by Lauren Rowe
“Why didn’t I feel what Nate felt for me? To this day, I have no fucking idea. But for a long time, I truly thought things would change and I’d come to my senses and fall head over heels. ‘When you like a flower, you pick it,’ my mom always says. ‘When you love a flower, you water it and let it grow.’ So I figured I’d just keep watering our flower and soon my feelings would morph and ignite into the kind of life-or-death passion I’d always dreamed of experiencing. But they didn’t. I guess some things just can’t be forced, no matter how much you water them.
“Finally, about a year into our relationship, I was at a party with friends where I met a guy who made my panties burst into flames in a way I’d never felt with Nate, not even once. Honestly, the guy took my breath away with just a glance. It was like he’d cast a spell on me and my lady-parts. I’d never experienced full-body lust like that before. I didn’t know my body was even capable of getting that dripping wet—and that was just from looking at the guy. I could only imagine what would happen if I actually got to touch him.
“It took all my self-restraint not to cheat on Nate that very night (because believe me, my vagina desperately wanted to do it), but I didn’t. Instead, I nutted up and sat Nate down the next morning and I broke it off with him as gently as I could (and then went out and banged the shit out of that hot guy from the party four nights later on our second date).
“To say I broke Nate’s heart is an understatement. Even as I’m writing this, I’m crying at the memory of the look on his face when I told him I wasn’t in love with him. To this day, I’ve never felt more like a shitty person than when I told that beautiful, sweet, loving boy I didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore for no other reason than ‘I dunno why.’
“Now and again, I’ll get an occasional email from Nate, asking me how I’m doing, if I’m happy, asking if I’m married, and I always feel like crying when I have to reply honestly to him, ‘I’m really great, Nate. Still single. How are you?’ I know he’s hoping one of these times I’ll write, ‘I was an idiot. Please take me back.’ But I’m never even remotely tempted to write those words. And, honestly, I hate myself for it.
“I tried to be in love with Nate. I really did. But, apparently, passion isn’t something you can force. If it were, I swear I’d be passionately in love with that boy to this very day—because he so deserved that.
“My third serious boyfriend was the one who shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces. Garrett Bennett. Or as I like to refer to him, The Asshole.
“I met Garrett on the first day of my junior year. I was walking to class with Sarah when Garrett beelined right to me from across a large lawn and asked me out, saying I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and if I didn’t say yes to a date, I’d ruin his life. Well, to say my panties were wet at the sight of him is an understatement. The boy had an animal magnetism I’d never encountered before. So, of course, I said hell yes.
“On our first date, Garrett took me to a really nice restaurant, the nicest restaurant I’d ever been to, actually. Not the burgers and fries I’d been expecting. As it turned out, his dad was a senator and his mom some sort of philanthropist-lady who organized trips to Africa through her church. And the dude played on the freaking golf team at our school. (Who does that?) He seemed sort of fancy to me, but in a good way.
“But it wasn’t his swankiness that made me like him that night. Our conversation flowed easily and I laughed a lot. He was hysterically funny. (And did I mention he made my panties wet?) Actually, wait, let me amend the statement that he was hysterically funny. I’m not really sure if that’s true, in retrospect. The guy could have recited the phone book that night and I would have giggled like a fucking idiot. I was just instantly smitten. It was Nate, but in reverse. In fact, more than once during dinner, I thought, So this is what Nate felt! If you’d asked me that night, ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’, I would have shrieked, ‘Yes!’
“So, anyway, when Garrett asked me to come back to his place after dinner, I said yes, yes, yes. I’d only intended to make out with him, to tell you the truth, because honestly, up until then, I’d never had first-date sex or even a one-night stand. (Even that guy I banged after breaking up with Nate lasted two months.) Plus, Garrett had made a few comments during dinner that made it clear he’d come from an extremely conservative religious background, unlike me (organized religion is pretty much nonexistent in my household—as long as I’m dumping my entire life’s story on you, might as well hit you with religion, too), so I didn’t think first-date sex would be in the cards with a guy like that. But one thing led to another and another, pretty damned quickly, actually, and soon, Garrett and I were at his place having headboard-banging sex like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
“This kind of sex was a revelation to me. Before Garrett, I’d never had such uninhibited, wild sex. Even sex with the after-Nate guy wasn’t nearly as explosive as sex with Garrett Bennett. Our chemistry was off the freaking charts. I felt like I could be as wild as I wanted to be with him, like there were no limits—and that opened up a whole new side to myself I didn’t even know existed. I’d been giving myself orgasms for years before then, and I’d had orgasms during oral with guys, but this was the first time I had orgasms during sex with a guy—during actual intercourse—and it was like, wow, wow, wow, wow.
“I was immediately addicted, as you can probably imagine. I could never get enough. I wanted more, more, more, every chance I got. And so, from that day forward, for the better part of the next seven months, I banged Garrett as much as possible, which wasn’t as much as I would have liked (because, as he kept telling me, golf is an extremely time-consuming sport, especially for someone trying to go pro).
