The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

by Meghan Quinn

  I felt too abused to even stop her so I just curled up against the bed, with my ass in the air, trying to find my happy place where unicorns frolicked in glittering fields of donuts and cherry trees.

  It wasn’t until I got home and sat on my bed, mind whirling from what I just went through, that I finally came out of the fog that I was in, that brutally Marta put me in.

  The comfort of my room encased me as I stared at the ground, wondering if I would ever feel my nether regions again. I was too scared to look at what Marta did to me, and to say I was on fire down below was an understatement.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked to my dresser, grabbed a pair of short shorts and a big shirt, and started to take off my clothes to get ready for bed. Early. I was in no mood to talk to my roommates.

  Henry tried to talk to us when we got back, but I went straight to my room and shut my door, not even talking to Delaney. I’d never felt so torn apart in my life, so openly massacred from the waist down. There had to be skin missing; there was no doubt in my mind I would be needing some extra vitamins to repair whatever damage was caused down below. If Delaney wanted to prolong my virginity, she hit the mark because right now, no penis was getting close to my vagina.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled down my pants and then my boy shorts. My eyes lifted to the mirror in front of me and I nearly screamed from the sight in the reflection.

  I was completely bare, but in place of hair, there were a million red bumps all over my skin. I squatted to the ground, spread my legs, and looked in the mirror. From my belly button to my ass was a line of red bumps across my skin that led to a rather white-looking asshole.

  “Holy fuck,” I said, not caring about my language one bit.

  “Rosie? You in there?” Delaney called out, knocking this time.

  “Don’t come in here,” I yelled back.

  “Rosie, I have some cream for you to put on your vagina; it should help with the pain.”

  I put my shorts on quickly and then went to the door. I whipped it open and gave Delaney my best death glare.

  “You have cream to help with the pain?” Anger seeped out of me, turning me into a hysterical heroine. I motioned jaggedly at my nether regions, “Do you happen to have any cream to help with my newly paved red brick road that leads to the wizard of bleached white assholes?”

  Delaney’s mouth dropped open as she glanced at my crotch.

  “You bleached your asshole?”

  “Yeah, and it looks like fucking Saturn in the middle of a red-colored meteor shower. What the hell, Delaney?”

  A small smile tried to peek past her lips but she was wise enough to tamp it down before I slapped it right off her face.

  “I never told you to bleach your asshole.”

  “You got your asshole bleached?” Henry asked as he walked by, stopping mid-stride when he heard bleach and asshole in the same sentence.

  “I didn’t want to. Marta made me.”

  “Who’s Marta?”

  “The she-devil who did this to me,” I stated while pulling my shorts down just enough to show some of the red bumps.

  “Oh my God,” Delaney said while Henry cringed in the background and took off for his room, clearly knowing when he wasn’t needed. “You must have had an allergic reaction to the wax.”

  “You think?” It felt like lava was erupting out of my belly button and burning my skin on its way down. “What do I do?”

  “Sit on ice?” Delaney shrugged. Actually, that might help, but I wouldn’t give her credit for that answer.

  I pointed at her before closing my door and said, “I don’t like you right now.”

  “Fair enough,” she said through the wood. “You’ll thank me in a couple of days . . .”

  “That’s if I don’t murder you in your sleep.”

  I walked to my bed and plugged in my phone. Thank her. Was she serious? I nearly lost every sexual organ from my body today and I was supposed to thank her? Pretty sure Marta almost ripped out my uterus at one point, so there was no way I would be thanking Delaney.

  I grabbed my journal and started writing.

  June 3, 2018

  Don’t trust anyone named Marta, especially if they wear knee-high stockings and spread your legs as if it’s second nature. If only she accidently got a little wax on that unibrow of hers that seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Brazilian wax. More like fuck you in the ass wax because that’s what it felt like. Not that I would know, but I assumed that’s what it felt like. There was no way what happened to me was legal, and there’s a reason they keep those rooms dark and full of music, because they don’t want you to really get a good look at the technicians or hear what they’re saying. It’s all a conspiracy. There’s probably some lab in the back where they turn pubic hair into some kind of black market drug. It’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why these ladies take pride in ripping sensitive hair off a woman. Where’s the solidarity?

