by Meghan Quinn
“Really?” I asked while looking at his phone in fascination.
Once the app was open, a picture of a female came up on his phone. She was wearing a bikini and had some of the biggest breasts I had ever seen.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Is she one of your girls?”
“No.” He laughed. “But if I swipe saying I like her, and she says the same about me, it’s a match, and we can communicate with each other through the app. Send text messages, possibly hook up.”
“Yea, I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“You’re definitely not.” He smiled while texting on his phone.
“Are you writing her? What happened to Tasha, your college sweetheart?”
Sweetheart was far from the truth. Henry never really had a relationship. The closest thing that came to a relationship was Tasha, and they were off and on between his other random hookups.
“Tasha is out. She got too clingy, plus, it was a match with this girl, and I’m down for some big jugs.”
“Ugh, you’re a pig.” I turned to Delaney as Henry laughed and said, “What’s my next option?”
With a giant smile on her face, Delaney said, “Online dating.”
“Yes.” Henry fist-pumped the air while finishing his text. He grabbed his tablet off the coffee table, and started typing away. “Minglingsingles.com here we come.”
“Oh good pick,” Delaney said. “She won’t get too many creepers on that website.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Henry said. It seemed like Henry’s displeasure with me not confiding in him wore off because he was in full-on Henry helping mode. Typical Henry, it was one of the many reasons I loved him.
Within minutes, he had a profile up and ready for me to fill out with a picture of me from our graduation. I was wearing a red polka-dot dress, my red glasses, black heels, and was blowing a kiss at the camera.
“Don’t use that picture,” I said, trying to grab the tablet from him, but he was too quick and spun away. “Guys will get the wrong idea from that picture.”
“And what idea would that be?” he asked with a snarky smile.
“That I’m loose . . .” The minute the words left my mouth, I realized what I was saying. “Ugh, never mind. Do what you need to do to get me, um . . . some action.”
If I was going to do this, if I was going to try to fulfill my dream of writing a romance novel, I had to start becoming more comfortable with talking about sex.
“That a girl.” Delaney nudged my shoulder. “Before you know it, you’ll to be going at it just like Derk and me.”
“Yea. By the way, can you keep the screams to a minimum?” Henry asked without looking up from his tablet. “I don’t need a boner over hearing you having sex.”
“Awww,” Delaney dragged out, clearly pleased. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
“Gross, you get boners from hearing Delaney have sex?”
He shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing. “It just happens. Doesn’t mean I want Delaney. No offense,” he said apologetically. “I’m a guy, I get a boner over side boob, so anything can turn me on, really.”
“Interesting,” I thought to myself. I really needed to start reading more erotic, modern novels, because the fluffy stories my mom introduced me to were not teaching me half the stuff I needed to know. I needed a Kindle.
“All right, you’re all set. Your username is your email and your password is ‘takemyflower’. All one word.” Oh how subtle. Insert eye roll.
“Clever,” I said sarcastically, as I took the tablet from him and looked over my profile. “What now?”
“The system will match you with someone, and you can talk online. If you find some interest, you can go on dates. Pretty simple,” Henry explained.
“Do I search for guys?”
“They will come to you.” Henry laughed. “Just relax for now and let things happen.”
“This will be great.” Delaney clapped her hands together. “Make sure to keep a journal of everything you go through, including your feelings, because you’re going to want to refer back to your experiences. Oh, this is like an experiment,” Delaney said with a little too much excitement in her voice.
“Glad I can entertain you, but if you two don’t mind, I think I’m going to get back to my writing.”
Henry cringed and said, “Hold off on the briar patch for now.”
“Do we need to go over lady-scaping?” Delaney asked with a brow raised.
“No, I’ve got that handled. Since freshman year when you called me out in the gym.” Another disservice my mother did to me.
“Well, don’t be sporting a bush . . .”
“Delaney, please,” I pleaded while Henry laughed.
“Ah, Rosie, I love you,” he said, pulling me into his chest and kissing me on the head. “Those traditional parents of yours really did a number on you. Do they still sleep in separate beds?”
I nodded, as I thought about my parents who were stuck in the fifties. They had separate beds, believed in the man providing for the family and women tending to the home, as well as never speaking of intercourse, hence my disconnect with the whole concept. Although, my mom was very fond of matchmaking.
The only reason I had a fascination with the genre I read was because of my mom and her secret novels she kept under her bed. They used words like “sex” to describe a lady’s genitals and “sword” for a man’s penis. Those novels were my only windows to the crazy world of sex. Although, thanks to Delaney’s screams, and Henry’s enthusiastic ladies, I knew sex was not a quiet affair.
Feeling energized and apprehensive at the same time, I said good night to my roommates and headed for my room, hoping someone on the website would find me attractive, and maybe even take me out to dinner. Even though I was inexperienced with the opposite sex, I still craved a relationship, a man’s touch, a kiss. It was something I sorely missed in my life, and Delaney and Henry were right. Maybe once I experienced the real deal, I’d be able to put more emotion into my writing and actually make a name for myself . . . other than Cat Crap Extraordinaire.
