The Bachelorette Party pt. 1: “It’s About to Take a Turn”

WARNING: contains sexual content, fetish, highly blurred/censored images of naughty bits, full in-your-face images of posteriors (so definitely don’t view this at your workplace, kiddies, unless you work from home), violence against non-living objects, drunken shenanigans, and minor profanity.

Spice level: 2 outta 5

Wednesday, April 13, 2022: Seattle, WA.

“How’re things?”

“Things are boring. It’s so time-consuming trying to manage one’s household-staff. I have a massage appointment in…about 30 minutes to de-stress.”

“Oh! Should I let you go so you can leave?”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary. The masseuse is coming to me.”

I laugh. “Well that’s convenient. If only Tech Geniuses grew on trees,” I sigh. “You lucked out.”

Gen chuckles, “Luck had nothing to do with it. I know how to market a product, and in that case, I was the product. Once you know what your buyer wants, it isn’t difficult procuring a product that will please…and clearly I know how to please.”

I giggle, “Wasn’t that the caption under your senior high school photo?”

“Hush, you!” Gen laughs. “So what do I owe this pleasure? It isn’t often you phone me. Usually we play catch-up via text, and that’s as far as the conversation goes…”

I bite my bottom lip, “I know. I’m…not the best friend that I once was.”

“Well I’m not the size 0 I once was, so…you’re forgiven.”

“But, yes, you’re right. I have a hidden agenda for phoning you.”

“Well, spill!”

“Lani asked me to be her Maid of Honor.”

“Wow! Congrats to her…and you…but what does that have to do with me?”

“Well…I haven’t planned a Bachelorette Party since…”

Gen laughs, “Ah, right…since you planned mine.”

“Yes…and you know how that went…”

Gen feigns surprise, “What? I had a great time. Didn’t you? Wasn’t that the whole point? Fun?”

“Gen. You and I both know that the request was…odd.”  

“Me? Make an odd request?” Gen scoffs dismissively, “Such nonsense.”

“You asked for a stripper…”

“How is that an odd request? Strippers and Bachelorette Parties go together like Jimmy Choo pumps and Prada handbags.”

“Well…yes, you’re right…but you wanted a certain…uhhh…type.”

“I usually have a type. This is nothing strange.”

“You wanted a Furry!”

Gen giggles. “Oh, right. I almost forgot.”

I can feel my face flush, “Well I’m glad you were able to forget! I can’t forget, and trust me, I try!”

********************************************************************************

UTC Mall – San Diego, CA  Spring 2012:

“You want a what-now?”

Gen rolls her eyes, clearly exasperated, “Robin Hood. Not a guy dressed up in a green tunic or what-have-you, but he needs to be in a fox costume, complete with removable head, dressed as Disney’s Robin Hood.” Gen waves her hand dismissively, “Look, it’s all written down on the back of this card,” she says as she passes me a business card.”

“Fun Times Party Rentals?” I question as I read the front side.

Gen smirks, “Not the choicest of business names, but it’s a legit business, highly rated with the Better Business Bureau, and they have the Robin Hood costume.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I blurt out, trying to wrap my head around what she’s saying, “So, you don’t care what the stripper looks like, right? Or is Robin’s head coming off…?”

“Oh, no, as long as he has the correct man-parts, I don’t care what he looks like.” A devilish gleam sparkles in Gens’ eyes. “The head is definitely staying on.”

I stare at this girl who has been one of my best friends for years, and wonder if I actually know her. “Uhhhh…if this is what you want, Gen. I mean, it is your last night of freedom, and uhhh… yeah. I’m down to throw a most epic party…” I flip the card around to the handwritten instructions Gen had left “…no matter how batshit crazy,” I mumble.

***************************************************************************

“Whaaaat?” Gen says defensively. “It was just a little…fetish…a last night of pure-kink for a woman who was about to tie herself to a man…until death do us part.”

“I think you’re forgetting how things went down that night…”

Gen giggles, “Well, possibly. The alcohol was flowing. We danced until midnight at Moose’s. Some sappy Marines bought us a bottle of champagne, and tried to convince me to call off the wedding.”

