I arrive back at the apartment with one goal—a "date" with Buzz Highgear, my battery-operated boyfriend, Vlad the Electronic Impaler, the lover who never disappoints. And please don't tell me I said I never touch myself like that. With Buzz, I'm not doing the touching. Buzz is, okay?

And it's not my fault I am at this desperate point. The interlude with Crispin left me so turned on that I'm surprised I didn't spontaneously orgasm on BART during the ride back to Berkeley from San Francisco. I could only stave it off by reminding myself that women in Chanel do not orgasm on public transportation!

Carefully, I open the front door, cringing at each creak of the old hinges. I send up a silent prayer to my inner goddess that my dear, prying roommate, Clarissa, is passed out in her bed and won't ply me with a thousand questions that will delay my close encounter with Buzz.

For once, my goddess doesn't mock me. Instead, she shakes a pair of sparkly pom-poms, jumping up and down and shouting "you can do it, you can do it, you can, you can." She needs an orgasm as much as I do. Then she tries a backflip but ends up on the imaginary ground with her little legs splayed over her head. She rises, all wobbly, and I glare at her. I will not allow an uncoordinated goddess to take me down with her. She sticks out her tongue.

I get ready to stick mine out at her when I realize I'm having a long internal monologue with a figment of my imagination who cannot even see my tongue, and that my efforts could be better spent elsewhere. Also, I'm pretty sure women in Chanel don't have conversations longer than two sentences with an inner goddess. I'm about to ponder whether internal goddess conversations of any length are only used in subpar works of erotic fiction, but I need to get back to my real, non-fictional existence.

The only noises inside the apartment are the hum of the fish tank filter, the groan of the old refrigerator, and the footsteps of the upstairs neighbor, who unfortunately for us (his downstairs neighbors) is an incessant pacer. Poor guy is a philosophy major, who suffers from existential dread, since realizing that being trained in realism, existentialism, pragmatism, and idealism is fine until it's time to write up a resume. So much for pragmatism.

I tiptoe down the hall. Clarissa's door is shut, and the room is silent. Thanks, goddess!

Only a few more steps and I'll be safe. I slowly turn the knob on my bedroom door, holding my breath to keep the noise to a minimum. A few more moments and I'll be naked in bed with my beloved Buzz. I push the door open.

"What the hell, Ani?" Clarissa rises straight up, stiff bodied from my bed, like a vampire bride from her coffin.

"This is my room," I remind her, although I'm not sure how she made the mistake. Her room is all black and pink, filled with cat chia-pets, and has no gigantic mirror.

"Goddamit, Ani! I've been going nuts. What happened to you last night? You can't do this shit to me. Didn't you get any of my texts?"

"No. My phone died." I pull it out of my purse to show her its utter and total deadness. As soon as I plug it into the bedside charger, it buzzes repeatedly with texts from Clary. I glance at the drawer on the bedside table forlornly.

There lies Buzz.

Waiting, as I stand here supremely horny, trying to talk my worry-wart roommate down from her tantrum.

"How convenient," she spits. I've never seen her this mad, except for the time I accidentally over-watered her topiary when she went on Spring Break. Serves her right. Spring Break is such a cliché!

"Look, Clary, I'm tired and need a ... uh ... nap. Could we discuss this in a bit? I only need ..." I run a quick calculation in my mind, "about twenty-nine seconds."

"No way. I need all the deets. Jacob said some burly billionaire in a tight suit and perfectly groomed five o'clock shadow showed up and absconded with you in a helicopter. I thought someone had kidnapped you! That I'd hear about you on the news: recent college grad discovered tied up in billionaire's lair."

My jaw drops at the accuracy of Clary's made-up headline. "How did you know? Were you spying on me? Again?" Some roommates are too snoopy!

"No, don't be ridiculous. I made all that up, so you'd feel guilty. Were you tied up?"

I cackle at the very idea! "He tried, but you know there's no rope that can hold me."

Clary smiles. "True, but you in a helicopter?"

"Don't worry. I'd blacked out from all the drinking."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's the truth. The truth doesn't care about feelings. And it wasn't just any burly, tight suited, perfectly groomed billionaire. It was Crispin. And it's your fault that I know him. So bottom line, I got kidnapped because of you."

"Oh, gee, thanks. You try to help a friend, and this is the thanks you get?"

"Sorry, I'm a little cranky. And horny. I have a date with Buzz. As you can see, I'm fine. So how about you leave?

Clary purses her lips and grins. "Did you remember to buy batteries?"

"Fuck."

"I might have some. But I'm not sure I want to help you after making me worry."

"I'll pay you a million dollars for two AAAs."

"Oh, yeah, you will. You're taking me to brunch. And telling all!"

A few minutes later, I'm alone, naked in bed, with a fully functional vibrator. So close. Sooooo close.

My phone buzzes. I look to see who the sender is. It's Crispin. My nub tightens with pleasure. Maybe it's a sexy text! I click and read:

               Do not pleasure yourself.

               Excuse me?

               Or else!

WTF?

My internal goddess is laughing so hard she's choking. Hey, bitch, you wanted an orgasm too!

What nerve! Does Crispin think he can control me? No fucking way. I flip Buzz's switch, and he springs to life.

Another text arrives. I can't help looking at it. Stupid curiosity.

               I will know if you do. And you will pay. Your pleasure belongs to me.

               What will it cost?

               You don't want to know.

               Hey, just because I'm your dog sitter doesn't mean you can control my ... needs.

               Oh, but I think I can.

I'm about to toss the phone and return to Buzz when Crispin's sensual kiss replays itself in my mind like a steamy porno. Truth is, I want more. Lots more.

"Fuck!" I yell.

Clary thrusts through the door. "You okay?"

"I am so frustrated."

"Come on, hon. Let's go to brunch. I know a place with unlimited mimosas."

Sometimes Clarissa is the sweetest, smartest person in the entire universe. Unlimited mimosas are the wisest course of action right now, especially after blacking out last night from too much alcohol, waking up in Crispin's bed, and having to work a photo shoot tonight.

I type "fine" into my phone.

It lights up one more time.

               "Good girl. See you at five."

Good girl? What kind of jerk talks to a grown woman like that? Plus, he's a literal Buzz killer!

Who cares? Carps my internal goddess. Think about that kiss. He can call us whatever he likes as long as we get more!

She has a point.

***

There you go! Another Pulitzer-prize level chapter of 50 Degrees of Shade! Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks in advance for your comments, votes, and most of all, for reading my work!