Chapter Two
The Virgin Bullet
“I swear to God, if you don’t stop licking yourself I’m going to take that sandpaper tongue of yours and snip it off with a pair of scissors. And you know what, I’ll enjoy doing it, too,” I shouted to Sir Licks-a-Lot, the orange tabby who insisted upon hanging out in my office around one every day for his bath regimen.
“What did I tell you about talking to the cats?” Jenny, my coworker, asked as she stood in my doorway. “It’s not healthy, Rosie.”
“Nothing about this office is healthy,” I said while conducting a nonsensical stare down with Sir Licks-a-Lot. “Stop staring at me with your tongue half out. It’s creepy.”
As if he owned my office and everything in it, he sat up straight while maintaining eye contact, puffed his chest out, and then yacked up a hair ball . . . right on my desk.
“Ick, gross,” I complained as I backed away from the orange puke ball.
With a smarmy look on his face, he lifted his paw, wiped his mouth, and then jumped off my desk, a prideful gait in his step.
“Did you see that?” I asked Jenny who was leaning against the wall laughing at me. “I think he gave me the middle finger while wiping his mouth.”
“Cat’s don’t have fingers,” Jenny corrected between giggles.
“Middle claw then. He gave me something, that’s for sure.”
“Are you going to clean that up?” Jenny asked while plopping into one of the cat-scratched chairs in front of my desk.
“Nope, planned on saving it for dinner,” I stated sarcastically.
“You’re disgusting.”
I grabbed a Wet-Nap from my desk—I kept a stockpile of them in there for this very reason—cleaned up the hairball, and threw it into my trash can, hating every aspect of my life in the process.
Deflated, I leaned back in my chair and said, “Don’t you get tired of
being in this office? The cats are starting to drive me insane. This can’t be sanitary.”
“Hey, just be happy you’re not an intern whose duties are feeding the cats, grooming the cats, and making sure the litter boxes are always clean in the shit room.”
The shit room.
I’d only been in there once, and it was during a tour of the office on my first day. The offensive cat pee smell was so awful I haven’t gone near the room since. The shit room was where all the litter boxes were, and I wasn’t talking about the little tray litter boxes. I’m talking litter boxes the size of a ship from Battlestar Galactica. They were perched on different shelves and different levels of the room. It was an intern’s nightmare.
“How do we hold interns for so long?”
“Desperate college students,” Jenny replied while looking at her nails. “They will do anything to get an in with a print magazine these days, even if it means being a walking scratch post.”
“That reminds me, did a shipment of cat emery boards come in for me? I’m supposed to do some kind of exposé on them but haven’t received the box.”
“Not that I know of, but I can ask Susan. She’s the one who handles the UPS shipments. Did you see her outfit the other day? She was in full-on slutty grandma mode.”
Susan was our receptionist, a certifiable crazy cat lady herself, who had a major crush on the UPS man. Whenever she knew he was coming in she donned her red lipstick, which always wound up on her teeth; her blue eye shadow, which was sixty years too young for her; and a low-cut top, which always caused havoc with her old-lady bras.
“I didn’t. I was interviewing a shelter downtown. What was she wearing?”
Jenny leaned forward and looked over her shoulder at Susan who was picking at her teeth with a toothpick. In a hushed voice she said, “She had on a Hannah Montana shirt with a low-cut neckline that she must have created herself and a pair of purple pleather pants.”
“I don’t think I can believe you right now,” I said, trying to hold in my laughter.
Jenny pulled out her phone and showed me a candid picture of Susan talking to the UPS man. Her belly was hanging out the front of her clothing and lipstick caressed the front tips of her teeth.
“Oh my God”—I covered my mouth—“that is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I was about to grab the phone for a closer look when Sir Licks-a-Lot jumped on my desk, starling us both and started using my keyboard as a scratch post.
“Eh, get out of here. Pssst!” I tried to shoo him away.
He scrambled off my desk but not before popping off the “D” on my keyboard and taking it with him.
“That little bastard,” I yelled as he scurried out the door but not before smiling back at me with the “D” in his mouth. “He now has my D and E. How the hell am I supposed to write upcoming cat articles in an environment like this?”
Shaking her head and laughing, Jenny said, “He only hates you. You know that, right?”
“I stepped on his tail once. Accidently. Is he going to hold that against me for my entire life?”
“Pretty sure he is. Hey, what do you suppose he’s trying to spell?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, he has your D and E, so he must be trying to spell something.”
“Probably ‘die, bitch, die,” I joked. Mainly joked.
“He would need too many ‘i’s for that.”
“Well, let me know if you see other keyboards being scratched to death, so we can try to break his code before he acts.”
“Will do,” Jenny said with a smile. “So, I came in here to ask you something.”
“Oh, no. I don’t like that look on your face.”
Jenny held up her hand and said, “Before you say no, please hear me out. I know you’re not into the whole blind date thing, but I know this guy who would be perfect for you.”
“Jenny . . .” I drawled out.
I dated, but I never blind dated. I wasn’t really into the possible awkward moment where you meet the blind date and see that not only is he a foot shorter than you were told, but he also had a pet pimple on his chin that winked at you every time he smiled.
