Prologue

I’m sitting on the edge of the sink counter in the mall girls’ bathroom, hands clenched and toes curled. My best friend Stacy’s head is between my legs: her tongue is making light quick strokes across my clit, and her thumb is teasing the entrance to my hole. I’m so close; just a few seconds more and my need will be satisfied, and my most urgent problem solved. The man outside bangs on the door again, loudly, authoritatively. Stacy and I ignore it. Finally relief comes crashing down on me. My thighs squeeze Stacy’s head as I convulse, so she probably can’t hear the man yell, “I’m coming in.”

My orgasm is fading to nothing as the mall cop walks in, chest puffed out, giving us the dirtiest look he can muster. “Come with me to the security office,” he commands. We know better than to argue right now. His insistence doesn’t deter Stacy from washing her face while I pull up my underwear and shorts. He perp-walks us past the small gathered crowd, which includes the family of the tween girl who walked in on us in the first place.

Before the security chief can yell at us, I take off my medic alert bracelet and thrust it at him. He reads it out loud: “‘Neurological disorder: severe hypersexuality triggered by smell of vanilla.’ You’re kidding, right?”

He calls my mom, who shows up and explains that it’s a real medical issue. She drops a few veiled threats about the Americans with Disabilities Act when he starts to argue, and the whole thing ends with a warning to be more careful next time.

Stacy’s a good friend. She’s not gay; she just knows that if she hadn’t taken care of me, I would have grabbed some random guy - or two, or three - and fucked them instead. I can’t control it.

We hadn’t counted on the food court being full of the smell of vanilla due to the cinnamon roll store’s new flavor. It switched me over into mega-cat-in-heat mode in seconds flat. I guess the mall is one more place that I can’t go.