Stuck-Up Suit

By: Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward

One flaw in this little fantasy of mine: I was definitely not this dude’s type. He was probably into submissive high-society waifish blondes, not curvy Italian girls from Bensonhurst with snarky attitudes and multi-colored hair. My long, black tresses hung down to my ass. I looked like a cross between Elvira and Pocahontas with a big ass. The ends of my hair were dyed a different color every couple of weeks depending on my mood. This week was royal blue, which meant things were going pretty well with me. Red was when you’d have to stay out of my way.

My random thoughts were interrupted by the screech of the train coming to a halt. Suddenly, Mr. Big Prick got up, a cloud of expensive cologne saturating the air in his wake. Even his smell was obnoxiously sexy yet overbearing. He rushed out the doors, which closed behind him.

He was gone. That was it. Show over. Well, that was fun while it lasted.

My stop was next, so I walked over to the same door that he’d just exited. My foot hit something that felt like a hockey puck, prompting me to look down.

My heart started to beat faster. Mr. Big Prick had apparently left a piece of himself behind.

He dropped his phone.

His fucking phone!

He’d flown out of the train so fast, it must have slipped out of his hand. I’d apparently been too busy admiring his juicy, trouser-hugged ass to notice. Picking the iPhone up, it felt hot in my hands. The case smelled of him. Wanting to sniff it closer to my nose, I restrained myself.

I covered my mouth and looked around. If my life were a TV show, the laugh track would have been inserted right about now. No one was looking at me. No one seemed to care that I had Mr. Fancy Pants’ phone.

What was I going to do with it?

Placing it inside my leopard-print purse, it felt like I was harboring a bomb as I made my way out of the station onto the sunny Manhattan sidewalk above. I could feel the phone vibrating with text notifications, and it rang at least once. I wasn’t ready to touch it again until I’d had my coffee.

After stopping at my regular street vendor, I sipped my cup of Joe as I walked the two blocks to work. On this particular day, I was running late, so I decided to forego uncovering Mr. Big Prick’s life until after lunchtime.

When I arrived at my desk, I took the phone out and realized the battery was in the red, so I connected it to my charger. My position as an assistant to a legendary advice columnist was certainly not my dream job, but it paid the bills. Ida Goldman was the owner of Ask Ida, a daily column that had been around for years. Ida had been trying to groom me lately, asking me to try my hand at writing some of the responses. Select write-ups were printed in the paper while answers to other submissions were posted on Ida’s website. Part of my job was to screen the questions that came in and decide which ones to pass along to my boss.

While Ida’s advice was always sensitive and politically correct, my take on things tended to be more to the point, basically cutting out the bullshit. As a result, she never actually published my responses. Occasionally, I couldn’t resist taking it upon myself to answer some of the questions that didn’t make the cut—the ones that would have ended up in the trash bin anyway. Some of these people really needed a clue, and I felt it was a disservice to ignore their pleas for help.

I just recently discovered that my husband has a porn stash. What do I do? –Trisha, Queens

Score! Invest in a good vibrator. Make sure you put everything back the way it was after you get your rocks off while he’s at work.

I got drunk at a party and kissed my best friend’s boyfriend. Now I can’t stop thinking about him. I feel horrible but think I might be falling for him now. Any words of wisdom? –Dana, Long Island

Yes. You’re a cunt. C you next Tuesday, Dana!

My boyfriend recently asked me to marry him. I said yes. He’s the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever known. Problem is, the diamond he gave me was smaller than I hoped for. I don’t really want to hurt his feelings. I need to know a polite way to express my disappointment. –Lori, Manhattan

God has the same dilemma when it comes to you, sweetheart. P.S. When your fiancé dumps your selfish ass, give him my number.

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