Page 4 of Big Dix

I can’t believe what I’m reading. Atticus Dixon is booty calling, or is it booty messaging? Booty texting? Sexting? I can’t worry about what to call this. That’s not important. What is important is:

Atticus Dixon is hot.

Atticus Dixon has a big wiener.

Atticus Dixon is trying to get into my pants.

“Ev, for real. What the crap are you doing?”

I jump out of my skin as Jen appears out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me.

BUSTED.

It’s like in tenth grade when Sister Mary Francis caught me under the bleachers showing Tommy García the proper way to French kiss. I had my eyes closed—obviously—and my tongue shoved in Tommy’s Hubba Bubba-flavored mouth. I saw him recently, by the way, he grew up niiice. His boyfriend thinks so, too. I bet he appreciates those skills I taught Tommy.

Anyway, Sister MF-er—yeah, that’s what we called her—was like a damn ninja and crept up on us, snatching us apart by our ears. She scared me so badly, and I screamed so loud, the entire gym went silent. She dragged us out, still by our ears, in front of the whole student body of St. Francis of Assisi.

Go, Friars!

My punishment for the sin of the flesh? Sitting in a corner for two hours on my knees, thinking of what I’d done to disgrace myself. Little did Sister MF-er know, I had assumed that same position recently in a high stakes game of spin the bottle with Bobby Lester at Susie Smith’s birthday party.

I digress; needless to say, ever since that day under the bleachers, I’m jumpy as shit.

“Um, just looking to see if a check cleared.” Lie. I haven’t written a check in five years. I don’t even know where my checkbook is.

Mental note: find checkbook.

Why the hell am I lying, though?

Maybe because it’s embarrassing to admit that I, a grown-ass woman, am cyber stalking my celebrity crush/potential baby daddy.

Maybe.

But my girls would understand and never judge me, and I know this. Still, just for now, I think I’ll keep this little secret for myself. I mean, what are the odds this turns into anything? Minimal. Nonexistent. Nada. Right?

It’s not like I’m going to see him. You can do so much to alter pictures these days, and it may not even really be him. Right?

It does look like him, though.Jeez, I hope it’s him.

“We need to load this cake and get to the venue to set it up. You ready to go?”

I tuck away my phone and my secret; I’m not answering Atticus right now. This cake needs to get delivered before Jen—my currently unhinged best bud—has a meltdown.

I need to see what’s up with her. She seems off the last few months. I bet it has something to do with the guy she’s started seeing recently. Maybe John, the banker, isn’t giving her a big enough deposit. That’s enough to upset anyone. I’m not even sure they are on the fluid swapping level yet. It’s only been a few weeks.

Oh, maybe that’s it. Perhaps Jen isn’t getting any deposits at all. They aren’t too serious, only a few dates, but it seems like it could go somewhere. He seems nice, put together. Yeah, so not her type at all.

It’s been a year or more since she dated anyone for more than just one date. I really thought she and Maddox were secretly hooking up, but she seems to hate him for some reason. Every time he’s around, she gets mad, and if looks could kill, she would have made him drop dead ages ago.

“Ev, let’s go.” Jen marches through the door to our van, cake boxes in hand.

My phone chimes again as soon as she is out of earshot. I can’t help but chance a peek.

@BigDix.69

Waiting…

Oh, sweet baby Yoda. It’s another message from Atticus; this time, accompanied by a few-seconds-long video of his beautiful penis and his hand working his shaft relentlessly.

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