Holy shit, I just had anal!

I raise my eyebrows and smile.

Second mistake.

“This is NOT funny. Wipe that Goddamn smile off of your face RIGHT NOW! I was saving anal for my future husband!” she yells at me before reaching for one of the empty vodka bottles on the coffee table and chucking it at my head.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yell, ducking down behind the arm of the couch just in time as the bottle goes sailing over me and thumps against the side of the island in the kitchen.

“It was a mistake, I swear.” I raise my hands above my head and wave them back and forth like a white flag of peace. “Either you have a really tight vagina, or a really loose asshole because I didn’t even notice.”

Mistake número tres. In case you weren’t keeping track.

She screams like a banshee and I have just enough time to wrap my arms around my head before she dives over my end of the couch and starts smacking every inch of face she can reach.

“I’m sorry! Jesus, I’m sorry. Stop hitting me! It was an honest mistake!”

“HONEST MISTAKE?!” she screeches. “An honest mistake is speeding, spilling a glass of milk or calling someone by the wrong name. It is NOT sticking your dick in the wrong hole!” she argues, her fist connecting with my cheek.

In between grunts of pain, I manage to grab onto her wrists and stand up. Her hair is a mess around her face and her cheeks are red from exertion and even though I’m pretty sure I should excuse myself to get rid of the jizz-filled condom I’m still wearing, I can feel myself getting hard again.

She tries to struggle out of my grasp but I hold on tight as I climb over the arm of the couch and push her onto her back on the cushions, resting my body on top of hers. Holding her arms above her head, I stare down at her face and try really hard to wipe the goofy smile off of my mine.

I don’t know what she’s so worked up about. It really was an honest mistake. There’s only like a one-inch distance between the two holes. It could happen to anyone.

“You know, since I was already in there…”

Yep, you guessed it. I should probably just stop talking.

I may have her hands pinned, but her legs are still in working order. Her knee comes up between my legs and slams right into my balls.

I let out a scream and roll right off of her and onto the floor, clutching onto the boys as I curl up in the fetal position.

In between whimpers of pain, I watch as Ava gets up off of the couch and storms around the living room, picking up random objects: a shot glass, an empty bottle of vodka, the remote control and a huge jar candle. She cradles everything in her arms and then stalks over to me.

“I don’t think Charlotte and Gavin expect you to clean up the living room,” I groan, pushing myself up from the floor gingerly and wincing when it feels like my nut sack is going to explode.

“Oh, I’m not cleaning up. I’m going to shove these things up your ass and see how you like it,” she tells me.

“I told you I was sorry,” I remind her, using the edge of the couch to push myself up from the ground.

“We are never having sex again!”

I laugh and, with my hands cupping my balls, I start walking down the hall to Gavin and Charlotte’s bathroom to dispose of the condom. I’m definitely too drunk to drive back to my parent’s house. Hopefully Gavin and Charlotte won’t mind if I crash here.

“You said that last week, Ava. Admit it, you can’t get enough of me.”

I hear her curse and I can’t help but laugh as I use a wad of toilet paper to remove the condom and throw it in the trash before hobbling into the bedroom.

This day started off shitty and even though I can almost feel my balls up in my throat after that kick Ava gave me, it still ended on a good note. I kind of, sort of popped my anal cherry. Technically, I guess I popped her anal cherry, but semantics…I feel like I should tell someone about this. Is this the type of thing you post on Facebook or send out a mass text about? If not, it should be.

Tomorrow, I’m going to think about the fact that the man I grew up with isn’t my father and pray my parents aren’t hurt when I tell them I need to find out who he is. I have to know where I came from. Not just because it’s imperative that I have an official birth certificate, but also because I need to know if my dad was a turkey baster or some asshole who slept with my mom and then never spoke to her again. When I do find out who he is, I’m going to beat his ass.

Climbing into bed, I slide my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling.

I have no idea who my father is.

I just had anal!

But I have no idea who my father is.

ANAL, MOTHER FUCKER!