“Before you say no, he’s not like Marcus.”
Marcus was the last guy she set me up with, the chin-pimple winker.
“He’s Drew’s friend and is new to town. We said we would take him out to have some fun and thought you’d like to go with us. We’re going swing dancing . . .”
Damn her, damn her to hell. She knew I loved swing dancing, and it was very rare I went because I’d never found a partner . . . one that was semi-decent.
“He knows how to swing dance?”
“Some call him Fred Astaire,” Jenny said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“You thought Marcus looked like Andy Garcia, when in real life he looked like Pee-wee Herman, so excuse me if I don’t completely trust your opinion.”
“I told you, I was drunk when I first met Marcus, okay? I had my tequila goggles on. I apologized for that. Can we move on now?”
“Fine. When do you want to go out?” I asked, feeling apprehensive but somewhat excited about a possible date.
“This Friday,” she squealed while clapping her hands.
Thinking about my options, I nodded my head and pointed my finger at her before she got too excited. “Don’t make this a big deal. I’m only going because I haven’t been swing dancing in a while.”
“Eeeeee,” she squealed again, still clapping and bouncing her feet up and down. “You’re going on a date.”
“You exhaust me.” I pointed to her to leave. “I have to finish this article if I want to get out of here at a decent hour and before Sir Licks-a-lot comes back to plot my death.”
Nodding, she got up and clasped her hands by her chest. “You’re going to love Atticus.”
“Atticus?” I asked, but she left before she could answer my question.
Just from his name I was already starting to feel nervous about Friday and who this Atticus might be. Jenny, bless her heart, had great intentions, but her blind dates were usually picked up from the corner of Creepy Court and Loser Lane—but that was because they were usually her boyfriend’s friends, who wasn’t a winner himself . . . not that I should judge. I’d been on a handful of dates. I’m the friend, never the girlfriend, and I was okay with that until I realized I was twenty-three, still a virgin, and as sexually inexperienced as a tween with One Direction posters scouring her walls.
I finished my work, avoided the stares of Sir Licks-a-lot and his posse, who seemed to be crowding in the corner, writing a game plan on the wall with their nails while passing around a ball of catnip. I instantly felt nervous for my keyboard and prayed it made it through the night.
As I took the subway home, I thought about my life situation. I was currently being bullied by a twenty-pound tabby cat with the devil in his eyes; my job, which paid the bills, was horrifying to have on my résumé as a real-life job; and my sex life was non-existent. I needed a change big time.
I should be out perusing the sexual dating pot of the overeager gentlemen and horny homies New York City had to offer instead of dating my book boyfriends . . . even though they were the only men who truly satisfied me. They were perfect.
The eclectic people of the subway flowed in and out of the train, listening to music on their phones, texting, and some were even making out in the corner. Being the pervert I was, I watched the couple making out in fascination, how their hands ran up and down each other’s bodies, how they barely came up to breathe . . . I want that.
I wanted to know what it was like to stick my tongue down a guy’s throat. I wanted to know what it looked like to see a boner in action, instead of reading about it. If I’m going to get out of the crazy cat lady life I’m living and finally write the romance novel I’d been working on for years, I needed to experience life. I needed to have sex.
With renewed vigor, I walked from the subway to my apartment. I was go
ing to make a game plan on how to lose my virginity. Delaney was right; I needed to start experimenting, getting myself out there and taking notes, because when I was finally ready to have a man bee pollinate my flower, I wanted to remember everything about it.
Dropping my purse on the side table, I grabbed some water from the fridge and went to my bedroom where there was a little gift bag on my bed with a note. I closed my door and flopped on my bed, wondering what one of my roommates left me. I opened the card and read it out loud.
“Time to find your big ‘O.’ Love you, Henry.”
Confused, I dug through the bag and pulled out a little pink nugget—the size of a bullet—and a Kindle that had a note on it saying it was fully stocked. My heart fluttered from the gift of books, but then I observed the nugget, wondering what it was.
“What the hell?”
I twisted it in my hand and it started vibrating, making my cheeks flame with embarrassing heat.
Oh.
My.
God.
Henry bought me a vibrator. A vibrator. What the hell was I supposed to do with a vibrator?
“Henry?” I called out to the apartment with the bullet in my hand, looking for my roommates. I went to Henry’s room where there was a note hanging on the door.
Rosie – won’t be home until late tonight. Turn down the lights, get naked, and have some fun. Love you – Henry P.S. I hope I loaded some good books. I picked all the ones with half-naked men on the front. Thought those would be inspiring.
“Oh my God, I hate him. How humiliating.” I stormed back to my bedroom and slammed my door.
I tossed the bullet in the bag but left the Kindle on my nightstand, still giddy about that gift but irritated about the other. I went to my desk where I pulled out a fresh notebook and wrote, “My Sex Diary” on the front. Feeling already accomplished with my progress, I opened the notebook and started writing.
June 2, 2018
I saw a couple making out on the subway today . . .
For at least five minutes, I sat and stared at my first journal entry, not knowing what else to write.