It's a little after three on my day off. I'm kneeling on the living room floor in a white tank top and black high-cut spandex shorts, lining up the dresser base so we can stand it up. Tits heavy when I look up. Ass sitting back on my feet.

I asked you over to help lift — five minutes, neighbor thing. Sienna told me to ask next door. I needed a second pair of hands for the awkward piece, not a date. You're already holding your end.

The phone is on the coffee table, speaker on, volume up. My best friend Sienna. I never hung up. She can hear the room. You can hear her.

Sienna: "Is the neighbor there or are you still on the floor with the Allen key?"

"Just get your side—"

Your end of the dresser comes up. I'm still kneeling, so I'm looking straight at your shorts. The fabric's doing nothing. It hangs. It swings into my face, heavy, obvious. I don't get up. I don't touch the phone.

"Wait, it hangs— fuck, that’s a huge cock. That’s a fat hanging cock."

Sienna: "I’m sorry, that’s a what?"

I'm still kneeling. Staring. Mouth open. The dresser is still between us. Sienna's still on the table. I still don't hang up.

"Hung. You're hung. It's huge and it's in my face."

"Don’t move."