“Well, you were a little preoccupied and the water helped keep it loose on your finger. Then, it was just a matter of hiding it under my tongue until we got out and I could stick it in my pants pocket when you left the bathroom.”
Aunt Bobbie whistles under her breath.
“I get him if this turns out to be a key party. I’d like a stab at that mouth and tongue. Pun intended,” she tells the room.
“Your idiot brother and my idiot best friend thought I was going to get down on my knee and give you a ring box with a key to my house in it, that’s why we had a little scuffle when Alex saw me pull the box out of my pocket,” Sam explains.
I laugh and shake my head at him. “I would have totally kicked you in the balls if you did that!”
Alex and Nicholas reach across the table to give each other high-fives.
“Yeah, I kind of figured that might happen. After I got my head out of my ass, I got to thinking and I realized you never really got a proper proposal,” he tells me.
“Bullshit! My idea!” Scheva suddenly says in between a few loud coughs.
“Okay, fine. I had a little help with this idea.”
I shoot a little glare in Scheva’s direction, knowing damn well she must have told Sam my crazy thoughts about how maybe our previous engagement wasn’t quite so real.
She grabs her wine glass and tilts it in my direction. “Cheers, bitch! And, you’re welcome.”
Scheva downs the entire glass, smacking it back onto the table as I focus back to Sam.
“Don’t be mad at her, I may have called her in a panic, thinking you wanted to break up with me. There was a lot of cursing and yelling. She had no choice,” Sam informs me.
“And I’ve forgiven you for the twat comment. Now, please proceed so I can get more wine,” Scheva says.
Sam takes a deep breath and lifts the ring box closer to me. “Take the ring out.”
With a shaky hand, I gently pull it out of the box and I notice something new about it now that I’m holding it that it I didn’t see when I was so busy freaking out.
“I had the jeweler solder a band to it to make it a little wider. Look inside the ring.”
The simple, gold band with a one-carat, princess-cut diamond in the center, now has a beautiful diamond-studded, gold band attached to it. Turning it in my fingers, I look inside the ring and the tears immediately start to fall when I see what’s been engraved inside.
“My heart started beating at an airport…” I read aloud.
“You know I meant everything I said to you when I got down on one knee Christmas Eve and first gave you that ring, but I realize now that I should have done it again. For real. When neither of us are pretending and when we’re both on the same page,” Sam says, tossing the ring box to the side and holding my left hand in both of his.
I can’t stop the tears from falling as Sam repeats all of the same words he said to me on Christmas Eve.
“I wanted to wait until the perfect moment to do this, because you are perfect. But I realized it doesn’t matter where or when I do this, just that I do it.”
He leans forward and kisses the top of my hand as he continues, my heart melting inside my chest.
“I think I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you, and every moment I’ve spent with you since then has just gotten better and better. I love your smile, I love your laugh, and I love the way you love your family, so unconditionally that you would do anything for them. Marry me, Noel Holiday. Marry me and never leave. Love me forever, and I will do everything I can to keep that smile on your face and the laughter in your voice.”
Just like the first time he said these words, my mother’s sniffles and soft sobbing is audible from the other side of the table as Sam gets up from his knees and stands in front of me, resting his hands on my hips.
“So, what do you say? Do you want to get hitched and be crazy together for the rest of our lives?”
Bringing my hands up between us, I slip the newly-enhanced ring onto my finger and slide my palms up his chest, draping my arms over his shoulders.
“Yes. One hundred percent yes!” I laugh as he pulls me tighter and presses his lips to mine.
“Jesus Christ, it’s about time. Can we eat now?” my father complains as Sam and I ignore everyone in the room.
“So, we’re not exchanging keys?” Tinder Tristan questions.
“How can any of you think about food and keys at a time like this?!” my mother shouts. “We have a wedding to plan, venues to look at, food to order, decorations to decorate, dresses to try on, family to call, and a bachelorette party to think about! Someone get Pinky on the phone!”
Sam and I pull apart, and I grin up at him.
“Are you sure you really want to do this? My mother is going to be crazier than ever now,” I tell him softly.
“I’m sure. But are you sure you’re okay doing this when you don’t have a job yet? No more freaking out about living with me and me taking care of you until that happens. Promise me,” he demands quietly.
“Oh, no need to worry about that whole job thing,” my mother suddenly pipes up, taking a pause in her wedding planning.
Sam and I watch as she grabs a piece of paper from next to her plate and walks it around the table, holding it out to me. I take it from her hands and my jaw drops when I read what is printed on it.
“You remember the two women who did the sex toy party for us?” my mother asks as I continue to read, unable to believe what I’m seeing. “Well, I called Liz, the one who runs the sex toy part of the business and told her about those fun greeting cards you came up with when you were high as a kite.”
I hand Sam the email when I’m finished reading it to let him take a look at it.
“Holy shit,” he whispers. “They want to hire you to develop your own line of greeting cards for all the Seduction and Snacks stores, worldwide.”
