I glare at Chrissy, who looks away with a smug smile. Before calls are put through to me, they’re screened. She knew exactly what Juliette was going to ask.
“Hotter,” Clayton announces, and I groan, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t get too carried away; your attitude stinks,” I tell him.
“Oh, the picture has just been posted. He is hot,” she squeals dreamily, and I snort at his condescending smile.
“He’s got really small feet,” I snap, almost shouting. “And, girls, he wouldn’t let me wear my ripped jeans, saying they were too revealing.”
“No, I didn’t,” he argues, looking pissed. “And I don’t have small feet.”
I wink, leaning forward. “It’s okay. Size doesn’t matter.” I chuckle when he grits his teeth. “And yes, you pretty much did. You should see what I’m wearing Friday. I’m going out after work and won’t have time to go home and get dressed.”
Friday’s are my nights where I pre-record. My uncle is throwing my cousin an engagement/wedding/welcome home party. She gets back Thursday and I can’t wait to see her. Jaxon had taken her on a last-minute honeymoon. But then again, their wedding was last minute.
I glance away when his smouldering gaze burns through me. “Did you have a question, Juliette?”
“Yes, I was wondering if you’d give me advice. My boyfriend and I are having trouble in the bedroom. Just when it’s good and I’m getting close to orgasming, he does something that irritates me, or he shifts, and it puts me out of the mood. And I never get it back. He gets funny if I ever ask him to go down on me or when I tell him I haven’t finished.”
I give Clayton an ‘I told you so’ look before addressing Juliette.
“Girl, do you love him?”
“Yes, we’ve been together for three years.”
“You’ve got more restraint than me,” I tell her, trying my hardest not to give her advice that will upset her. But people call for my crazy. They call for my honesty, so I guess I should give her some. “Tell him straight. Tell him you want an orgasm too. And if he gets funny over you communicating your needs, he’s a wanker. You don’t need that negativity in your life, especially when you don’t even get some for putting up with it.”
“Or, maybe him hearing he didn’t hit the mark in bed was a hit to his ego,” Clayton adds.
“Maybe he should man up and start making things right. He has heard of Google, I’m guessing, so it’s not like he has to ask a friend. He should want to experiment. She took a chance talking to him, he should do the fucking same.”
His jaw clenches. “Or maybe she’s in the seventy-five percent of women who can’t orgasm during sex.”
He’s got me there. “But she admitted she was close. That’s more than what most women get.
“Juliette, talk to him again, tell him you aren’t satisfied and if he can’t act like an adult, then he shouldn’t even be having sex. Or tell him you’ll find someone who will. If you don’t want to break up with him, let him know he won’t be getting an orgasm until yours is completed.”
“Or you could try something new. Close your eyes when you’re in bed tonight and think of your dirtiest fantasy. Everyone has one. Men and women. No matter how kinky it is or taboo, use it. Twist it in a way that will fit you and your man. Maybe then you’ll have that push to be so turned on, you’re crazed with lust and will finally orgasm,” Clayton advises her, surprising me.
I have to wonder if his advice is from experience, and if it is, what does he fantasise about?
“Um, thank you,” Juliette murmurs, clearly thinking it over.
I stare over his cut jaw, his firm lips, and wonder if he’ll be willing to shut up for an hour while he plays in my fantasy.
Licking my bottom lip, I force myself to look away and read who the second caller is. “Thank you for calling in, Juliette. Don’t forget to let us know on our forum how everything went.” I pause, waiting for the green light to come on to reveal we’ve connected to our second caller. “Let’s go to line two, where Frankie from Stoke is waiting. How are you tonight, Frankie?”
I hear a sniffle and sit up in my seat, preparing for the worst. We have rape victims and abused women call in, and from time to time, someone slips up and they’re put through. It’s not like we don’t want to help, it’s that we aren’t allowed.
For a while I’ve been wondering if I should start my own blog. I might not be able to give professional advice, but I could give them an anonymous platform to talk to others and give my own advice.
“Not good,” she answers, before blowing her nose.
“What’s up, Frankie? Is everything okay?”
“No.” The heavy breath of a sigh echoes down the line, and I can tell she’s trying to compose herself. “I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago because I saw a text from a girl on his phone. It ended badly, with a lot of arguing. We were together for a year. But I was cheated on repeatedly before by an ex, and I promised myself there was no way I was letting it happen to me again.
“I’ve been trying to date again for the past month, but they all keep cancelling or have left me waiting. Tonight was the seventh cancelation, and I found out why when I asked the guy who ditched me. We share mutual friends with my ex, and he told me my ex has been saying some things about me.”
Hearing another girl cry over a loser gets my back up. “What did he say?”
“He’s been telling everyone and anyone that I’m crap in bed, that I lie there like a sack of potatoes, and that I have a fishy fanny. Apparently, that was the reason we broke up, and the story of him texting other girls was just to cover up the fact I smell. He was trying to save me the embarrassment.”
I roll my eyes. It’s the oldest remark in the book.
When Clayton leans forward to the mic, I watch him curiously, surprised he would answer this kind of question.
If he fucks up and smarts off some bullshit about how the guy is just jealous and clearly still loves her, I will fuck him up. Because the guy isn’t doing it so he has a chance to get her back. He’s doing it because he’s a fucking wanker. Plain and simple.
“Then it’s good you broke up with him, Frankie. Men like that need something to prove. They want to feel powerful, manly, and the only way to put you down is to say something so demeaning. And the funny part is, none of his friends truly believe him. They know he’s being a dickhead. I bet whilst you were together, he bragged about you to make them jealous. They’re just saving face so they aren’t taken the piss out of by the people who do believe it.”
I stare at Clayton in disbelief. He got it spot on. But it was more than that. I not only heard the truth in his words, but I saw it too. He meant what he said.
The worry lines across his forehead show his concern too, his compassion for the stranger over the line.
He looks up, and for one single moment, everything around us fades away.
For that one single moment, I see him.
Really see him.
A throat clearing snaps me out of it, and I do the only thing I can do at being caught.
I give him a dirty look.
I straighten in my chair, leaning forward a little. “Clayton’s right. But I will add that he’s an immature dickhead. And I hate to go there again, but we’re back to orgasms. I bet every time you had sex, he got his while you didn’t get yours. That doesn’t mean you’re crap in bed. He is.”