“But suffice it to say we had a ton of sex. But we also had lots and lots of conversations, too, mostly in bed, during which I told him pretty much every honest thought I had about anything and everything, never holding back. For some reason, the uninhibited sex made me feel uninhibited in all ways, like I could tell Garrett anything. No topic was off limits, and I just babbled and babbled.
“In some very big ways, it was obvious Garrett and I came from strikingly different backgrounds and families, but it didn’t matter. I just always felt like Garrett totally “got” me and secretly saw the world the way I did, despite his parents’ expectations about what and who he was ‘supposed’ to be.
“Honestly, I felt like I’d met my perfect match—my soul mate, if you will (a phrase I’ve since banished from my vocabulary). We never said ‘I love you’ to each other, because Garrett made it obvious he didn’t feel comfortable with saying ‘trite’ words like that—but that was fine with me. I knew in my heart how we both felt—so I didn’t need to hear the stupid, trite words.
“About six months into our relationship, I invited Garrett to meet my family and, much to my thrill, he said yes. I was super nervous about it because Garrett meeting my family was a pretty big deal to me, but, much to my relief, everyone in my family wound up loving him to pieces. Well, everyone except my oldest brother Colby, who despised Garrett almost instantly. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Kumquat?’ he said. ‘Can’t you see he’s using you?’
“I couldn’t believe my ears. I felt completely offended and hurt, like Colby was telling me I wasn’t good enough for a guy like Garrett from a fancy family with a senator-dad. ‘No, honey,’ Colby said. ‘He’s a loser—not even close to good enough for you. He’s completely full of shit.’ Well, I lost it. I told Colby I was gonna marry Garrett one day and it’s too bad he wouldn’t be invited to my wedding and until he learned to say something nice about my future husband he could just forget he had a fucking sister. (Full disclosure: I’m sort of overly dramatic sometimes when I get mad.) Colby said, ‘Don’t worry, Kumquat, I’ll be there to pick up your pieces when he breaks your heart.’
“I was pissed as hell at Colby, especially since everyone else loved Garrett the way I did. But Colby’s comments did make me wonder why Garrett
never brought me home to meet his family. But Garrett just kept finding excuses, telling me his dad (the senator) was traveling, or his mom was getting a facelift or bringing school supplies to underprivileged youth in Guatemala or some other rich-person-helping-the-world thing like that—and it just never worked out.
“Finally, about eight months into our relationship, I was supposed to go to a concert with Sarah for her birthday, but she came down with the stomach flu. So I decided to use the opportunity to give Garrett a sexy surprise at his apartment.
“When Garrett opened his apartment door, I clutched my trench coat, intending to rip it open and flash him my birthday suit underneath, when I glimpsed a beautiful brunette over his shoulder inside his apartment. She was sitting at a candlelit table-for-two, a vase of red roses at its center—something Garrett had never once set up for me. Even from a distance, I could see a large, sparkling cross around her neck. And when she moved her hand to her mouth in surprise, something twinkled brightly on her finger in the candlelight.
“Instantly, every doubt and concern I’d stuffed down and reasoned away for months—and every single word Colby had said to me—came slamming into me full-force. In a flash, I knew that pretty, demure girl in Garrett’s apartment was his girlfriend—and maybe even his fiancée if I was reading that flash on her hand correctly—and I knew with every fiber of my being that he’d already said those three little ‘trite’ words to her, the ones I’d longed to hear him say to me. Motherfucker.
“When I tore out of there, sobbing, Garrett followed me, explaining to the back of my head that Maggie’s father was some lah-de-dah über-wealthy businessman who’d invented air freight or some shit like that and she was a really sweet girl from his church back home and well-connected and, he said with utmost reverence, Maggie was saving herself for marriage. At that last statement, I whirled around to face Garrett, my mouth hanging open, my heart shattering. ‘Are you calling me a slut?’ I asked. He didn’t reply, which was reply enough. ‘I thought you loved me,’ I said, wiping away the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘I thought you wanted to marry me one day.’ And do you know what that motherfucker did? He chuckled at the thought of marrying me. And then he said, ‘Come on, Kat, you’re a great girl—super fun—but you’re just not marriage material.’”
I sit and stare at the screen for a minute, tears streaming down my cheeks. Man, those words from Garrett still cut me to the core. I wipe my tears and place my fingers on my keyboard again, but I can’t see well enough to type yet. I can’t believe I’m letting The Asshole get to me, even to this day. But I can’t help it. The pain of getting blindsided like that never fully goes away, I guess.
“I’ve never told anyone (except Sarah) what The Asshole said to me that night,” I finally type. “I’ve always been too embarrassed and ashamed, I guess. I didn’t even tell Colby what Garrett said. All I told him was, ‘You were right.’
“And yet now I’m telling you,” I write. “Why? Honestly, I don’t fucking know.”
I have to stop typing for another minute. I’m too emotional. Why the hell am I baring my obviously pathetic soul to Josh like this? Is getting his stupid application really this frickin’ important to me?
No, it’s not. I don’t care about his application right now. Writing this to Josh isn’t about me getting his stupid application anymore. This is about something much bigger than that.
I wipe my eyes again. I’m veering way off track here. Have I even answered this particular question yet? I’m not sure. I re-read the question at the top of the page again. Oh yes.