I laugh, “Yes, and we couldn’t shake them! We had to pretend that we needed to go to the bathroom, and ran out of the club, nearly in tears from laughing so hard, and climbed into the first Taxi we saw. That Taxi driver did not like us!”

Gen laughs hysterically, “He-He refused to drive us!. He didn’t want…a bunch of drunk chicks who could barely fit in his car, throwing up all over the inside.”

“But th-then you pulled out two-hundred-dollar-bills from your…boobs…and that made him quite agreeable.”

By this point we are both laughing hysterically.

“Oh, goodness,” I say, wiping away a stray tear. “We should have called it a night.”

“From what I recall,” Gen states slyly, “It was you who didn’t want the party to die.”

I laugh nervously, “Well that was because it was my responsibility, you know, as the Maid of Honor, to keep the party festivities in full swing.”

****************************************************************************

“Okay, BITCHES!” I yell, at full-volume, opening the front door, “Who’s ready to get FUCKED UPPPPP?!?” 

“Shhhh! You’ll wake your neighbors!” Gen giggles, stumbling this-way-and-that, but ultimately being propped up by Chelsea.

“Do you think that’s a good idea? I think Gen needs to go to bed,” Chelsea says concerned. 

Gen frees herself from Chelsea’s assistance, “I-I don’t shrink you know what I need,” Gen slurs.

I fall over the arm of the couch, face-planting into a giant cushion. My body shakes with laughter. I turn my head, freeing my cackling face, “Gen! You shrink?” I can’t contain my laughter, and neither can Gen, who has to dash to the restroom and relieve herself before she has an accident on the living room carpet. 

“DJ, I really think we should call it a night. I think she’s done.” Chelsea states as she knocks on the bathroom door. “Gen? Are you okay in there? Do you need help?”

I turn my face towards Chelsea. “We can’t end now! There’s still the–”

DING-DONG.

Chelsea looks at me. Alarm is clearly written on her face, “Who is that?!”

I pull myself up off the couch. “That would be the entertainment,” I say, winking at Chelsea.

Chelsea stares at the front door in fright, knocking frantically on the bathroom door. “GEN!”

The bathroom door swings open, and there, standing seductively against the doorframe, is Gen.

“Send in my fanclub,” she says huskily, batting her eyelashes.

Chelsea stares in horror at Gen, and then towards the front door. 

I give Chelsea a playful shrug before opening the door. “You might need to take a seat, Chelsea. It’s about to take a turn.”

Chelsea cautiously takes a seat, and I open the front door. In struts a large brown bear in a green-single-feathered-bycocket and undersized green t-shirt holding a portable boombox.

Chelsea’s eyes go wide with a combination of dread, disgust, and uncertainty. 

Gen immediately stops posing against the doorframe, and looks at me with confusion.

I simultaneously sigh and shake my head in defeat. “Uhhh, you’re not Robin Hood!” I say, following him.

He turns, faces me, and offers me a bow, “I am Robin Hood’s sidekick. They call me Little John.” He then pulls me close and whispers, “I’m not little where it counts, if you catch my meaning.” He unhands me and now the look of terror on Chelsea’s and Gen’s face is mirrored on my own.

Little John sets down the boombox on a nearby table, and pushes a button (which must have taken a lot of practice, because furry, sausage fingers cannot be easy to navigate). The floor reverberates from the (surprisingly) loud speakers, playing 2 Unlimited’s, “Get Ready for This.” In, playfully runs Robin Hood in-step to the beat of the song. He fist-bumps the air, looking like a mascot at a Basketball game. Chelsea’s jaw drops to her knees. Gen re-plants herself against the bathroom doorframe, sexier than previously. And, strange thoughts of having a threesome with Robin Hood and Little John float through my head, as the fox and bear gyrate and pelvic-thrust throughout the living room. Little John pelvic-thrusts his way over towards Chelsea, who is half-turned, gripping the couch’s crest rail with both hands. She turns to look at me, “DJ!” Chelsea screams in a panic, “What is going on!”

