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This one’s for the reader that declared in a Facebook group that she uses ctrl + f to search for the word “cock” at the start of a story to make sure she doesn’t get tricked into reading a “closed door” romance by mistake. Shine bright, you smutty diamond, the world needs more women like you. (It’s in here 14 times, by the way, which ain’t half bad.)
Even though I was, architecturally-speaking, obligated to support her, I still felt like I was actively providing her comfort. The thought of that warmed me down to my threshold.
See, a lot of things happened in that grove and there was this perfectly-positioned knothole on this really sexy tree and the mead was flowing freely-” he gestured in a rolling circle with his hand. “You get the point.”
“I have no name but yours, Tana. I am your faithful guardian and protector, nothing more, nothing less. I am your door, and I love you.”
“But, I mean, it can’t hurt anything, right? I mean, women fuck cucumbers and bedposts and balloons and shit. This isn’t that weird, right?”
“So…what should I call you, then, door guy?” Yours, I thought, before the question really sunk in. Right, a name. Humans had those. I didn’t.
Something about being called a good door made my human legs feel weak and shaky.
