When I reached the apartment, May was in the living room, wearing glasses she didn't need and pretending to read a book.
"Where were you?" she asked without looking up.
"Had coffee with a loudmouth who owes me ten croissants."
"You finally got a girlfriend?"
"Not yet. But I might have found a headache that comes with tits."
She snorted. "Progress."
I headed straight to my room, tossed the hoodie on the chair, cracked my knuckles, then pulled out my phone. Darcy had texted.
A picture popped up.
Ten croissants. Arranged like they were auditioning for a bakery calendar shoot. One had chocolate dripping down the side like it wanted to be in porn. Another looked like it was glazed in existential crisis.
Her caption: Here. Your flaky porn. Happy now?
I replied: Bitch, I want the real thing. Or next time I will send you a picture of your laptop.
Three seconds. Typing bubble. Then:
Darcy: You touch my laptop and I will put your browser history on a billboard.
Me: You say that like you will not find hentai and cheesecake recipes.
Darcy: And both would make the FBI knock twice.
Me: One knock for the plot, second for the frosting.
She sent back a laughing emoji and a middle finger.
(.)(.)
Sunday. Supposed to be sleep-in day. Reset-day. Nutella-toast-and-regret day. But no. May decided I needed yoga. Not home yoga. Not YouTube-on-the-TV yoga. Real yoga. Local park. Public. Mat, stretch, breathe, and be humiliated in front of old ladies with better hamstrings.
She dragged me out at eight. In the morning. I could not even pretend to be dead. She threw the blanket off like she was avenging a ghost. My morning wood was halfway standing salute when she yanked the curtain open.
"You are up," she said.
"I am murdered."
"Ten minutes," she said. "Brush. Wear something that doesn't scream depression."
I showed up in shorts and a hoodie. Hair still half-screwed from sleep. She wore tight leggings and a tank top that made at least three joggers twist their necks by accident. One nearly fell into a bush. Karma. Good.
Park was full of mats and early risers. Moms. Grandmas. Teens dragged by their more-flexible friends. A dog peed on one yoga block. No one noticed. May laid out her mat. Mine was next to hers. Bright blue. She handed me water like this was normal.
Instructor showed up. Blonde. Thin enough to glide if someone sneezed. Voice like she sold lavender oils and orgasms to wine moms. "Welcome, everyone," she said, smiling way too wide. "Let's begin with child's pose."
I dropped onto my mat like I had just been shot. May gave me a look.
"Try to follow," she said.
"I am trying to not fart."
Instructor moved through poses like gravity didn't apply to her. I moved like gravity was horny and wanted to fuck me harder with every breath. Downward dog? More like downward what-the-fuck. My back popped. A girl two mats over giggled.
May stretched beside me like this was her element. Her ass pointed at the sky, tank top rising just enough to tease. The guy behind us was about to pass out from staring. I glared. He looked away. Good.
Instructor shifted into warrior pose. May flowed with her. I wobbled like a drunk flamingo. Some woman clapped. Probably for May. Definitely not for me. My knee cracked so loud I thought it was a gunshot.
"You are doing great," May said.
"I am doing war crimes to yoga."
She smirked. "Breathe."
Sun peeked through the trees. Birds chirped. Somewhere, a toddler screamed for ice cream. I was trying to survive ass-up stretching while my bones threatened divorce. May glanced over. Sweat clung to her neck. Hair tied. Smile smug. Bitch was glowing. My body was leaking sin.
May raised an eyebrow. "Need help?"
"Need an ambulance."
By the time we reached corpse pose, I was halfway there already. I lay flat. Eyes closed. Heart pounding. Brain screaming.
"I hate you," I whispered.
"You love me," she said.
"I hate yoga more."
"Next week, hot yoga," she replied.
"I will burn the mat."
We lay there for ten minutes. Instructor whispered about gratitude and breath. I was grateful for oxygen. That was it. Oxygen and the fact my dick didn't rip mid-pose. When it ended, people clapped. Polite. Cult-like. I didn't join.
We rolled up the mats. May handed me a towel. I wiped my face. Armpits. Soul.
