I order a Boddingtons and watch Bartender Girl build it the way you build a Guinness. The head rises to the top of the glass, then shrinks as the golden liquid emerges underneath in beer’s more drinkable transparent form. I mean, it’s not like I’m afraid of Fleshlight, is it? When the head settles, she pours another shot from the tap, slices off my foamy head with a butter knife, and slides the beer in front of me. Looking down into the head of my beer, I see a coin-slot eye. I raise the glass to my lips and it smells somewhat vanilla, and when I set it down, I’m acutely aware that a thin slime remains on my upper lip. I admit: I’m afraid. And once I realize I’m afraid, over the next couple of days, Fleshlight looms larger than life. It’s my mother’s disapproval, my third-grade teacher’s declaration that I’ll never amount to anything, my ex’s aunt from Borough Park asking me why I’m not Jewish. It even argues politics and tells me to fine-tune my career in a more adult manner.

It’s not like I’d go out and buy Juggs magazine, but they published one of my stories, and my contributor’s copy came in the mail. As you may have guessed, they’re into gooey, big breasts. In fact, they’re into lactating mothers. Like a good egomaniac, I’m checking for typos over my morning coffee. Girlfriend’s in the shower and I’m sitting at the table with Fleshlight. Today is my day off—my so-called writing day. It dawns on me that today is…the day. I pack my notebook, Juggs, and Fleshlight lovingly in my backpack and crack the bathroom door to kiss Girlfriend good-bye. “You think you could put the toilet seat back down every once in a while?” she complains.

“Women,” I mutter as I struggle with my bike down the steps of her building, hoping it doesn’t snow before I get to my place.