Read Online Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman - Free Book Online
Authors: Robyn Peterman
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because I thought it sounded good.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I sighed and pulled on my hair. “Could I ask you a question you might not know the answer to?”
“Absolutely. And if I don’t know the answer, I’ll make one up.”
“Okay, um . . . great. Are Mrs. C and Edith, um, girlfriends?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven up above, I think you’ve made me permanently lose my appetite,” he groaned. “And I like to eat.” He demonstrated his love of food by lifting his shirt and gracing me with a view of his ample, hairy tummy. I was fairly sure he’d made me lose my appetite . . . at least till I was able to block out the visual he’d just gifted me.
“Well, are they?”
“Hell no, those old geezers have different gal pals every other week,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Did you make that up?” I asked, feeling nauseous.
“Shockingly enough, no. I couldn’t make something like that up. Even thinking about it makes my manhood shrivel.” He shuddered.
“You did not just use the word manhood in place of penis ,” I groaned.
“I most certainly did. Steve and I are having a contest to see who can use more penis slang in public and get away with it,” he said, grinning like a twelve-year-old.
“Have you tried pork sword, divine rod, man-tool, or skin flute?” I asked, leaving my short rotund buddy almost speechless.
“Kristy, those are fabulous,” he squealed, hopping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. “Where did you learn such dirty lingo?”
“Rena.”
“Of course.” He slapped his head and laughed. “She has a mouth like a sailor after my own heart. I have to run inside and write those down so I don’t forget them. Can you handle this clusterfuck?”
I nodded mutely and he laid a big wet one on my cheek. As he skipped back into the salon, he gushed, “I’m gonna kick Steve’s ass in the penis game.”
“Glad I could help,” I muttered as I made my way over to the weeping husky guys. “Hi, um . . . I’m Kristy, the owner. I understand that there was a . . .” Holy shit on a stick. Wandering eyeball, my butt. That eyeball didn’t just wander, it raced around in the socket like a pinball. It was all I could do to look at the stationary eye. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting “look at me.” Stopping myself was difficult, but I was better at it than the two nasty women peeking out the window at us had been.
“How can eye help you?” I bit down hard on my lip, praying they hadn’t noticed my homonym.
“Well, ma’am, these working conditions are unacceptable and unless those women are removed from the area . . . we won’t be able to honor our contract.”
I barely heard a word. Something about unacceptable, removed . . . contract. Focus, damn it. He couldn’t help it that the Indianapolis 500 was taking place in his ocular cavity.
“Eye will take care of that,” I whispered, racking my brain for a replacement word for first-person singular. Slowly, I backed away. I prayed to Brett Favre and all the quarterbacks in the NFL for strength. I would not make a grown man cry. I am a good person and God knows there’s plenty in my own life to poke fun at . . . it just wasn’t as obvious to the naked eye. Son of a bitch, even my inner thoughts were trying to bring me down.
I’m pretty sure I heard them say “thank you” as I turned and ran into the shop. I slammed the door behind me and slid to the floor. Sweating . . . profusely.
“You wanted to yell ‘look at me,’ didn’t you?” Edith barked, scaring the hell out of me.
“No, I did not,” I lied, getting to my feet and putting my back against the wall so neither one of them could sneak up on me. Holy hell, Mrs. C and Edith were dressed up. They’d traded their sweatpants for tight polyester leggings paired with house slippers and sequined stretch tops. It was hard to look away, kind of like a train wreck. The house slippers were hurting me bad. I
“I’ll take care of it,” I sighed and pulled on my hair. “Could I ask you a question you might not know the answer to?”
“Absolutely. And if I don’t know the answer, I’ll make one up.”
“Okay, um . . . great. Are Mrs. C and Edith, um, girlfriends?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven up above, I think you’ve made me permanently lose my appetite,” he groaned. “And I like to eat.” He demonstrated his love of food by lifting his shirt and gracing me with a view of his ample, hairy tummy. I was fairly sure he’d made me lose my appetite . . . at least till I was able to block out the visual he’d just gifted me.
“Well, are they?”
“Hell no, those old geezers have different gal pals every other week,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Did you make that up?” I asked, feeling nauseous.
“Shockingly enough, no. I couldn’t make something like that up. Even thinking about it makes my manhood shrivel.” He shuddered.
“You did not just use the word manhood in place of penis ,” I groaned.
“I most certainly did. Steve and I are having a contest to see who can use more penis slang in public and get away with it,” he said, grinning like a twelve-year-old.
“Have you tried pork sword, divine rod, man-tool, or skin flute?” I asked, leaving my short rotund buddy almost speechless.
“Kristy, those are fabulous,” he squealed, hopping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. “Where did you learn such dirty lingo?”
“Rena.”
“Of course.” He slapped his head and laughed. “She has a mouth like a sailor after my own heart. I have to run inside and write those down so I don’t forget them. Can you handle this clusterfuck?”
I nodded mutely and he laid a big wet one on my cheek. As he skipped back into the salon, he gushed, “I’m gonna kick Steve’s ass in the penis game.”
“Glad I could help,” I muttered as I made my way over to the weeping husky guys. “Hi, um . . . I’m Kristy, the owner. I understand that there was a . . .” Holy shit on a stick. Wandering eyeball, my butt. That eyeball didn’t just wander, it raced around in the socket like a pinball. It was all I could do to look at the stationary eye. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting “look at me.” Stopping myself was difficult, but I was better at it than the two nasty women peeking out the window at us had been.
“How can eye help you?” I bit down hard on my lip, praying they hadn’t noticed my homonym.
“Well, ma’am, these working conditions are unacceptable and unless those women are removed from the area . . . we won’t be able to honor our contract.”
I barely heard a word. Something about unacceptable, removed . . . contract. Focus, damn it. He couldn’t help it that the Indianapolis 500 was taking place in his ocular cavity.
“Eye will take care of that,” I whispered, racking my brain for a replacement word for first-person singular. Slowly, I backed away. I prayed to Brett Favre and all the quarterbacks in the NFL for strength. I would not make a grown man cry. I am a good person and God knows there’s plenty in my own life to poke fun at . . . it just wasn’t as obvious to the naked eye. Son of a bitch, even my inner thoughts were trying to bring me down.
I’m pretty sure I heard them say “thank you” as I turned and ran into the shop. I slammed the door behind me and slid to the floor. Sweating . . . profusely.
“You wanted to yell ‘look at me,’ didn’t you?” Edith barked, scaring the hell out of me.
“No, I did not,” I lied, getting to my feet and putting my back against the wall so neither one of them could sneak up on me. Holy hell, Mrs. C and Edith were dressed up. They’d traded their sweatpants for tight polyester leggings paired with house slippers and sequined stretch tops. It was hard to look away, kind of like a train wreck. The house slippers were hurting me bad. I
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