Free Tell Me More by Janet Mullany

what the two syllables were she kept repeating. “You woke me up to tell me he has a foreskin?”
    “Shit, sorry. I thought you’d be awake.” More giggling. “It’s weird.”
    “He’s Irish. It’s probably normal there.”
    “I didn’t know what to do with it.”
    “Where are you?”
    “My place. In the bathroom. He’s asleep.”
    “Oh, good. He might find it depressing that you’re on the phone to a girlfriend giggling about his dick.”
    “I wouldn’t say a word in front of him. It’s bad manners.”
    “So is waking me up.”
    “I’m sorry. I had to tell someone about it.”
    I yawned. “I’m pretty sure there are AM call-in shows for this sort of situation. You sure you’re okay? Not overwhelmed by foreskinned leprechaun sex?”
    “He’s cute. Nice. Sexy. We had a good time.”
    “Great. Why don’t you go to sleep, too? Good night.”
    “Are you grouchy for any other reason than being woken up?”
    “No, I’m fine. ’Bye.” I disconnected the call and rolled over, dislodging Brady, who had swollen to twice his normal size and heated up to an alarming temperature, as cats will. I allowed myself a moment of self-pity. Kimberly had a guy in her bed and I had an overheated lump of fur in mine and a vibrator somewhere on the floor. I scrabbled around for it in a halfhearted sort of way, put off by the thought of the dust bunnies it might have accumulated. Sleep seemed a more wholesome alternative.
     
     
    “I thought we’d have a picnic.” Willis grinned with approval at me—I thought it was approval, but it might have been self-satisfaction. On the other hand my outfit of cowboy boots and a black-and-white polka-dot, knee-length skirt looked pretty good to me. “That okay with you?”
    “That sounds great.” It was one of those unseasonably warm days in the Rockies where half the town appears in shorts, grabbing a few rays before the temperature plummets with the setting sun.
    He wore jeans and a battered leather jacket and looked slightly more human than in his expensive suits and ties, or at least slightly more like a guy I’d date. He ushered me out to his car, a sort of jeeplike thing, and I bit back the first comment that rose to my lips about its mileage. This was not the sort of vehicle acquired for its light carbon footprint.
    “Like it?” he said, mistaking my interest.
    “Sorry, I don’t know much about cars.”
    To my relief, he didn’t take this as an invitation to educate me, but opened the car door and once we were seated, made a fuss of selecting music, adjusting the temperature and so on. Then he drove through the town and west into the foothills.
    He didn’t say much and I wondered if he was shy, or maybe thinking he’d made a mistake.
    “Are you seeing someone?” he asked.
    “No. Are you?”
    “No. You acted weird about coming out with me, so I thought…”
    “I was in a fairly serious relationship for quite a long time. I haven’t got the hang of dating. How about you?” I’d given up telling him he wasn’t my type. He couldn’t or wouldn’t believe it.
    “Divorced. I’m not ready for a serious relationship just yet. I like sexy, adventurous women like you.”
    “What do you mean by adventurous? I used to date a rock-climbing fanatic. I went climbing with him a couple of times but I was scared to death.”
    He shot me a glance. “You look athletic. Sure of yourself.”
    “I ride a bike, but doesn’t everyone?” I looked at the road we were on, winding through pine trees. “This might be a good road to ride. Do you like sports?”
    I’d asked for it. A lecture followed on the local football team. He stopped. “I guess you’re not into football?”
    “No. I meant, do you climb or run? You look like you work out.”
    “I lift weights, go to the gym a few times a week. Ski in the winter. Play a little golf.”
    Oh, God, please don’t talk about golf or start comparing Breckenridge to Aspen.
    He didn’t, having turned off the road and