Shit, I hate being so conflicted.

Chapter 7 – Ass Captain

- Ava - 

As soon as the photo loads to the page, I do a quick preview of my blog post and smile. Something Charlotte said to me the other day when we went shopping struck a chord. She called me the Rain Man of fashion. Ever since I was a little girl I have always been obsessed with clothes and shoes, purses and jewelry. I would take playing dress-up to the extreme, reorganizing my mom’s closet and putting outfits together for her for an entire year.

Everyone has a blog nowadays. They talk about their lives, their kids, and whatever else they have going on and it’s all the same boring crap day after day. I’ve had a blog for a while and I rarely post on it. When I do, it’s always about an outfit I wore or a sale I found at the mall and I always get a ton of hits, so I’ve decided to test something out and see where it goes. I’m starting an official fashion blog. I’ll keep people up-to-date on current trends and where all the good sales are and post photos of myself wearing certain items so they can see how I pair things together. It’s not something I’ll be able to make a living doing, but at least it’s something I’m excited about.

I hit ‘publish’ on the blog post and, while I wait for it to go live, my cell phone rings. When I see that it’s my mom, I groan before answering it.

“There better be a damn good reason why you called off of work today,” mom says, not bothering with ‘hello’.

Letting out a little cough, I make my voice sound as weak as possible. “I’m really sick, Mom. Like, really. I think it’s the flu.”

She sighs through the line and I watch with a smile on my face as the views on my blog post already start adding up within seconds of it going live.

“Bullshit. You’ve been on your computer since dinner last night. In case you’ve forgotten, I know how to work the Internet. I just saw your blog post go live. Did you seriously call off of work to play around on your blog? You’re messing up a perfectly good career opportunity, Ava. Even though I’m part owner of the company, I can’t continue to cover for you when you do stupid shit like this,” she complains.

I feel the butterflies of excitement about my blog post die a quick, painful death in my stomach when she calls what I’m doing ‘stupid shit’. I love my mom, but she’s never understood the fact that I don’t want to be part of the family business, that I have other likes and interests apart from hers. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and I have to squeeze them tightly closed to keep the tears from falling. No matter what I do, I just can’t make her understand how important this is to me.

“I expect you to be back at work first thing tomorrow morning,” she adds. “And for God’s sake, call Tyler. He’s decided that every time you ignore one of his voicemails or texts, he’s going to forward them to me. Remember that song ‘Accidentally in Love’ from Shrek? Well, there is now a five-minute voicemail on my phone of him singing it, but he changed the lyrics to ‘Accidentally in Your Ass.’ I really do not need to know what that is about. Make him stop.”

For right now, I decide the best thing is to just agree with my mom. If I try to explain to her once again how much I hate working at Seduction and Snacks, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I hang up with my mom and scroll through all of the text messages from Tyler. He’s been sending them to me non-stop for five days. Five days since he violated my ass. Okay, fine, it was an accident. I know he really didn’t do it on purpose; he’s not that kind of guy. He wouldn’t just try to sneak his dick in there and figure I wouldn’t notice.

Okay, he probably would, but he would be honest about doing it once I called him on it. He was adamant that it was a mistake and I’m pissed off that I believe him. I’m even more pissed off that, after the initial shock wore off, I was sorely tempted to demand he grab some lube and keep going.

As I read each message, I’m ashamed at myself for cracking a tiny smile.


I need to ASS you a question. Are you still mad at me?


Dear Ava’s Ass: I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Love, Tyler’s Ginormous Dick.


I bought a butt plug. You’re right. This isn’t very comfortable.


Never mind. This isn’t so bad.


“I’m in love (with your ass), I’m in love (with your ass). Come on, come on, spin a little tighter” Wow, these lyrics are spot on. I think I found our new theme song. Check your voice mail.


With a growl, I wipe the smile off of my face and finally reply to all of Tyler’s nonsense.


STOP TEXTING ME AND FOR FUCK’S SAKE, STOP TEXTING AND CALLING MY MOM!