"Feel better?" she asked.
"I feel like I got rearranged by a chiropractor with no license."
She tossed me the water. I chugged half the bottle. Sweat poured down my back. My thighs still buzzed.
"Time for breakfast," she said.
We walked off the grass. A woman waved at May. Probably her friend. Yoga circle cult bonding. They exchanged hellos. Talked about breathing and hips.
May said goodbye, linked her arm with mine, and pulled me down the sidewalk. "Come on. I know a place."
"If it serves bacon, I will forgive you."
"It does."
"Then you are safe."
She guided me to a small cafe near the edge of the park. Wooden sign. Smelled like syrup and overcooked eggs. Inside was warm. Sun through the windows. Tables half full. Some dude with glasses was typing furiously on a laptop.
We sat near the back. May ordered pancakes and eggs. I ordered meat. Just meat. Bacon, sausage, and whatever part of the animal still had grease in it. Waitress blinked. Wrote it down.
May grinned. "I thought you were strong since Mrs. Thompson called you again. I was even thinking to introduce you to some of the girls."
Some of those girls were young, pretty, and flexible in a way that made yoga less about poses and more like softcore sin with background breathing. Instructor was also in her twenties. Maybe early thirties. Had that glow that came from inhaling incense and smirking at people who ate carbs. The annoying thing about yoga? It made them younger, tighter, and smug enough to live longer so they could brag about it every time someone coughed near them.
I started at her, as our food arrived. I first ate some heavenly meat then asked, "I thought you didn't want me to slut around."
May picked up her fork, "Slutting is fine. Slutting with taste is better."
I chewed a strip of bacon, leaned back. "So I need a resume and a references list now?"
"You need standards," she said, pointing the syrup-dripping fork at me. "Thompson has a working bathtub. That is all she has. That woman isn't stability. She is a mid-life crisis with yoga hips and a thing for boys who still say 'yo.'"
"She pays in cash and cookies. Sometimes in both."
May rolled her eyes. "That isn't currency. That is bait. You aren't a raccoon."
"Depends on the night."
She snorted, kept eating. Her tongue brushed syrup off her lip, slow like she didn't even know it, and some poor barista behind the counter choked on his cappuccino watching it happen.
"Fine," I said. "Introduce me to one of the yoga girls. The flexible ones. Not the one who looks like she can out-squat my soul."
She smiled, like I just volunteered to get hunted. "Great. How was the instructor?"
I rolled my eyes. "No. You just want free yoga teacher."
"Wrong," she said, buttering her pancake. "I want someone to break you like a glowstick."
"Already broken. The corpse pose was not symbolic. That was my ghost leaving."
She sipped her juice, grinning like she already knew which of her yoga girls was going to stretch me into repentance. "You need a flexible girl. One who doesn't cry when you spank her too hard."
"I have one already. She is just flexible emotionally."
"Then she is probably crying somewhere with a playlist."
I tossed another piece of sausage into my mouth, chewing slowly. "Are we seriously doing recruitment over eggs?"
May nodded. "I am thinking of Mira."
I scratched my head, "Which one is Mira? The one with purple mat?"
May snorted. "That was Esther. She is sixty-eight years old, but if you want, I can speak to her. Though it might not last long."
"How long are we talking?"
"Until the hip gives out or you say something about TikTok. Whichever comes first."
I chewed my bacon slower, picturing Esther in yoga pants whispering dirty things about cholesterol and bingo nights. My erection politely exited the building.
"Mira is the one with the bun. Tall. Dark roots, lazy eyes, always late but still manages to be the center of every session."
"Sounds like a girl who has both daddy issues and a playlist titled 'bad decisions only.'"
"She has both. Also an ex-boyfriend who cheated on her with his own cousin. She took it well though. Burned his hoodies and slept with two of his friends."
I nodded. "Healthy response."
"She is single now. Flexible. And probably horny."
"Are you matchmaking or setting me up for an STD speedrun?"
"Yes."
I leaned back. "What does she do outside yoga?"
"Nothing that involves effort. Girl's allergic to jobs. Makes reels. Edits gym selfies. Once sold her bathwater to a simp from Michigan. Claims he called it 'holy broth.'"