“So that’s pretty much the story of my ex-boyfriends,” I write. “Besides those three guys, I’ve dated plenty of guys for a few months here or there and had sex with a truckload besides that, as I’ve mentioned, but no one serious enough to bring home.”
I glance up at the question I’m supposedly answering again. Oh, yes. Okay.
“As far as blood tests,” I write, “I’ll submit to any kind of testing you require (as long as it doesn’t involve math). But in the interest of saving time, let me just tell you what the testing would reveal: I’m clean. About two months ago, when I went in to get a new prescription of birth control pills, I got tested. And even though I’m on the pill, I insist on condoms every single time I have sex, no exceptions, unless I’m in a committed relationship and the guy’s been tested. (But, hey, like I say, if you require formal medical testing before my application can be approved, then I’ll sign or do whatever you request.)”
Sexual orientation? Please choose from the following options: Straight, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, other?
“Straight. But in the interest of full disclosure, I should inform you I made out with a girl during my senior year in college. It’s a long story that can be summarized as follows: Truth or Dare combined with Ecstasy combined with a pervy boyfriend (hers) can lead a girl to do anything once. I can honestly say the experience didn’t cause me to question my sexual orientation whatsoever. In fact, it wasn’t nearly as hot as it sounds, I’m sorry to say. But, regardless, I’m definitely straight.”
Do any of your sexual fantasies include violence of any nature? If so, please describe in detail.
I sit and think. Well, jeez. I have lots and lots of fantasies, for sure, some of them pretty darn elaborate, but do any of them involve actual violence? No.
I place my hands on the keyboard and begin typing. “I have lots and lots of fantasies—it’s kind of a thing with me,” I write. “And not a single one of them involves actual violence. However, a couple of my fantasies involve the threat of violence, but only as a backdrop to setting the scene. For instance, I’ve got a bodyguard fantasy that only makes sense if there are bad guys coming to get me, or else why the heck do I have a bodyguard? (And to answer the question that’s just popped into your head, no, I didn’t have sex with any of the bodyguards Jonas hired to protect me from The Club.)”
I smirk to myself. Sure, I almost had sex with Derek the Bodyguard, but Josh doesn’t need to know that.
I begin typing again.
“The threat of violence is also prevalent in another one of my fantasies, one in which I’m held captive by a sex-slave-master. The sex-slave master absconds with me one night and forces me to be his slave, but he never actually hurts me. And, also, in regards to violence, a second sex-slave-master comes to steal me away from the first, but my original captor fights the other bad guy to the death and protects me (which kinda turns this scenario into yet another bodyguard fantasy, doesn’t it?).”
I stare at my screen. Holy What the Fuck Am I Doing, Batman? I can’t write all this shit to Josh. He’s gonna think I’m a freaking loon, which I am. I’ve never told anyone about the elaborate, imaginary pornos bouncing around in my head. What if Josh reads all this and decides I’m too much of a freak? Or worse, that, based on this stuff, we’re not sexually compatible? That would be pretty soul crushing.
I let my fingers hover over my keyboard again, trying to decide what to do.
Fuck it. Better to be completely honest and get rejected for who I really am than to hide myself and make him like me. Like my new favorite singer, Audra Mae, said in her powerful song, better to be The Real Thing, for better or worse.
Are you a current practitioner of BDSM and/or does BDSM interest you? If so, describe in explicit detail.
“I am not a current practitioner of BDSM,” I write. “As I’ve described above, the idea of being tied up as part of my ‘captive’ fantasy interests me—although, I should tell you, I’m not turned on by the idea of being physically harmed in any way.”
Shit. I hope that last part’s not a deal-breaker with Josh. Goddamn, I wish I knew what Josh wrote in his freaking application.
Payment and Membership Terms. Please choose from the following options: One Year Membership, $250,000 USD; Monthly Membership, $30,000 USD. All payments are non-refundable. No exceptions.
“I’d like a one-month membership, please,” I write. “I don’t have
$30,000 to pay you for your services, unfortunately—but, hopefully, you’ll find it in your heart to waive your membership fee (or maybe accept services in lieu of payment, heehee?).”
Please provide a detailed explanation about what compelled you to seek membership in The (Josh Faraday) Club.
“I wanna get in your pants.”
I chuckle to myself. That’d be funny if I left it at that. But I’m not going for funny. I’m going for full-scale nuclear decimation of this man.
“Remember how you accused me of dripping down my thigh in that hallway after Reed’s party?” I write. “And remember how I scoffed and said it was just pool water trickling down my leg? Well, I lied. I was dripping down my thigh for you, just like you said. Before witnessing your muscled, tattooed body in that hallway, I was already quite fond of masturbation, I must admit—but ever since I saw you in that hallway, Josh, I’ve taken self-love to an art form. I want you so badly I’m in pain, desperate to feel your hard-on sliding deep inside me.
“But I’m not gonna give in to my desire for you without seeing your motherfucking application first. Why? Because it’s not about the application anymore, Josh. It’s about something bigger than that. I don’t want Happy Josh. I want Real Josh. And I’m willing to show you the real Katherine Ulla Morgan to get him.