I nod in shock, unable to speak.
“Liz said you can literally put anything you want on those cards!” my mother explains. “Herpes? Great! Tiny penis jokes? Excellent! Pussy punch and twat taps, whatever those are? Go for it! The more horrible the better. Happy Valentine’s Day, honey, Mommy got you a job!”
Sam lets go of me so I can wrap my arms around my mother and give her a hug.
“I love you, Mom. You’re insane, but I love you. Thank you for doing this,” I tell her as she squeezes me back.
“Well, I didn’t do it all for you. Your father and I love having you stay with us, but we need our empty house back. Now that I know he’s not cheating on me, and now that he’s been studying up on Sam’s dirty books, we’ve got some catching up to do,” she divulges as I pull out of her embrace.
“Jesus, woman, we’re caught up! And stop telling people about the books. Everyone will think I’m a gay for reading them,” my father complains.
“Oh! That reminds me,” I tell Sam with a smile, moving to the side table in the room and opening the top drawer to pull out the present I stuck inside earlier today.
I hand him the box, wrapped in red paper with little pink hearts all over it. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
He takes the present and quickly unwraps it, laughing when he sees what’s inside.
“Awwww, you got me a Kindle!”
“I even loaded it up with all of those author’s books you carried around with you before my dad stole them,” I tell him.
“They didn’t even have any pictures in them. What a waste,” my dad grumbles.
“Alright, everyone sit down so we can finally eat!” my mom orders. “We can wedding plan while you’re stuffing your faces.”
The scraping of chairs and the low hum of conversation fills the room as Sam pulls me away from the madness and into the doorway.
“I hope all of this was okay. You know, being sneaky with the ring and doing this in front of your family,” he says softly. “Being alone for most of my life, I’ve never been very good at voicing my feelings, or hell, even showing them. But you m
ake me want to wear my heart on my sleeve, Noel.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and smile up at him, the tears beginning to fall all over again.
“So, you’re saying you have a heart-on for me?” I ask with a laugh in between the tears.
He grabs my hips and pulls my body up against his.
“Yes, yes I do,” he smiles. “Always and forever.”
I rest my head on his chest, right over his heart and smile.
“Let the wedding planning commence,” I tell him softly.
“God help us all,” he laughs.
The End
The Firework Exploded
The Holidays #3
Prologue
Noel
When I was a little girl, I spent hours and hours dreaming about my wedding. I would close my eyes and picture myself in a gorgeous princess dress with beautiful flowers and a sparkly crown.
A string quartet would be softly playing the theme song from The Powerpuff Girls (it was the 90’s and I was a child; give me a break), everyone would stand, and my father would wipe away a few tears and tell me he couldn’t believe the day had finally come for him to give his little girl away, but that he was happy to be giving me away to the best man he’d ever met.
I would smile and bask in all the attention as we made our way down the aisle, everyone whispering how beautiful I looked and how perfect the wedding was. I would slowly walk past my mother, smiling at me brightly and mouthing the words, “I love you, my precious daughter.”
I would walk down that aisle, covered in pink rose petals, to my handsome princes (obviously I’d be marrying all the members of NSYNC, even though we all know Justin Timberlake is the only one you’d want to marry but they came as a packaged deal in the 90’s, so if you wanted to marry Justin, you had to take on JC, Chris, Lance, and Joey as well) who waited for me at the front of the room, sitting astride a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly (shut up, this was a little girl fantasy and in my fantasy, all five members of NSYNC could totally fit comfortably on the back of a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly) overcome with emotion and not afraid to cry in front of our family and friends because they couldn’t handle how beautiful I looked and how much they loved me.
But then I grew up. And I realized the dreams I used to have about my future wedding when I was a little girl would be shot to hell as soon as my family got involved and didn’t want to listen to any of my suggestions, begging, or pleading.
The string quartet playing The Powerpuff Girls theme song turned into a garage band named Lenny and the Goat Fuckers who only knew how to play “Helter Skelter” (the Motley Crüe version) and “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry.
My father’s beautiful speech about my intended turned into him running down the aisle screaming, “I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE BAD NEWS, SHIT TITS!” before he punched him in the stomach.
My mother asked, “How do you expect me to get blood and jizz stains out of your wedding dress?” instead of anything even remotely sweet and sentimental.
The unicorn became a pissed off zombie cat that frightened small children and whose only joy in life came from latching his claws and three remaining teeth onto my fiancé’s leg every chance he got.
The only thing that happened that was even remotely similar to my silly childhood wedding fantasy, was my handsome, loving fiancé standing at the end of the aisle with tears in his eyes as I ran toward him in a sprint that would have made a gold medalist in track and field proud, covering my head and trying not to die.
