Stocking Stuffer ;)

I peel my clothes off in little lazy loops until I’m bare except for the grin, then I sweep the table like a gambler down on her luck. The remote lands first. Cool plastic stretching me wide, heels of my feet braced so I can push it deeper. Next comes the toothbrush handle—not the flashy one with bells and whistles, the plain chunk of plastic that still makes my eyes flutter. A hairbrush with a fat rubber grip follows, its bristles tickling my thigh every time I adjust. I find a bottle of lube somewhere under a cushion, slick the whole parade, and go to town—slow, unladylike thrusts that bump the clinking items together inside me. Every slide drags a breathy laugh out of my throat. Ridiculous, maybe, but the full feeling, the soft wet noises, the faint metallic taste of pretending the coffee table’s an altar… it gets the job done, laugh track and all.