Sextuplet and the City

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

They gape at me as though I’ve pulled down my pants and started auditioning finger puppets in front of them. At the same time, the smell of delicious food grows stronger despite my nose filters—that or the stress is making me hungrier.

“Did I hear ‘m**********n?’” Blue asks, still speaking too loudly.

“Yeah,” Gia says even louder. “But maybe that’s an acronym for something, like a Master’s degree in Urban Planning?”

My eye starts to twitch again, but I calm myself by mentally adding another euphemism for female self-pleasure to my existing list: Master’s in Urban Planning, or MUP. But wait. Shouldn’t it be Mistress’s of Urban Planning since we’re emphasizing the femaleness of the act?

“I’m pretty sure she’s talking about diddling herself,” Honey says, grinning widely.

Okay. Now my left eye is twitching so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if it were sending Morse code messages to my sisters: two dots and a dash, then three dots and another dash—which stands for FU.

“If you would just let me get a skunking word in edgewise,” I grit out, and they turn to me, eyes widening. I take another breath. “I did mean what I said. I’m a professional masturbator.”

A throat is cleared behind me, and the smell of yummy food is the strongest it’s been since we sat down, which makes me understand why my sisters are bug-eyed.

It wasn’t my words but something else.

Something worse.

Flushing, I glance over my shoulder to confirm my suspicion.

Yup. Our matronly waitress is standing behind me, and if it weren’t for the tray of food in her hands, she’d be clutching her pearls.

“That’s right. I write a blog about m**********n,” I say, lifting my chin as I turn back to the table.

When life gave me lemons—a.k.a. men whose smells I couldn’t tolerate—I made lemonade by becoming so good at pleasuring myself that I don’t even need a man at this point. In general, WLGYL is my personal motto, for obvious reasons. Speaking of that, my name is the one thing I could never make lemonade from: “Lemon Hyman” sounds like the virginal membrane of a sourpuss.

The waitress plunks down our plates so fast I’m sure she’s expecting me to pull a dildo from my p***y and make her suck it.

Oh, well. No point in backing down now. Raising my chin higher, I continue. “Self-pleasure empowers women. Allows them to safely release s****l tension, reduce stress, and improve sleep. It raises self-esteem and enhances body image, relieves cramps, strengthens muscle tone in the pelvic and anal—”

The waitress loudly plops the last plate—my French toast—in front of me and rushes away in a huff.

Gia grins. “Good going. Now she’ll spit into whatever else she brings us.”

Honey’s eyes turn into slits. “I dare her.”

Blue smirks at me. “Do you realize how much you just sounded like Mom?”

Ugh, she’s right. The benefits of orgasms are our matriarch’s favorite subject. When it comes to our parents, I haven’t told them about my profession because of how much unsolicited advice they’ll feel compelled to dish out.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. What’s done is done. These three know now. I give each sister a hard look. “Can I trust you guys to keep this between us?”

Given how this is going, I don’t think I’m ready to come out to the rest of the family just yet.

Blue puffs up. “Oh, please. I keep secrets for a living.”

“And I’m a magician,” Gia says. “I keep even more secrets than Blue.”

Honey scoffs. “I’m the only one you should’ve told—and the only one you need for Operation BS for that matter.”

Okay, good. The Hyman sisterly competitiveness will work in my favor for once. Relieved, I grab a bottle of syrup and drown my French toast before taking a bite.

Nope. Not sweet enough.

I sprinkle on powdered sugar and give it another taste.

Still something missing.

With a sigh, I look at Honey and nod.

Eyes gleaming with satisfaction, Honey pulls out a plastic bag filled with a mixture of M&Ms, raisins, little marshmallows, and candy corn.

I make sure the waitress isn’t looking and dump the contents of the bag onto my plate.

Finally, the French toast is sweet enough for me. Unfortunately, I’ve just encouraged Honey’s obsessive frugality. As expected, to avoid paying extra for the toppings, she brought them with her to the restaurant. Earlier, she insisted we order orange juice that she turned into mimosas with the champagne from her flask, and I fully expect her to whip out a coupon for the meal itself when the bill arrives.

Yep, my badass sister makes Scrooge McDuck seem like a big spender in comparison. Of course, if someone says something about it to her face, she’ll cut a b***h.

While I’m dealing with my toast, Blue studies the eggs on Honey’s plate with suspicion. My brave spy sister fears and hates anything to do with birds. Her need to mock me eventually prevails, however. Looking up, she pins me with an intent stare. “Now that your diabetes is assured, can I ask a few questions about your work?”

Gia, who was also eyeing Honey’s eggs disapprovingly, no doubt worried about salmonella or some other germ, glances at Blue with interest. “Do you mean Operation Big Sniff or the jilling-off blog?”

“The paddling-the-pink-canoe blog.” Blue turns to me. “Why a blog? Are we in 2003?”

I sigh. “I’ve tried making videos on social media, but most platforms are prudish and limit what I can say on the subject. Also, for reasons known only to search engine algorithms, my blog is semi-popular.”

Gia arches a black-dyed eyebrow. “Search engine algorithms?”

“If you search ‘jilling off,’ I’m one of the top results. Same for ‘female masturbation.’”

Honey looks impressed. “Does that translate into lots of money?”

I give her a glassy stare. “Yeah, I rent a shithole in Staten Island just for kicks.”