  I understand you’re supposed to present a pretty muffin to your man, but is a Brazilian really necessary? Why isn’t a trim sufficient?

  Note to self: see what it takes to become a wax technician. Payback is a bitch, Marta, and I’m coming after you.

  I set my notebook to the side and got under my covers just as I received a text.

  Henry.

  Henry: Sorry about your red brick road, love. At least you have the great and powerful asshole sitting between your two cheeks, so that’s something to be proud of. There’s no place like between your legs. There’s no place like between your legs, said while clicking your pussy lips together.

  Shaking my head and laughing, I sent a text back to my very nosey best friend.

  Rosie: Have I told you how much I hate you?

  Henry: Don’t lie, love. You love me and you know it. Feel better. You have to be in top condition for swing dancing on Friday. Big date night!

  Rosie: Yeah, let’s just see if I can make it through the night without clawing my vagina off from all the itching.

  Henry: Your vagina actually just sent me a text. It said I should come over and rub some soothing lotion on it.

  Rosie: Would that be with your dick?”

  Henry: Whoa! Randy Rosie, I like it! Offer still stands if you need it. Love you, Rosie.

  Rosie: Love you, Henry. Now leave me alone.

  Chapter Five

  The Backdoor Ball Sac

  “I’m almost there. I’ll be sure to let you know how giant a Maine Coon really is,” I reassured Jenny who wanted more than anything to be working on assignment with me today.

  “You know that’s not what I want to know. I want to know what it’s like working with Lance. God, he’s gorgeous. You’re so lucky.”

  “Now you want the Maine Coon piece? Not my fault you turned it down,” I said while opening the door to the studio where the photo shoot would be taking place. I had to conduct an interview with a family who owned the now popular, Baboo, who was a YouTube sensation. Since no one else wanted to interview the family, I was stuck with the task. But once Jenny found out the photographer taking the pictures for the magazine was Lance, she did everything possible to “ease the burden” the article was creating for me. I didn’t believe her for a second. Even though she was with Drew, she still had a wondering eye for Lance, not that she would do anything. She was all about looking and never touching.

  “I didn’t know Lance was going to be there,” she whined.

  “Not my problem and don’t forget about Drew. He’s a nice guy.” Well, I know she thinks that anyway.

  “Trust me, I won’t forget about Drew. Take a picture at least for me.”

  “I’m not taking a picture of La—”

  “Hi Rosie,” a deep male voice said from behind me.

  “Oh my God, that’s him, isn’t it?” Jenny squealed like a tween in the middle of a concert.

  “Got to go,” I said while hanging up. Taking a deep breath, I turned around and came face to face with Lance McCarthy.


  The thick black rim of his glasses framed his deep blue eyes, and his light brown hair was styled with a little bit of gel so you could see those tiny curls of his. And that body of his? Sigh. He was drop-dead gorgeous, especially in his light blue shirt and a gray cardigan. Yes, a damn cardigan. It wasn’t very often you saw a guy who could pull off a cardigan, especially not with muscles like his.

  “Um. Hi, Lance. How are you?”

  “Good.” He nodded, looked around, and then met my eyes again. “You look pretty today. Are those new glasses?”

  I thought of my purple glasses and nodded. “Yea, I got them a couple weeks ago.”

  “They make your eyes really stand out.” I’d inherited my blue eyes from my mom, and it was probably one of the few genetic traits I was thankful for when it came to her.

  “Thanks,” I said shyly.

  I had only worked with Lance one other time, and I really hadn’t thought he’d noticed me since we didn’t talk much. We did our jobs and then took off, so his compliment truly surprised me.