I shook my head. "Yeah, no. I know what you are trying to do."
She gave me that innocent look. The kind that came with wide eyes and soft lips. Bitch.
"What? I am just being a good aunt."
I sipped my coffee. "You try to beat slutness out of me by matching the worst slut you know with me."
"Correction," she said, waving her fork. "I am trying to upgrade your slut tier. If you are gonna slut, at least do it with flair."
"She sells bathwater."
"And made rent off it. That is entrepreneurship. That is the grind."
"That is horny marketing," I said.
"Tomato, toe-sucker," she muttered, chewing her pancake.
"How about no," I said. "Last thing I need is a clingy gym rat with a vibrator collection and a personality built from rejection and body lotion."
"She isn't clingy," May said. "She ghosted her therapist."
"Exactly."
May stabbed the last pancake chunk, popped it into her mouth. "You think I don't see through you? Acting all picky now, but you would rearrange her spine the second she moaned wrong."
I shrugged, "My might in bed aside, I don't need correction in my habits. I fuck responsibly. I fucked Mrs. Thompson only because you sent me. If I didn't, people would speak, say May cannot control her bitch anymore. I could not do that to you."
May blinked like she just got slapped with a compliment and an insult rolled into one. She put her fork down. "So you fucked her as a public service?"
"Exactly," I said, sipping my coffee. "You were the mayor. I just collected the votes."
"You think that makes you noble?"
"No. Just civic-minded."
She wiped her mouth with a napkin like she was preparing to throw it at my face. "You are unbelievable."
"Believably talented," I said, finishing the last of my bacon. "Ask Thompson. She gave me a 10 on flexibility and form."
"If she ever comes by again and starts moaning about leaky pipes, I am calling the cops."
"Make sure they don't arrest me for community outreach."
"How about I arrest you for being a manwhore?"
"Then I plead guilty with excellent pelvic motion."
She grabbed her glass, took a long drink, then looked at me over the rim. "You know Mira would break you."
I got up to pay the bill, turned to say, "Yeah, not really ending my sex life for a flexible bitch ground zero STD site."
May snorted, grabbed her purse. "She tested clean last month."
"So did Chernobyl, once," I muttered, sliding the bill across the counter.
The waiter gave me that look. The one you get when you say something honest in a room full of liars. He took the cash, avoided eye contact. Smart man.
We stepped outside. Sunlight bounced off the sidewalk trying its best to blind us. May adjusted her sunglasses.
I added, "You cannot beat slutness out of me, Aunty. I just started."
May paused mid-step, her lips twitching, "If that is a warning, consider me unimpressed."
"That was not a warning. That was a status update."
She kept walking. I fell in step next to her. Wind pulled at her hair, lifting strands off her shoulder.
"You say it like it is a skill," she said. "Like you train for it."
"I do," I replied. "Cardio. Stamina. Yoga for flexibility. Porn for strategy."
She turned her head. "You watch porn for strategy?"
I nodded. "Some of those positions take physics and a dream. I want to be prepared. Mira seems like the kind of girl who would try to suck your dick upside down while crying about her ex and posting it live."
May pinched the bridge of her nose. "Jesus, Peter."
"What? I didn't invent her. I just read the profile."
"She doesn't have a profile."
"She does. It is on her face. Right between her lip filler and her daddy complex."
May stopped walking. She turned to me, crossing her arms. "So what kind of girl do you even like, huh? Since Mira is too flexible, too damaged, and apparently too entertaining for your slut radar."
"Simple," I said. "One who moans like she means it, shuts up after sex, and doesn't try to follow me home."
"That is a unicorn."
"I had two last month."
May's face twisted like she bit into a lemon. "And yet somehow you still think your dick deserves better."
"It does. You raised it."
She groaned. "No. Don't make this my fault."
"Too late. You fed me. Bathed me. Taught me to be a gentleman. Then bought yoga mats and let me stretch next to ass."
"That was fitness."
"That was foreplay."
She slapped my arm. "I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
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You can read up to Chapter 85...
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