Serial fiction Chapter 1

“What have you been doing with your dildo,” is the first thing Suzanne says when I tell her it’s broken.
“Oh, just the usual stuff.”
“But how does a dildo get a crack in it? Should be the other way around. You sure you haven’t been whipping it or chaining it to your bed?”
“No. It was just a second-rate dildo, I guess. That’s why I need you to help me choose this time.”
“Aren’t these usually pretty personal choices?”
“C’mon, Suzanne. A woman needs a friend to go with her to a sex shop.”
Suzanne pauses, and then says gravely, “This may be a sign, you know.” Suzanne is always looking for signs. I am not so esoteric, so I retort, “It’s a sign I need a new dildo.”
“Look, Martine. You can do better than a dildo. How long has it been? I know you still think that Jeff is the love of your life and you’ll never find another, but sometimes you just got to take care of your sexual – and mental – health.”
At the mention of Jeff, my heart starts to goose-bump again. Remembering those hot nights when we made love on rooftops, with the mountain in the background, its cross looking on, scandalized.
“Martine? Hello?” Suzanne breaks my reverie.
“I’m not ready to move on yet. Can you just help me choose a dildo?”
“But how can I help you? I’ve never even been to a sex shop.”
“Doesn’t matter. I suck at shopping. You’re a much wiser shopper than me. C’mon,” I say, pulling her arm towards Shack D’Amour.
“Oh, all right,” she says. Flattery will get you almost anywhere with Suzanne.
When we get inside, Suzanne behaves just like a fresh tourist in New York.
She looks around constantly, trying to take it in all at once – the black leather and red teddies and ingenious contraptions of torture and pleasure.
I manage to focus her attention long enough to lead her to the dildo section. In her pragmatic way, she helps me evaluate the pros and cons of each vibrator until we come up with a veiny green dandy with three settings.
When we get to the cash register, the clerk briefs me on vibrator usage, care and maintenance. He speaks in a dry, sterile voice, sounding like a doctor describing a surgical procedure.
“He was cute,” Suzanne says, even before we’re out the door.
“Sh! He’ll hear you!”
“You should have given him your phone number,” she says when we get outside.
“I thought he was a bit of an android. No expression whatsoever on his face.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s probably part of the job description. You can’t burst into giggles every time you tell someone how high he can put his cock-ring.” I admit she’s got a point.
With the mission accomplished, we part company. She goes to work, and I head off to take care of other necessities – groceries. I enter a Metro, fill up a cart with food and swipe my Interac card at the counter.
“INSUFFICIENT FUNDS,” flashes ominously.
Oh horror, oh horror. Shit. I was sure I had more money. I apologize sheepishly to the gruff checkout girl and pace into the streets. My mind is seized with the cold sweat of money worries. Shit, shit, shit! What am I going to do? How am I going to survive until my next gig? All right, stay calm. First thing’s first. Return the dildo.
Back at the Shack d’Amour, Mr. Rubato says, “We don’t take returns on dildos.”
“I swear I didn’t use it. I bought it a half-hour ago, and all I did between then and now was buy groceries.”
“Where are the groceries?” he asks.
“I had to leave them at the store. I didn’t have money to pay for them.” I don’t realize how pathetic this sounds until I hear myself say it. It then occurs to me that my pathetic-ness may be to my advantage. He fixes his gaze on me. He must be thinking something, or he wouldn’t be staring like that, but there’s no clue on his face as to what he’s thinking. Suzanne’s right, though. He is cute. Clear-blue eyes and black hair – a startling contrast.
Finally he says, “Alright. I’ll do you a favour. Do you have the receipt?”
“Yes. Thank you so much!” I open my wallet and scan through my receipts, flipping past my business card. Why not? I place the receipt and the card on the counter. I’m shaking nervously, wondering how he’ll react or if he’ll react.
He takes the receipt and puts it in the cash register. Then he picks the card off the table and reads it to himself: Martine Boulanger. Pianist. 845-9776. Suddenly shy, I tip my eyes down, and peer at him through the lashes. Barely perceptibly, the sides of his mouth twist up slightly.
“Thank you,” he says. He reaches into the cash register and takes out the money. His hand strokes my palm as he returns it.
I wonder if he can vibrate.

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