  “You ready for this?” he asked with a smirk, nodding toward the photo shoot.

  “Taking pictures of a cat and asking it questions? Pretty sure I’ll never be ready for this,” I joked.

  Laughing, he looked around and then leaned forward. “I’m glad you’re on set with me today. Sometimes Friendly Felines sends these stage-five clingers that won’t let me take my pictures and leave.”

  “I get what you’re saying. You want to be in and out.” I winked. Where did that come from? Dare I say, I’m flirting?

  Smiling brightly, he nodded. “You get me, Rosie. That’s why I’m glad you’re here, and also because I wanted to talk to you some more. I felt like last time we worked together, we barely had a chance to talk.”

  Mr. Professional Hot Pants wanted to talk to me? That was a new shift in my life.

  “What photo shoot was that again?” I asked, trying to not show how out of my element I was. It was rare I talked to men, let alone casually flirt.

  “The exposé on litter box best practices,” he said with a smile.

  I shook my head and grasped my forehead with my hand. “God, I need a new job.”

  He laughed again, and I really liked his laugh. “But then you wouldn’t be able to meet up with me.”

  “True. Do you like doing these articles?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “These little photo shoots are all right, but I stay because most of the time, I get to go to some pretty cool places, and if I have to take pictures of cats in litter boxes on occasion, it’s worth it.”

  “Where do you get to go?”

  “Lance, can we get some test shots?” one of the production assistants asked.

  “Be right over,” Lance called over his shoulder before returning his gaze to me. “I want to talk some more. Go out with me Saturday?”

  Was he serious right now? Go out with him? Jenny’s boobs would flip inside out if I told her I had a date with Lance. He seemed way out of my league but he was hot, sweet, and talented, so I would be stupid to say no, especially with my new goal in life.

  “That sounds like fun,” I replied.

  A big smile crossed his face, as if he was relieved to know that I would go out with him.

  “Don’t leave this set without giving me your phone number, okay?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” I smiled as he pinched my chin with his index finger and thumb and then took off toward the set with his camera in his hand.

  Sighing, I watched his jean-clad butt sway away. He really was beyond good-looking. Needing to tell someone, I pulled out my phone and texted Delaney. I would be telling Jenny my news in person, just so I could relish in the look on her face.

  Rosie: Delaney!! I have a date on Saturday with this really hot photographer.

  Her text back was almost instantaneous.

  Delaney: Rosie, I love you, but what kind of hot photographer do you meet at a photo shoot for a cat that likes to lick his own crotch while balancing on a ball?

  That was Baboo’s number-one trick. He was Baboo, the ball-licking balancer. Or is he a balancing ball-licker? Either way, entertainment for the masses had really gone downhill.

  Needing to prove that not only frumpy people—excluding Jenny and me, of course—worked for cat magazines, I pulled up my camera app on my phone and acted like I was texting but secretly took a picture of Lance as proof that I wasn’t crazy.

  Like a dumbass, I forgot to turn off my camera light though, so when it flashed brightly at Lance and the assistant, I naturally fumbled my phone out of embarrassment and dropped it.

  Right into a litter box.

  “You okay over there?” he asked with a smile that said he knew exactly what I was doing.

  “Yup,” I called out while grabbing my phone and dusting it off. Don’t look at them for the love of God, turn around.

  Back toward Hot Lance, I checked out the picture I attempted to secretly take and came up quite disappointed. Instead of Mr. Tight Buns, I ended up with a grotesque picture of my thumb. Marvelous.

  “If you wanted a pic, you could have just asked,” Lance said next to my ear, making me jump.

  “Christ! I, umm, I wasn’t taking a picture of you.” Did you smell that? It was my pants on fire . . .

  “Liar.” Scooting in close, he grabbed my phone and turned the camera in our direction. His long arm stretched out in front of us and his head lined up with mine. “Smile,” he whispered as he took a picture. “Now send that one to your friends and let me know if they approve.”