Sadly, I’m guessing his tears and full-on wailing had more to do with the pain of having his ball hair burnt off than watching me run toward him, thinking about how lucky he was. One could maybe assume it had something to do with the fifteen bald drag queens beating a guy over the head with their singed wigs, the best man grabbing the microphone and reciting horrible original poetry (while also crying), the guests running around screaming and knocking over chairs like a stampede of bulls (while also crying), a mishap with the fake snow machine that forced five strippers to stop dancing and huddle in the corner of the yard, cursing about frostbitten tits (while also crying), or watching the maid of honor flip tables and then ask the priest from my parents’ church if he’d rather have penises for fingers or a finger for a penis (while also crying—the priest, not the maid of honor).
Honestly, I’m sticking with the burnt ball hair at this point. That shit looked really painful. Nothing says “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” like a ride in the back of an ambulance, holding a bag of frozen peas against your fiancé’s junk.
Happy Fourth of July, folks. And happy wedding day to me. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and grab every bottle of available liquor you can. You’re going to need it.
1
Pissy McPisserson
Noel
One month earlier…
Closing my eyes, I bury my face in the side of Sam’s neck, tighten my thighs around his waist, and moan his name as I come. We’ve been together for six months, and I’ve lost track of how many orgasms he’s given me in that time. They’ve always been amazing, each one better than the one before it. I’ve had to stop myself several times from sending emails to previous lovers telling them they suck at life and should never ever be allowed to use their penises again without some sort of additional adult supervision or sex intervention.
Sam slides his hand underneath me and clutches tightly to my ass as he picks up the pace and starts thrusting harder and faster inside me. Just like always, he makes sure I’m satisfied before he even thinks about taking his own pleasure, which should be a good thing, right?
I mean, it is a good thing. It’s a really good thing. What woman wants to have sex with a guy who finishes before you even have time to close your eyes and get a good fantasy going in your head? Maybe something in the threesome family or even some girl-on-girl action. When he’s going to town and moaning your name before you’ve even established if this fantasy is taking place in an elevator that suddenly broke down or under the bleachers at a football game, you know you’ve got yourself a dud. And don’t get me started on feeling him jerk and convulse on top of you before you’ve even had time to pick out the hot, yet tasteful outfit that you’re wearing in this fantasy.
Sam isn’t a dud. He could never be a dud. He’s just having some…issues. I really have nothing to complain about since I’m currently lying underneath him, in our bed, in the privacy of the home we share, with muscles that now feel like jelly after my recent orgasm. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the doubt, worries, insecurities, and chafing to set in.
Fifteen minutes, to be exact.
I smack both of my hands against his ass and help him move faster. I start nibbling on his neck. I whisper every dirty thing I can imagine into his ear. All the things that usually work and have him coming in record time. Not that I ever really want sex with Sam to end, but you know, sometimes a girl gets hungry, or she starts calculating how many hours of sleep she’ll be able to have if this thing can get wrapped up in five minutes or less, or maybe there’s an episode of The Real Housewives of New York on the DVR calling her name.
Sadly, none of the tricks I have up my sleeve work. Just like they haven’t worked in the last six weeks. Sam keeps drilling into me, and I try my hardest not to look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, or wince when each thrust feels like it’s going to start a small forest fire because all the wetness from my orgasm has long since fled the coop. The coop, in this instance, being my poor, dry, chafed vagina.
“Shit, shit, shit, fuck,” Sam suddenly complains, collapsing on top of me and then quickly rolling away with a huff, throwing his arms over his eyes. “I had it. It was right there, and then I lost it.”
Six weeks of me getting an orgasm every single time we have sex and Sam stopping when it starts to become a health hazard to both of us. He’s blamed it on the co
mbination of being preoccupied with work and the stress of planning a wedding with my insane family. Both valid reasons, but all I can do is try not to freak the fuck out that maybe I don’t turn him on anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says with a sigh, dropping his arms and rolling to face me.
“I don’t know why you’re apologizing. In case you didn’t notice, I got mine. Sorry about your luck.”
He laughs at my attempt to make a joke, but then the room is suddenly filled with awkward silence. I refuse to cry or beg him to tell me he still thinks I’m pretty. I already did that three other times, and I’ll be damned if I do it a fourth. This whole falling in love at the speed of light over Christmas, getting engaged on Valentine’s Day, moving in together immediately, and planning a wedding thing is stressful enough. Sam will never have another orgasm again if he has to keep watching me snot all over my pillow, crying about how I’m not sexy enough and let it slip that I only said, “Fuck me harder, big daddy,” because my best friend Scheva guaranteed it would work every time and he’d come like a freight train.
Obviously it didn’t work, considering we’re going on week six with no Sam-orgasm and it made him snot all over his pillow and cry because it made him think of my father, which isn’t hot or sexy for anyone to think about, and I immediately regretted my decision of taking any kind of advice from my best friend.
“I’m sure it’s stress. I swear I’ve never had this problem before,” Sam informs me.
Great. Just what I want to hear. He’s only ever had this problem with me. Guys only stick their dick in your vagina for the sole purpose of having an orgasm and now I’ve broken him.
“Is this my fault because of the whole toilet seat thing?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, in my defense, that’s rule number one of living with a woman and you had it coming.”