Page 92 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Back to me.
I’m gorgeous. I wonder what it’s like for someone like Mauve—a tattoo person—having to serve me every day within the beauty that surrounds me. Does she go home and draw mustaches on her own pictures, hating the fact that a black dick broom would actually make her look more appealing? I wouldn’t be surprised if I stopped by her apartment and saw discarded pictures all over her floor.
I would never do that though, go to her apartment, that is. No doubt in my mind that it’s a hot bed for vibrating wannabe man wands and a soiree of bed bugs. If you want to stick something up your whoo-ha, why not just wait until you’re married to a man to have him up in your business? It makes no sense to me.
I’m pro-choice over sexuality—I’m so progressive. If you want to smack two doughnuts together, that’s your business. It’s the people who try to fill one single woman in all her holes at the same time that should be exiled. You know, the people who enjoy foursomes. Pope Francis prays for them every night, as it’s on his list of sinners, along with chefs, people who live with more than four cats, and individuals who enjoy eating Cheerios—no one should eat a bowl of vaginas.
“Tic Tac,” I shout, pointing to my mouth as I walk down the stairs of my mansion.
Mauve appears at the bottom of the stairs with a container in her hand ready to pop one in my mouth. She really has become more efficient over the last few days. She’s been organizing me, taking care of all of my menial tasks, and even cutting my toenails when I’m too lazy to bend over to do it myself. It is a little unsettling why she is doing so well, even when I start to test her. Does she know about the lady I found for her? If so, she must be extremely grateful, seems like my plan is a smash hit, not that I’m surprised. I’m great at everything.
“Jasper will be here around noon, so in about fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss Rio and his plans for shooting activities.”
“Ugh, Rio, that’s all anyone ever talks about anymore. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s the Olympics . . .” Mauve suggests but I wave her off, blowing by her to head to my living room.
“Melon,” I call out, needing someone to brush my hair. Pocket has some kind of vaginal infection right now. When she told me, I banned her from being near me until she could provide a certified letter from a doctor stating she no longer has the buildup of yeast in her crevice. Apparently it’s from sitting in a vat of tomato juice but I refuse to take responsibility. “Melon,” I shout again. “Where is that damn cantaloupe when you need her?” I mumble.
“She went to go pick up lunch,” Mauve answers.
“What for?”
“Because people need to eat,” she says under her breath.
“Excuse me?”
Plastering a smile on her face, Mauve says, “Jasper called it in. I thought it would be best if Melony went to get it in case you started to feel faint and needed some more Tic Tacs.”
Eyeing her skeptically, I try to gauge her intent. Is she being a sarcastic ass? If it wasn’t for her recent track record of doing everything correctly, I would think, yes, but she’s been so helpful, maybe she’s telling the truth.
“Fine,” I answer, turning on my heel. “Will you wait at the door so you can let Reese in when he gets here?”
“Reese is coming over? Why didn’t I know that? I should know that. That should be on my schedule. Who made this decision?”
I hold up my hand to stop her incessant jabbering. “If I wanted a lice-coated parrot to be squawking in my ear, I would have asked for one. Before I start throwing stale saltines at your face to shut your trap, just do what I say and wait at the door. Honestly.”
Storming off, I sit in the porch swing and rest my head against one of my cream-colored Sferra Abbey throw pillows. They cost one hundred eighty-five dollars each, but they’re well worth it. Instead of pressing your skin against a poorly crafted polyester cotton-filled sack, you can rub your face over the velvety smooth fabric while playing with the stitched variegated color fringe. It brings relaxation to an entirely new level.
“Bellini, there is a woman at the door waiting for you.”
“Who is it?” I snap, hating the vagueness. Whatever happened to servants announcing people correctly?
Attention, please welcome Scott Eastwood of Malibu.
Looks like I’ll have to put everyone through anotherDownton Abbeytraining if I want anything done right around here.
“She says her name is Lauren but you call her Litter Box.”
I sit up, from the mention of the woman I handpicked for Mauve. I completely forgot she was coming over today. I can feel my eyes glow with excitement as I adjust myself on my cushiony swing, fanning out the silk robe I have on.
“Send her back here.”
Leaning forward, Mauve asks, “Do you really call her Litter Box?”
“That is none of your concern. Now bring her back here, I have a surprise for you.”
Skeptically, Mauve eyes me and then says, “Okay . . .”