  I awkwardly giggled. “Will do.” I nodded and waved like a dingus as Lance took off.

  Avoiding all eye contact with the man, I kept my back turned away from him as I sent the picture to Delaney. I was mortified but also pleased I had a picture to share with my friends.

  Rosie: He’s hot, and we have a date for Saturday.

  Delaney: Holy shit! Rosie, you sure know how to pick them. He’s gorgeous. Are his glasses real?

  Rosie: I think so, why wouldn’t they be?

  Delaney: Hipsters. Their glasses are always an accessory not a necessity.

  Rosie: Pretty sure they’re real.

  Delaney: Ask him.

  Rosie: I’m not going to ask him. That would be such a stupid question, and I’m trying to keep my date for Saturday. I kind of like this guy.

  Delaney: What about Atticus? Rosie Bloom, are you playing the field?

  Was I?

  If I thought about it, I guess I was. I didn’t have any real commitments to anyone, and if I wanted to write a solid book, I’d have to get a lot of experience with men, all different kinds, so why not have some fun while I could?

  Rosie: Possibly. P.S. That’s a book title: Playing the Field. Amazing series about some hot baseball players.

  Delaney: You’re annoying.

  “Rosie, we’re ready for you,” someone called out while an excited couple and a less-than excited Baboo walked onto the set.

  Reaching for my notebook, I took a deep breath and walked over to the couple. They were wearing matching blue Baboo shirts, khaki pants, and smelled of tuna and cheese. Baboo looked like he was about to throat-punch me; he wasn’t having any of it. This was going to be one hell of an interview.

  “Thank you so much for your time,” I said to Baboo’s people. “Baboo is such a friendly feline.” I knew it was a must to use the magazine’s tagline. I gagged saying it, but it was a requirement. My boss thought it was a good way to connect with the owners of our “stars.” I thought it was a load of crap.

  “We can’t tell you how much that makes us happy. We’ve been lifelong subscribers and can’t believe that our little Baboo is finally going to be a featured friendly feline. I can literally die happy.”

  And I believed every word from the woman who was staring at me with crazy in her eyes and rabid foam in the crease of her mouth. Only the cat people could really draw you in with their crazy, convincing you they were kind people, when in
real life they just wanted to take you back to their lair and use you as a scratching post. I wasn’t falling for it.

  “I’ll be sure to email you the pictures and article. We appreciate your time.” I looked over at Baboo whose ears were flattened and his lip quivering as if saying, “If you don’t get me out of here soon, I’m going to go feral feline on you.”

  “Safe ride home.” I patted Baboo, who was seconds away from slitting his own throat.

  The couple left, practically floating away on cloud nine. It always fascinated me how much people were obsessed with their animals. I liked a good four-legged friend every now and then, but not to the point where I thought they were my child and if I could, I’d breastfeed them three times a day. That’s the impression I got from Baboo’s parents.

  As I packed up my notebook and recorder, I felt Lance’s gaze land on me a few times while he packed up as well. He should have left a while ago, but he took a long time gathering his things. He actually stayed and looked through the pictures with the couple, something he didn’t do at our last shoot, but then again, it’s not like he was going to share his pictures with the different-sized litter boxes starring in the last article.

  “Are you leaving now?” he called out as I swung my purse on my shoulder. “Without even giving me your number?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.” I turned and smiled at him.

  He was sitting on one of his bins with a crooked smile on his face and his arms crossed over his expansive chest. He looked divine, and I wasn’t sure if it was my newfound ambition or the fact that my vagina could now see past the cloud of curls. I was starting to get all tingly inside from a mere interaction with a man. Did this mean my sexual being had awakened? Was that even a thing?

  I walked over to him and put out my hand. He looked at it in confusion, wondering if he was supposed to put his hand in mine.

  “Hand it over.”

  “Hand what over?” he asked, still confused.

  “Your phone, so I can put my number in it and you can do the same,” I said, holding out my phone.