I stifle a laugh as Little John’s furry, nether-region swings inches towards Chelsea’s cheek. Chelsea turns to face Little John, and her eye gets assaulted by fur. Temporarily blind, Chelsea screams, as she attempts to climb over the crest rail. Unfortunately, she fails completely, and her cheek collides with the ground. I laugh so hard that I pee myself a teeny bit, and dash, in-between laugh-fits, to the bathroom. 

Robin Hood is grinding Gen against the bathroom door frame. I pull on his green tunic, in an attempt to move him away from the bathroom, but all it does is direct his thrusting-fur-pelvis to me. I can’t stop laughing, and the more I laugh, the more pee I can feel leak into my underwear. I slightly panic, realizing that I drank more than what my panties will be able to contain if I don’t make it to the toilet in the next couple seconds. I quickly debate which scenario is the lesser of the two embarrassments, and decide that public urination wins, so I push aside Robin Hood, squeeze against a very horny Gen, hike up my skirt, pull down my panties, and plop my butt onto the toilet and use it. 

Robin Hood and Gen turn towards my musical-water-show. Gen gasps, and I can only imagine what must be going on in Robin Hood’s head, as I sit in half-relief and half-worry. Will he expect extra pay for witnessing this lude act? Will he sue for sexual harrassment from my indecent exposure? Can strippers sue for sexual harrassment, and if so, and he does because I open-door-peed in front of him, will I be on a sexual predator’s list? 

Finally, I stop peeing, after what felt (and sounded) like all of Niagara Falls exiting my body. Gen and Robin Hood still stare at me, so I wiggle any leftover pee off, instead of using the preferred toilet paper-method. I pull down my skirt as I stand up, and maneuver my underwear back on, without flashing. Acting as if everything is normal, I head out of the bathroom, make my way to the kitchen, wash my hands at the sink, and then shake them partially dry. I grab a ⅓-full bottle of Svedka vodka and chug it. After I finish it I toss it into the recycle bin, and rummage through the fridge for Smirnoff Ice. I spot two that are Green Apple flavor, pull them out, and head back into the living room. 

The moment I step back into the living room, both bottles loosen from my hands and thud against the carpeted-floor. My jaw drops as I witness Chelsea propped up against the wall, tongue-kissing Little John. Little John’s bear-head has been removed, but his tubby, furry belly is thrusting quite seductively. 

I scan the room for Gen and Robin Hood, and begin to panic when I don’t see them. I run over to Chelsea, “Where’s Gen?! Have you seen her?”

“Uhhup-up-stairs,” she says, eyes-closed, in rhythm with Little John’s thrusts.

I hike the stairs, two-steps-at-a-time, in a mad-dash to save my best friend from Pedo-Hood. Once I get to the top landing I sprint through the hallway, and throw open the door to the master bedroom. There, on my bed, is Gen, completely naked, stradling Robin Hood. Except, Robin Hood is no longer wearing his fox-body; he is bare-ass naked. 

Robin Hood is still wearing the fox head, so the sight, taken fully in, looks like what I imagine Anubis would look like in the process of deflowering a sacrificial Egyptian maiden, if he were that type of god. Gen, on the other hand, is riding Robin’s …Oo-De-Lally…like a pogostick. I freak, and lunge at her, knocking Gen off of Robin and onto the floor. In the process, I make eye-contact with Robin’s…Hood-ed Bandit. 

Gen is screaming because I “ruined her fun,” and I’m screaming because my eye is covered in goo. Both of our screams cause Chelsea to run upstairs. Robin Hood uses MY pillow to cover his nakedness, which causes me to go ballistic. I yank the pillow out of his hands, pull it back with such force I nearly fall backwards, and swing it as if I were Babe Ruth about to knock a homerun out of Wrigley Field. The force knocks Robin Hood’s head straight off his head and it falls onto Gen, which causes her to shriek in sheer panic. Once she realizes that I only decapitated a fox-face, she quiets quickly. 

