I’d had blue balls since puberty, basically. I had to blow the smoke off my palm afterward, gunslinger-style. I could knock one out in forty-five seconds if I had to, but it wasn’t pretty. Since the day I’d figured out how my dick worked, I’d had 2.5 minutes in a lukewarm shower to jerk off before the water turned cold or Armageddon broke out in the hallway. I slept on the bottom bunk in a room I’d shared with three younger brothers, a hamster, and approximately nine billion unmatched socks that had only ever gone on feet.

I’d heard jokes in high school about guys and socks that took me way too long to get because I didn’t have the luxury of a crusty sock tossed under a bed. I didn’t know what the fuck privacy was until I got to college. I’d grown up in a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with seven brothers and sisters and two extremely tired and overworked parents. Carter turned back to the whiteboard, I bolted from my seat, ducked out of the lecture hall, and raced toward the dorms, my backpack hammering against the small of my back with the additional weight of the new toy I’d all but torn from its Amazon box at the student post office an hour ago. I wiggled impatiently at my desk as time moved like my grandma down a shuffleboard lane.

I loved nineteenth-century literature and all, but there was a specially-ordered precision-molded hunk of lifelike silicone singing a filthy siren song in my backpack, and the semi in my pants was quickly winning out over examining symbolism in Sense and Sensibility.

Show Me by Neve Wilder