I don’t explain the nature of the misunderstanding, and no one asks. The women here tonight mostly didn’t know each other before they showed up, and they’re warming up a lot more slowly than the other group. Or maybe I don’t have my mom’s magic touch.

Speaking of magic touch, oh, shit, it’s time for the vibrators.

I can’t look Brody’s way.

I won’t look Brody’s way.

Needless to say, the next few reveals are torture. I practiced a bunch so I wouldn’t blush, but all my work is instantly undone. I blush my way through eggs, bullet vibes, remote control gadgets, straight up penis-clones, g-spot stimulators, shared vibrating toys. The women become fascinated, intrigued, confessional.

The rabbit.

The Cadillac.

Is he watching?

Is he scowling?

Half-smiling?

Or smirking?

Damn it, I have to peek.

Not watching. He’s in the back of the boat. He has binoculars up and is staring at something on the shore.

“He’s hot,” says one of my guests.

“Really?” I say, like I hadn’t noticed. “Yeah, guess so.”

I look down into the box and realize that Jack Buddy’s up next.

No.

My face is on fire.

I’m going to skip it.

Except…

According to my mother, Jack Buddy is a money-maker.

Anyone who pleasures a penis on a regular basis can appreciate Jack Buddy. Married straight women are mega fans. They like the idea that they can get their husbands off with a minimum of wrist damage and, on a bad night, without having to subject their soft parts to friction. Jack Buddy sold like hotcakes at the first party, and my mom confirmed that it’s always a big winner.

No avoiding Jack Buddy, then. Because if I’m going to die of humiliation and have to avoid Brody for the rest of my life, I might as well make my mom some money.

“So,” I explain. “This is Jack Buddy. Jack’s a penile masturbation aid. Some people call them strokers.”

I will not, will not, will not look at Brody. No matter how much it feels like my gaze is drawn to him by super magnets.

The women stare at the soft silicone sheath in my hand. They all have grabby-hand eyes, like they can’t wait for me to get through my explanation so they can touch the foreign strangely-appealingly-pink-and-squishy sleeve.

Somehow—no idea how—I manage to get through my explanation and to pass the demo strokers around for the women to admire—and covet.

They’re all discussing the marriage-saving possibilities.

“I mean, you could just lube it up and hand it over, right? When you have ‘a headache’?”

“Or you could help out, if you were feeling generous.”

“It would be kind of hot, watching, wouldn’t it?”

It would be really, really hot, watching.