Chelsea and I both gasp in unisom as we realize who is behind the costume. We look from him to Gen, who wears a guilty smile on her face.

“Did you know?” I ask her.

“Of course I did. I orchestrated the whole thing. I told you who to order and from where, afterall.”

My jaw falls to the ground, “Oh my God! You psycho-horny-bitch! I-I don’t even know what to say, but mad props, Gen!”

She smirks, “Thanks. Do you think you could…leave us?”

“Why?” Chelsea asks, her tone serious.

“Simply put,” Gen says with an air of superiority, that I imagine is hard for many to manage after falling off of a bed fully naked, “a lady always finishes what she begins.”

I cup my hand around my mouth, stifling a laugh.

Chelsea shoots me a look suggesting that I’m a traitor. She doesn’t say anything else, just turns around and heads out of the room, and down the stairs. 

Gen looks over at me, her eyebrow arches, as though she’s waiting for me to either say something clever or leave, so I turn to the guy, give his genitals the once-over, and say matter-of-factly, “I see you still have that Prince Albert piercing.” He cracks a smile at me and I wink before turning around and heading in the same direction Chelsea had a minute ago.

Once I make it downstairs, I see Little John’s bear-butt leave through the front door. His tail droops in a rather sad, flaccid state, and I’d bet money that the frontside was no different. Chelsea shuts the front door. Her back rests against the door momentarily as she sighs the heaviest sigh I think I’ve ever heard leave her lips. 

“Did you get his number?” I ask, jokingly.

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles lopsided at me, “I did…a long time ago.”

“Well that’s cryptic.” I huff. “So you know him…knew him? Do I know him?”

Chelsea sits down on the couch, and I join her at the opposite end. She holds onto a small, decorative Sailor Moon pillow, as though if she were to let it go she’d break into a thousand pieces. She stares in silence at the wall she had been propped up against earlier by Little John. She half-smiles as the word floats in the air, “Dylan.”

I gasp and my hand shoots over my mouth, “No way!” I say as my hand falls back down to my lap. “Are you two together again?”

“No,” she says smiling in sadness, “we were just having fun…like old times, you know?”

I shoot her a sympathetic smile, but the moment is over quite abruptly, as we hear rigorous thrusts pound above us. “Speaking of old times,” I say as I look at the ceiling. 

A deafening crescendo of Gen-moans echo throughout the house, and Chelsea and I exchange worried and slightly amused glances. “I can’t believe those two,” Chelsea shakes her head in disbelief. “Still going at it even though she’s going to marry another man next weekend. Do you think he’ll stop the wedding?”

“I have no idea. I still can’t believe she orchestrated this whole sex-reunion. Her fiance is a bit of a psycho, and keeps tabs on her. He knows their history – knows it because he has a private investigator on retainer. He’s…possessive.”

Gen’s moans quicken until it sounds as though an aria is being played on surround sound throughout the house. Chelsea and I cringe.

“Well…I think that’s over and they’ll call it a night.” 

“Oh, good. I’m exhausted. I just want to climb into bed and–”

The moaning sound from a masculine voice keeps Chelsea from finishing her sentence. She turns to look at me in panic.

I can feel my face morph into something that mirrors fear and disgust. “Oh my God! Are they finishing or are they…”

Chelsea looks as though she’s about to cry, “Round Two! I think they just started Round Two!”

**************************************

“You know Chelsea and I didn’t sleep that night. We tried sleeping on opposite ends of the couch, but you two were just too loud!”

“Well we didn’t sleep either, but that just proves how successful the Bachelorette Party was that you threw!”

“How’s that?” I ask.

Gen snickers, “Silly. If you’re well-rested after a party, you simply did it wrong.”

“Somehow I think you were well-rested, despite not getting any sleep.”

Gen is quiet momentarily, as though in a dreamy-haze, “It was a special night….So! Are you ready to plan Lani’s Bachelorette Party?”

“I think so, but I was wondering if you would help me.”

