Page 27 of Life’s Too Short

I snorted. “Is it really that common? Do women get pictures of strange men’s dicks often?”

She tore open a pink envelope. “Most of being a woman is running a gauntlet chock-full of penises,” she mumbled. “I hope you don’t send them.”

I picked up the next box. “I’ve never sent a dick pic. I prefer the shock and awe of letting them see it in person.”

She practically cackled, and I smiled at the victory of making her laugh that hard. “Just for the record,” she said, “I soooo do not believe you.”

I gave her an amused look. “You don’t believe I don’t send dick pics?”

She shook her head, still giggling. “Nope. Men like you always send dick pics.”

I smirked, looking at the contents of my box. A large, squishy poop emoji. “Men like me, huh? And exactly what kind of men is that?” I held up the brown spiral and Vanessa nodded to the donate pile.

“The super-confident, self-assured, brooding alpha male kind.”

I chuckled. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but, as far as I am aware, my penis has never been photographed.”

She put her hand out. “Let me see your phone.”

I squinted at her. “What?”

She looked at me, dead serious. “Let me see it. You don’t have any dick pics. What’s the problem?”

I grinned. “Okay. Let me see yours.”

She shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. But no deleting anything first. We hand them over and whatever’s in there is in there. No filter.”

“Okay.” I unlocked my screen and handed it to her.

She grabbed at it excitedly. But then she froze and clutched it to her chest. “Wait, why aren’t you nervous?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Because there’s nothing in there you can’t see.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This feels suspicious. Is this your burner phone?”

I laughed. “No. What kind of guys do you date that you think I need a burner phone?”

“I told you, I don’t date. I just find it awfully odd that you’re not sweating bullets right now.”

“Because there are no dick pics in there. Like I said.” I put my hand out for her phone.

She gave me a long, hard, playful glare and then slapped her cell into my palm.

We both went quiet looking at each other’s phones.

Vanessa’s cell was like the digital version of her. Nothing but fun. It was bejazzled in pink rhinestones with a sparkly PopSocket on the back. Her home screen was a picture of Grace wearing a little beanie with teddy bear ears.

Mine was the opposite. Black, functional, and with a stock lock screen. And I meant what I said. There was nothing in there she couldn’t see.

Her home screen had a music app, Uber, Lyft, Tripadvisor, Audible, Instagram, iFunny, and a couple of games.

I tapped on her photo icon and started to scroll through. Everything in her gallery was excitement and color. Pictures of resorts. The bed in the hotel room, an elephant made of towels on the comforter. A snowy small town with a huge mountain range in the backdrop. Her, laughing in a bikini at a swim-up bar in a pool. There were pictures of her holding a sangria on a cobblestone street. A cruise ship on blue water somewhere.

My gallery was boring in comparison. I almost felt sorry for her getting the short end of the stick. It was mostly legal documents and several dozen shots of the sign in the parking garage downtown by the courthouse so I’d remember where I parked. A picture of a light bulb I needed to pick up at the store, the claim ticket on a dry-cleaning order.

“Wow,” she said, looking at my screen. “You sure do park a lot.”

I chuckled and scrolled on. There was a picture of Vanessa dressed in a milk maid’s costume of some sort under a large tent. She had an enormous stein of beer, bigger than she was. I turned the phone to her. “Where was this?”