When I woke I was missing a finger.  Well, not technically: I knew where it was.  That’s what I get, dating a part-time med student.

Laura and I had been dating about a year.  Her folks knew, mine didn’t – they weren’t interested in hearing I was queer, same as they covered their ears when I mentioned our nudist beach resort, ‘Skin, Sin & Sand”.  She was my ‘friend’ when we paid a visit, and when I went by myself and stayed over, like all good girls she ‘came’ when I called.

But she was what some people term ‘bi-curious’.  Except, that seemed an awfully limiting term for Laura.  She wasn’t just curious about men, and before me she’d had a few, but about everything.  Anything that could go up there, did.  Cucumbers, candles, toothbrushes, sex toys, even a lizard called ‘Joe’.  But it wasn’t enough.

We were committed, together, close as could be.  But the maw between her legs wanted more.  And Laura being Laura, it got it.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a prick?” she’d say on our lazy Sundays to Mondays in bed.  And I’d yawn, or moan, or mumble and agree.  I agreed to anything in bed.  She was that kind of girl.

Then it was our anniversary, and I had one too many drinks.  One or two too many.  But I don’t think she did.

If she had, there wouldn’t be those nice neat stitches on my hand.  A gap between my come-hither finger and commitment ring.  A bulge in my pants.

And as my hand helplessly twitched for its loss, and my crotch beckoned it lower, I wondered…  was a flirty finger worth giving up the beach and its skin-drenched stretches of sand?

Looking at me, licking her lips then mine, I touched her nose with it and figured ‘what the hell’.

Forget about the waxing, let my bush run wild.  A bit of a comb-over, and I could roam free.  On the bright side, for now, I had a finger in my pants and only we knew.  It would come in handy for the next few weeks.

Regrowth’s a bitch of an itch.

By Gill Hoffs