“Of course! What do you need? I have connections in Vegas! I could set you ladies up a The Four Seasons, if you’d like. Penthouse, naturally…”

“Well, actually…”I say, nervously, “I was hoping I could have you. You know…by my side. Like…old times.”

“But I’m not one of her Bridesmaids, and I don’t want to crash the party…”

“But you wouldn’t be party-crashing! Not really anyways. Sure, it’s Lani’s party, but I’m the one setting it up…which means I am technically doing the invites…”

“Gotcha. Okay. Text me the deets. I hear the doorbell, so I assume my masseuse has arrived.”

I laugh mischievously, “2022, the year of the comeback! Vegas, watch out, because DJ and Gen are gonna be all up in you, and we’re bringing our girl Lani!”

We hang up, and I reminisce about the morning after….

***************************************************************************** 

Daylight blares through the windows, causing my sleepless-hangover-headache to throb. I look down towards my feet at bits of Chelsea’s face that peek through one of the throw pillows. I can’t help but focus on the humming from her soft snores. I lift my phone to check the time: 8:04 a.m. I roll my eyes in agitation, and grumble knowing that I won’t be able to fall back to sleep.

The soft padding of bare feet against the carpeted stairwell causes me to turn my head. I arch an eyebrow as he makes his way down the stairs.

“Nice speedos,” I say as he draws nearer.

“Not speedos,” he says, heading to the front door.

I watch him look out the front door’s glass panel. His backside in full view. “Ah!” I exclaim, as though I just discovered electricity, “I stand corrected! Thong.”

His head turns around momentarily, “Should I send a package to Cato?” He returns his gaze to the glass panel.

“A package for his package,” I snort-laugh, which hurts like a bitch. “Duck-fuckery,” I grumble as I wince in pain. 

“Hangover?” he asks, leaning against the front door, assessing me momentarily. His attention goes to the cellphone he grips. 

I sigh. “I think so.”

He arches an eyebrow, “You don’t know?”

I shrug. “From symptoms alone, I’d say yes, but I’ve never had one before.”

“Never?” He looks at me bewildered. “I thought you were a party girl.”

I rub my head, finding it painful to talk, “Yeah, I’m notoriously poor at keeping down alcohol, or, more accurately, knowing my limit. Usually I end up throwing up before I get home. Somehow, not last night.” I manage a smile. “Is Dylan picking you up?”

“Huh?” He says, looking up from his phone, confused.

I smirk, “Little John. Is he coming to collect you? You keep looking out the glass panel.”

“Oh,” he laughs, shaking his head no. “Nah. I was checking to see if the van was still parked out front.”

“Van? What are you talking about?” I say getting up from the couch a bit too fast. The room spins momentarily and I stumble.

“Hey, careful,” he says, his voice turning serious, as he rushes to my side. He stuffs his cellphone into the elastic band of his thong, and his arms grip the upper part of my arms, where my shoulders meet. “You okay?” He asks with fatherly concern. 

“Yeah,” I blink a few times. “Hangovers suck,” I smirk.

“You need to eat. Also, water. Lots of water. C’mon,” he says as he guides me to the kitchen and deposits me into a dining chair, pulls out his cellphone, and places it on the table.

Within minutes a spread of sliced salamis, prosciuttos, and various cheeses are placed in front of me. Greedily, I begin to shovel the meats and cheeses into my mouth.

He sets two glasses of water on the table. One in front of me and one in front of him. He stares at me as I continue to stuff the food into my mouth. 

“How does Cato afford to feed the two of you? I’ve never seen anyone out-eat him, but you’re impressively close.”

I wave my hand about, grab the glass and chug water. When I am particularly parched, I make this rather interesting (or annoying, depending on the listener) series of high-pitched glubbing sounds. When he hears them he cringes, as though the sounds are nails on a chalkboard.  

I exhale after I finish drinking, and set the now-empty glass back down in front of me. “What’s the story with the van?” I ask, looking intently at him.

“Last night when we pulled up we noticed two Time Warner vans on your street. One parked directly across the street. The other up the street.”