“You could be doing that because you like saving money.” Blue furtively glances at Honey.

I grimace. “I wish. I’m drowning in credit card debt. Banner ads barely put food on my table. The way to make real money is by getting a sponsor, but that hasn’t happened for me in a while.”

“Then why do it?” Gia asks.

“Because it’s my passion,” I say. “Out of everyone, you should understand that.”

Instead of making more m**********n digs, Gia nods solemnly. For the longest time, her love of magic didn’t pay much either, but her fortunes have recently changed.

“All I know is I’m not giving up,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince my sisters or myself. “I just need to find a big sponsor and—”

I gag as the stench of aftershave defeats my nose filters and begins molesting my nostrils. Turning, I see the offender, a waiter carrying a pitcher of water.

“We don’t need that, thanks.” I wave him away, like a stink bug.

“You realize he was cute?” Honey asks.

I make another gagging sound. “He must’ve soaked in a bathtub of Old Spice for a couple of days before reporting to work.”

“The horror,” Gia says with an eyeroll.

“Perfumes and colognes are like farts that cost money,” I say.

Blue opens her mouth, no doubt to say something snide, but karma lands right in the middle of our table—in the form of a cute little green parrot.

With speed even James Bond would envy, Blue dives under the table.

The bird hops over to a plate with plain toast and pecks at it as if we don’t exist.

Gia stares at the bird, wide-eyed. “This must be someone’s pet, right?”

“No f*****g way,” Blue says, her voice muffled by the table cloth. “That’s a monk parakeet. They’re wild.”

She says “monk parakeet” the way most people would say “tarantula” and imbues the word “wild” with a sinisterness usually reserved for the likes of Voldemort.

“Wild?” Gia jumps to her feet, no doubt remembering all the germs a wild bird might carry. Then, as if by magic—at least the performative kind—a bottle of hand sanitizer the size of my head appears in Gia’s hands, and she squirts the bird with it.

Yuck. The smell of alcohol and cheap faux mint is like a smack to my nose.

The parrot agrees with me. It makes a screech that sounds as if a chainsaw and the most annoying alarm clock had a baby, who was then tortured in hell by deaf demons.

“Make it go away!” Blue screams from under the table.

Out of thin air, a deck of playing cards appears in Gia’s hands, and she throws them one by one at the bird, like ninja stars.

The bird screeches again but doesn’t leave. Paper cuts must not be an issue when you have feathers.

“Please, guys,” Blue says. “This isn’t funny. Get rid of it.”

“Okay, okay.” Honey pulls out a butterfly knife and opens it in the flashy manner I associate with professional killers.

“No!” I shout. “Don’t kill the poor—”

The bird spots the knife and screeches again, then takes flight, looking indignant as it disappears into the distance.

Honey awkwardly hides the butterfly knife in her purse. “I was just going to scare it.”

Yeah. Sure. Like she scared that mean girl back in high school who had to get stitches in her forearm.

Blue climbs out from under the table, looking sheepish. “If you’d killed it, anyone with a brain bigger than a bird’s would agree it was self-defense.”

Gia squirts the foul hand sanitizer everywhere the bird’s little feet touched, killing what remained of my appetite.

I push my plate away. “Can we get to the business at hand?”

“Yeah.” Blue returns to her seat. “What’s the venue?”

“New York City Ballet,” I say. The ticket ate a big chunk of my blog’s earnings from last month, but it’ll be worth it to see The Russian live instead of watching his performances on YouTube. And, of course, to get him off my mind.

Blue takes her phone out and does something for a minute or two. When she looks up, her devilish smile reminds me of Gia’s. “I can make it so you won’t show up on any cameras.” She gives Honey a challenging look. “Still think you’re all she needs?”

“I’d say she needs me more than either of you,” Gia says. Her tone turns professorial as she looks at me. “The key to getting into places where you don’t belong is to not look guilty.”

“She’s got a point,” Honey says. “I can walk into any nightclub by boldly pretending my stamp got smudged.”

I take out my phone and make my first note: Look bold. Of course, that’s easier said than done. I check to make sure no waiter has somehow slipped past my nose and say, “There might be doors I’ll need to open. Locked doors.”

As if they’ve rehearsed the move for a year, my three sisters pull out lockpicks and then chuckle at each other.

“You want to do the honors?” Honey says to Gia. “You were the first to learn this.”

Gia grins. “You have more practical experience.”

Before Blue blows some smoke up Gia’s ass too, I say, “I don’t care who does it. Just teach me.”

“Fine.” Honey picks up a zigzag thingy. “This is a tension wrench.”

The lesson takes triple the time it should because my teachers keep arguing about random minutia. Finally, I feel confident enough for Operation Big Sniff, so I wave at the waitress to bring the check.

As expected, Honey whips out a coupon, and the waitress has to go back to recalculate the bill.

“This is on me,” I say when the check comes back.

“No,” Gia and Blue say in unison.

“You just told us you have cashflow problems,” Honey adds.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. My credit card is reaching its limit. “We split it this time, but if I get a nice sponsor, I’m taking you all out for a fancy dinner.”

“Deal,” Gia says. “So long as it’s a clean place, like this one.”

“Sure.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “It will not serve any poultry either.” I grin at Blue.

I even debate if I should reassure Honey that it will be a place she can find a coupon for, but I decide not to risk my skin with that knife in her purse.

Operation Big Sniff will be dangerous enough.