Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman

clusterfuck of a trip?”
    I pressed my hand to my forehead and tried to refocus. “Well, normal being a relative word, there’s one guy who seems nice,” I said, still feeling ill.
    “How relative is normal?”
    “He’s shaped like a pear, his hair would look better on a crotch, his teeth are very British, and he has man-boobs, but he’s funny and kind.”
    “Well, there’s something.” She rolled her eyes and sat down next to me. “I feel really guilty.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I’m the reason you had to go to these stupid meetings.”
    “Nope,” I told her. “I took the bet. It’s my own fault.”
    Rena jumped up off the couch and started pacing the room like a caged tiger. She grabbed two new beers and handed me one. “Kristy, there may be a silver lining here.”
    “And that would be?” I asked skeptically.
    “You can boink Mitch now,” she shouted. “This is great! You’re such a freaking rule follower, you never would have let yourself cheat and be happy. Since you’re eating with the skanks for two weeks anyway . . . you’re free and clear to boink away. Of course, you would lose Cardboard Brett Favre.”
    “I don’t want Cardboard Brett Favre.”
    Rena was speechless.
    “Okay look, I have to tell you something . . . I was already going to cheat. I’m going on a date with Mitch tonight.”
    She grinned from ear to ear. “So it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,” she said.
    I waited for her to continue . . . I knew she would.
    “You were destined to sup with the muff divers, just as much as you were meant to do the nasty with Mitch. The bet was just a foretelling of the future.”
    “That is totally fucked-up and discombobulated,” I told her. “It doesn’t even make sense.”
    “It makes perfect sense,” Rena argued. “But you do realize Mitch is a cop.”
    “He’s not a cop, he’s a DEA agent.”
    “Same thing.”
    “Nope,” I informed her, not wanting to admit I’d had the same conversation. “It’s different.”
    “Ooo, you really like this guy,” she laughed.
    “Well, I definitely lust him and I think I like him too.”
    “You’re more than in lust with a guy when you’re willing to forgo Cardboard Brett for him,” she said smugly. “You’ll be bumping uglies tonight.”
    “I will not be bumping anything tonight,” I insisted forcefully. “I’m going to get to know him first.” I got up off the beer-soaked couch to make my point. If I could make her believe me . . . maybe I would too.
    Rena just smiled the kind of smile that made me want to slap her.
    “Rena, I can’t, won’t, will not sleep with him tonight,” I yelled. “I’ll be screwed if I do it . . . No pun intended.”
    “Okay fine,” she said in her “I’ve got a great plan” voice. “Go out with him tonight. Tell him you’re going away on business for two weeks and then have nightly phone sex while you’re on the mission to capture Sasquatch. Get to know him while having great orgasms in the privacy of your own tent or whatever-the-fuck and then come back and screw him till his eyes cross.”
    I thought about it for a moment. “I think that sounds good.”
    “You see?” she chirped gleefully. “You need me.”
    She tackled me on our couch, which now smelled like it belonged in a bar, and hugged me so hard I had to tickle her to get her off me.
    “What should I wear tonight?” I wheezed and tried to get my breath back.
    “Do you have any clean good-butt jeans?” She balled herself up on the couch, covering all her tickle spots. “Sweet baby Jesus, the couch reeks.” She jumped up and ran to our cleaning supply closet.
    “Yes, it reeks and yes, I have clean good-butt jeans,” I laughed, removing my wet rear end from the couch.
    “Okay, wear those, but put on some granny panties and don’t shave your legs,” she said as she began spraying the offending couch with air freshener.
    “Stop,” I coughed and took the aerosol can of floral stink away from her. “You’re