“Okay?” I say, not quite understanding.

“Do your neighbors work for Time Warner?” 

“I don’t think so. I’ve never noticed Time Warner vans parked on our street before. Other than the occasional service…but nothing more than a few hours, and definitely not overnight.”

“Exactly. Think about it, DJ, who gets cable installed after midnight?”

“People in pornos,” I say, matter-of-factly, as I stuff some more cheese into my mouth.

He leans back in the chair with a wide smile. “You got neighbors that make porn?”

“Want me to introduce you?” I say, eyeing him.

He stares at me in silence. 

“I’m joking. I mean they might. I don’t know my neighbors well enough to find out their occupations.”

“After Dylan left last night, he realized he was being followed.”

I stop chewing momentarily. “Wfut?” I say, spewing bits of cheese out.

He peels a piece of cheese from his cheek, “It was one of the Time Warner vans parked out front. I swear to God. He didn’t wanna lead them to his place, so he went to one of the motels on Hotel Circle Drive.”

“Tell me they didn’t follow him to the motel.”

He chuckles, “I almost wish I was there with him. Yeah, the idiots pulled up right alongside his car. He comes out and immediately goes to his trunk. Two dudes pile out from the front driver and passenger sides. They don’t realize he grabbed a bat from his trunk until it’s too late, and one just nearly ducks in time as Dylan swings it at him. They haul-ass back inside the van and peel off, but not before Dylan smashes the passenger window.”

I stifle a laugh. “Good ol’ Dyl. Why were they after him? Did he say?
His face grows serious, “They weren’t after him.”

“Who then?”

He brings his index finger to his chest, pointing.

I raise an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

He smiles devilishly, “Gen.”

“Come again?”

He laughs, “Did that too. Several times. It’s why you could hardly sleep, right?” He winks.

I roll my eyes.

“You need a refill.” He says as he grabs my glass, takes it over to the fridge, presses it against the water dispenser. As the glass begins to fill he clears his throat. “Let me ask you a question. Do you know who owns Time Warner Cable?”

I shrug, “Warner Brothers?”

He places the water glass in front of me. “How are you feeling?”

“I manage a smile, “Better. Thanks.”

He nods his head. “They did own Time Warner Cable. It was bought by Amatol.” 

I blink and furrow my eyebrows. “What doesn’t that Amhole Jeff Bozos own?” I scoff, “I mean, why else would Gen marry him?” I stare out the sliding glass door, admiring the bright red clusters of tillandsia that hang from a wooden lattice arch. 

My eyes widen and then I gasp, “Do you think Jeff hired them to park outside?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his smile is confirmation.

“Does Gen know?”

“Not yet. He’s possessive and she knows it. I know it.” His eyes bug out, “I just didn’t know how possessive. It’s why I agreed to the costume. I wanted to see her. He forbids any contact between her and I.” His voice lowers to nearly inaudible. “Any.” He sits in silence for a moment and then looks up at me as though he forgot we were conversing, “The van’s still outside. They know two of us went inside, and only Dylan came out.”

“Are you going to wait them out?”

“Can’t. I need to get to the station. My shift begins soon.”

“How soon?”

He smiles guiltily. “Nine.”

“I run back to the living room, grab my phone, and run back into the kitchen. “That’s in less than thirty-minutes! What are you going to do?”

He smiles mischievously, “Reinforcements.”

Before I can question what that means, we hear the sound of tires screeching outside.

“DJ! DJ!” Chelsea screams. I rush from the kitchen, phone in hand, and head over to the couch, where a very disoriented Chelea stares at me with frightened-eyes, “I think they’re going at it again! I can hear Gen climaxing.”

“That’s not Gen!” I say, in-between laughs, as I rush over to the front door and look out the glass panel. I gasp and turn my head towards him. He’s standing underneath the arch that separates the living room from the kitchen. “The reinforcements are here!”

He runs over to the door and he’s peering out the glass panel with me. 

I turn to Chelasea, “Chels! You gotta see this!”

