…ah!”
If that wasn’t enough…the vibrations get more intense. Every nerve inside of me lights up as bolts of pleasure rocket through my blood. I gasp and find myself clinging to Jason’s arm, digging my nails in, trying not to scream.
His eyebrows lift. “Naomi. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Kenzi looks concerned, too. Quickly, I’m brought back to earth.
I’m in a record store. In public. In front of my boyfriend’s parents.
I want nothing more than to grab this desk, squeeze my thighs together, and hump my way through a blinding orgasm against the merciless vibrations of the toy, but I’m not about to do that here.
So I smile weakly instead and stammer through an explanation. “Something I ate…sorry…$1 pizza…don’t trust it. Thanks for the record! Have a good one!”
I release Otto’s dad from my death grip, slam a twenty down on the counter, grab the record, and rush through goodbyes before racing out of the shop. It’s dirty New York City air out here, but I gulp it in anyway and feel grateful for the icy winter temperature that immediately chills my skin.
It’s not a cold shower, but it helps.
Finally, the toy stops its onslaught. I catch my breath—or try to, anyway.
I get shocked with another vibration. But this one isn’t coming between my legs.
It’s in my pocket. I pull out my phone and see Otto’s name across the screen.
I pick up.
“Hey, babe,” Otto says, cool as a cucumber. His voice is crisp, masculine, and has a hint of an accent. He spent the first decade of his life in England, and though he’s mostly adapted an American dialect, every now and then, his r’s go rhotic or his h’s go quiet.
So it’s more of an Ey than a Hey. Something I’d normally think is endearing.
Right now, I just think he’s an ass.
I roll my eyes. “Hey, dick.”
I can practically hear his smugness in his voice. “Does it work?”
“Sure does,” I tell him. “I nearly came in your dad’s arms. So. Thank you for that.”
A looooong silence on the other end.
“Uhh. What? Which dad?”
I snort a laugh. “Your first response is which dad? Does it make a difference?”
“Kinda.”
“Jason. I was at your mom’s shop.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
Otto and Jason have a strange, always loving but sometimes strained relationship. Otto never talks about it, but it’s always there, like oil shimmering on the surface of a still lake.
I sigh. “Maybe a little warning next time?”
“Warning,” Otto says.
“Huh?”
The buzz shoots through me.
“Fuck.” I swear between my teeth. My knees buckle. My hardened nipples chafe against my shirt. Just when I’ve gotten myself under control, I immediately rocket to the edge of pleasure again.
“Sorry. Was that mean?”
“Very.”
“Hmm. Maybe I’m feeling a little mean.”
“Are you punishing me?”
“No.” Buzz. “Well.” Buzz. “Maybe a little.” Buzz.
My breath catches in my throat. I stumble on the sidewalk, and I have to brace myself against a bus stop pole. The vibrations are relentless, and they whisper through my body, hitting deep inside of me and nestling against my swollen nub.
It’s thirty degrees and I’m sweating in my overcoat.
“You’re going to make me come,” I whisper.
“No. I’m not.” And suddenly, the vibrations cease. “Not until tonight, anyway. You have to wait on that.”
My thighs are shaking. I’m throbbing, and my body wants so badly to reach that pleasurable peak, but the torment is delicious.
“Otto?”
“Yeah?”
I bite my lip. “Stay mad.”
“Why?”
“I want you to pound me at the back of the club tonight.”
A low groan leaves Otto’s throat, and it sends a rippling thrill through me.
If I have to suffer until tonight, he does, too.
“You’re in so much trouble,” he says.
I grin. “Promises, promises…”
