Till Summer Do Us Part(15)

Oh no. He. Did. Not.

Nope.

Not happening.

“Ex-friend,” I say, jumping in quickly. “Just want to clarify, ex-friend. We used to, uh, we used to go to Montauk, and I think I just had her on the brain.” I glance at Wilder to try to telepathically blow his head up into a million little pieces.

Wilder pats my leg and then turns to Sanders. “They had a really strong bond,” Wilder continues. “Met when they were in elementary school, but then Petunia, that’s her name, started dating a man Pips didn’t approve of, and well, their relationship soured from there.”

“He was a rampant cheater,” I say, wanting to get in on a little of this action so Wilder doesn’t think he can run away with the story.

“Rampant cheater at games.” Wilder nods. “Scottie couldn’t take it. Pictionary, charades, even Wordle, you name it, he cheated.”

Oh, so now he can remember games. Where were these a few moments ago when he was talking about our bedroom antics?

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Only appreciate people with integrity.”

How ironic. I say that as I’m pretending to be married to the man next to me who I only met about fifteen minutes ago.

“A great value to have,” Sanders says.

“One of the reasons I love her,” Wilder says as he reaches over and picks up a piece of my hair, twirling it around his finger. He stares at me for a couple of seconds, and I want to reach out and pop both of his eyes with my fingers, because those eyes, they’re too much. “Anyway, they didn’t have a room for us at the bed-and-breakfast, they were all booked, but they did have a cabin out back that didn’t have electricity or any running water. It was just a cabin. Since it was late and we spent all day under the shadow of the Montauk Point Lighthouse, we were tired and just needed a place to sleep. So we took it. But it was a mistake,” Wilder says. “Because the moment we got in there, we noticed that there wasn’t a bed, just sleeping bags. Right, Pips?”

“Uh, yeah. And you hate sleeping on the ground.”

“Only because I sleep naked, and I’m pretty wild when I sleep. Can’t seem to stay still.”

“Same,” Sanders says. “Sometimes I end up on the bottom of the bed, teetering, only for Ellison to save me from plummeting to the ground.”

“Same with Pips. She’s good at saving me, but not this time.”

Oh Jesus, what now?

“Weren’t you on the ground though?” Sanders asks, seemingly invested but also confused.

“We were. But it wasn’t the height of the bed that she needed to save me from,” he says. He sighs and then presses his hand to his chest. “Sorry, this is tough to talk about. Pips, do you want to take it?”

Uh…no.

Because I have no idea what you would need to be saved from while sleeping in a sleeping bag.

“You know, it’s all still fuzzy to me,” I say, circling my hand over my head.

“Not me.” Wilder shakes his head. “I remember it like it was yesterday.” He stares off into the distance as he lies out of his ass, telling a story that I’m sure will end up incriminating me. “I was naked, ready to have some birthday fun with my wife, who had just given me the best day frolicking under my favorite lighthouse. She was naked as well and looking so fucking fine.”

I mean, thank you, but please stop talking about me naked.

“Can I be explicit when talking to you?” Wilder asks.

Please, God, no.

“No judgment here,” Sanders says, setting the football down and instead picking up a baseball that he starts tossing in the air.

“Thank you. Well, I was hard as a fucking rock, we’re talking full mast, ready to go. Pips had me turn away from her because she wanted to try something new. All for it, I turned, and she wrapped her arm around me to start stroking me. It was heaven. Then she saw that I didn’t zip the sleeping bag all the way up, so she leaned forward, pulled it toward her, and, in one tug, zipped up the sleeping bag and my frenulum along with it.”

Oh my GOD!

Also, who says frenulum?

“Shit,” Sanders says in a whisper and a wince while he slowly closes his legs together. “We’re talking your penis skin, right?”

“Sadly, we are.”

Horrified, because how loose is the skin down there if a “full mast” penis can be zipped up, and needing to desperately defend myself, I say, “I…I didn’t know his penis was there.”

“She always underestimates the size of my dick. The only time she remembers is when I bottom out inside her and she can practically taste me in her throat.”

I seriously think I might faint, because the wheels have fallen off.

“Anyway, that night, she became the Serial Zipper.”

Serial Zipper? How on earth did he come up with that nickname that quickly?

“A name that I don’t like,” I say. “Because it was an accident.”

“We had to get the zipper surgically removed,” Wilder says. “I was wheeled into the emergency room, wrapped up in the sleeping bag, praying to the penis gods that everything would stay intact. The surgery took two hours and a heavy dose of anesthesia, but I left with light scarring and some pride still intact.”

“Wow.” Sanders shakes his head. “And I’m assuming there was animosity from her zipping up your penis.”