A very dazed Chelsea stumbles over to us and also looks out the glass panel. “Is-is that Dylan?” she gasps.

“It is,” he smiles victoriously.

“What is he doing?” Chelsea asks, covering her mouth in shock.

“He slashed the van’s back tires. Now he’s heading to his trunk!” I say excitedly. He and I look at each other briefly, knowing what’s about to happen next.

“Dylan must really hate their internet service,” Chelsea states as Dylan begins smashing the passenger-side window. 

Seconds later, the van’s engine rumbles to life, and it takes off, swerving this-way-and-that with its deflating back tires. Dylan shouts a few expletives at the van while shaking his bat in a threatening manner. 

Dylan and his bat head towards my front door. We all scramble away, as though we’re a group of voyeurs who got caught peeping. He knocks on the door with the bat. I open the door and step back, inviting Dylan inside.

Dylan automatically shoots Chelsea a winning grin, “Hey, Kitten,” he winks, as though they’re still dating.

I send her a questioning look, my eyebrows shooting upwards. She just looks at me in confusion, shrugging her shoulders.

“Is that what you firefighters wear nowadays?” Dylan asks, waggling his eyebrows at him.

“Only on Sundays.” He jokes. “Uhhh. I wasn’t planning to stay overnight, and this was the only thing I had on under the fox suit.”

“You can borrow something from Cato’s closet if that helps.” I interject.

He shoots me a smile, “Thanks!” he says while racing up the stairs and yelling down to Dylan, “I’ll only be a few minutes.” 

“Take your time,” Dylan says as he saunters inside and I shut the door. He places the bat next to the couch, sits down, pats the spot next to him and then turns to Chelsea. Dylan has on his fuck-me eyes, and she’s clearly turned to putty as she falls against him. They instantly begin to makeout.

I rub my eyes and temples with the palms of my hands. What a fucking morning. 

Moments later footsteps can be heard upstairs heading toward the stairwell. He is dressed in jeans and a button-up, short-sleeved shirt. His feet wear Rainbow-brand-sandals, which showcase the cleanest and most well-manicured toes I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing…on a man anyways. He carries the Robin Hood fox-head in one hand, and the bodysuit draped over his other arm. His arm cradles Gen’s torso, pressing her against his body, as they make their way slowly down the stairs. The moony look that was evident in Gen’s eyes last night is now replaced with solemn sadness, as though the moment he lets go of her side he’ll be out of her life forever. Except, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.

“Ready to get goin’?” He asks Dylan.

Dylan pulls himself away from Chelsea. They do some sorta weird post-makeout foreplay by staring into each other’s eyes. Dylan smiles lazily at Chelsea. He reaches for his bat and gets up. “Yup,” Dylan says as he heads out the front door. 

“Call off the wedding,” He tells Gen, as they hold each other in a lover’s embrace.

“You know I can’t,” she says, her voice dripping with sadness.

“You can if you want.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, and that’s his answer. She doesn’t want to call off the wedding.

He pulls away from her. They both have tears threatening to spill. “Take care of yourself, Genny,” He says as he kisses her cheek. He turns, carrying his belongings, and walks out the door. He throws the entire costume in the trunk, closes it, and gets into the passenger seat. Dylan revs the car a few times before they peel off. 

“I love you, Cayden Dimitri,” Gen says softly to the empty air. 

********************************************************************************

Later That Night….

I sink into the couch. It’s old now; the years haven’t been kind to its upholstery or frame. I’m next to the same pillow that Chelsea held after Dylan had left Gen’s Bachelorette Party. I unlock my phone and punch the screen a few times. 

“Cayden, how would you like to meet me in Vegas?”

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

In which Author DJ reveals her fuck-up (or the blooper/bonus section of the DVD). In case you’re wondering WHY Chelsea and DJ shared a couch when there were TWO couches… Yeah… When I was writing the story I imagined an L-shaped couch, however, the game did not supply what my brain manifested, so I just used two couches, and didn’t realize my blunder until I had already captured photos. Muh bad.