by Hart, Romi
"It looks like I might have been wrong about never seeing Marc again. He's picking me up tomorrow." Saying the words out loud sent a wave of excitement roiling through her, dread on its heels. This was a terrible idea, and she considered dialing him back and canceling. But she wasn't a coward, and if she was honest with herself, Reesa had to admit Kylie hit the nail on the head when she talked about chemistry.
And this time, she wouldn’t have to worry about being a one-night-stand. Two dates made a difference, right? At least, that’s what she told herself.
Kylie practically bounced up and down. “I can’t believe this is happening! Come on, we’re going shopping.”
“Kylie, I haven’t even finished my dinner. And it’s just a game…” She stopped trying as her friend dumped their food in the trash and gathered their purses from the hooks on the wall. They’d eaten early, and the stores would remain open for hours still. When Kylie got something like this in her head, there was no talking her out of it. Reluctantly, she followed her friend out the door, locking it behind her and suddenly wondering just what she should wear to an event like this.
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Chapter 1
Maya
A flower is something beautiful and the world resents it. Untarnished, it glimmers with hope. When it’s out of place or unwelcomed, it’s customary for some angry, cynical person to crush it under a strong foot. Shame on the flower for being innocent. Shame on the flower for being damaged. It inspires nothing but lust and greed even in the best of people.
Yet I’m a woman who still cherishes my idealism, especially since believing in something as out of date as flapper hats. Most of my friends despise being a “virginal woman”. I should too…since I’m already twenty-one years old and haven’t even felt more than a long kiss. But I figured out something important from the very first moment I noticed guys staring at my tits:
The more you give it away for free, the less value you have…at least in the eyes of men. Men all want what they can’t have. The moment they take a girl to bed, they start thinking they can do much better. Everything a man does is prompted by horn-dogging and feeling “thirsty”.
But I don’t want to hate them for it. I know how it feels. I know how it feels to have an incurable passion inside…to masturbate and to still feel horny. To touch yourself so much that your clit just becomes numb…and to still want more. I know what it’s like to write an erotic poem and to just want to explain to a handsome stranger why I wrote it.
Of course, I don’t actually go around begging for guys to do me. Call me crazy, I just think that’s low-class. I come from a long line of moms who never begged for anything. Not food, not sex.
And yeah I do get a lot of offers from guys. Well, I guess I should clarify I get a lot of friendly invitations to do dumb things. Dinner with his folks. Square dancing. Once got asked to tag along in a squad car with a police officer.
All of them were perfect gentleman. And I found it very sexy that underneath all their respectable conversation and gentle eyes, they were really asking to plow into my virginity and unload their balls in a strange new place.
That’s the one side of me, the side of me that totally feels like a man, at least when it comes to wanting sex.
But then there’s the other side. The side who still longs for flowers. For romance. The teenager in me that longed to meet a Prince Charming. What is it about romance that’s so different from fucking, anyway? Is it the way he looks, or the kind words he uses? Or is it something else? The emotional bonding of two souls that might comfort in each other, maybe.
I know at some point, everyone’s favorite “little girl”, Maya DeBank will have to do the unthinkable and take a risk. I’m not a saint. I don’t want to stay a virgin for life, or even until marriage. There’s just too much to do in the world. It’s like that song says… “What good is sitting all alone in your room? Life is a…a…”
How does it go? Damn, I can’t remember it. I used to love that song because I learned it as a teenager, right around the time I fell in love with my first fictional character. The Maximilian von Heune, such a sexy guy! Some of that was the actor, but I just loved his dialog…his wild streak. Maybe when I think of romance, I think of a man like that. Someone who just commands the room. He’s not arrogant, per se, but he’s dominant. He knows what he wants. He respects me but not so much that he won’t fuck me if he gets the chance.
What terrible thoughts unbecoming of a virgin! Am I shallow for saying for the FIRST TIME, it has to be a man who knows what he’s doing? A man for whom I don’t have to fake attraction or award pity fuck points because of his sincerity. And I do reserve the right to reject him based on bratty imperfections unbecoming of my fantasy world.
Maybe love isn’t perfectly timed…maybe fantasy is far removed from reality. But for my first time I want the earth to move and shake. I want the mountains to fall and for miracles to happen because I know my value…I know how unique and wonderful I am. And to quote another song, it’s my party, I can cry if I want to!
Sure, and I also know that the moment I lose my virginity, everything special about me will disappear. Maybe that’s what I’m most afraid of. Maybe that’s why I have the right to be a little snotty. Because after that one magical night, I’ll be damaged goods like everyone else.
I want to be special…for as long as possible. Even if it’s all just leading up to one special day. Where I lose it…and when I then realize, life will never get any better than this right now. This is the top of the mountain.
I blink away my anxiety and smile as I notice a man walking closer to me on the sidewalk. I’m walking home from the bus and suddenly very aware of his presence, meaning he’s probably been looking at me for minutes on end. I suppose a young brunette woman of generous proportions and with innocent blue eyes is hard not to notice. I also like wearing quaint clothes from the golden era—the nineteen fifties. Love the old Hollywood look, makes me feel classy. Revered. Today I’m wearing a head scarf and yellow dress combination, with the wavy hair. Why own this moment now? Why not a moment from seventy years ago?
I glance back and smile, noticing a rugged-looking black man tailing me. He’s dressed well, with shades, probably thinking he’s the gangsta rap star of tomorrow. I love it when men are bold, like they can’t help but speak of the sexual tension in the air. He has no problem speeding up his pace to meet me. I even make him wait for eye contact. I make him wait for our eyes to meet.
I won’t make this easy on him. Nor does he expect me to be easy.
“Uh, hi?” I say with a half-smile.
“How’s it going?” he says in a deep voice.
“It’s okay…are you—?”
“You want to get high?”
I laugh in his face but he’s still staring me down.
“Come on, no introduction?”
“My name’s Balzac.”
“Ball Sack? That’s your name?”
“No, Balzac—the writer. The poet. I renamed myself after him. I figured you for a girl who likes poetry. You’re smart.”
“And do you know who I am?”
He smiles gleefully, as if he knows I’m going to fight him…every last moment, until he beds me. That’s what makes it hot for him…and it’s starting to make me hot too.
But alas…
As I stare into his eyes and let him probe me mentally, I still can’t shake the feeling that he’s not the “peak” I’m looking for. Maybe I’ll fall for a guy like him later in life. But for now, he’s still not grabbing hold of my mind and stroking me to new intellectual heights. It’s all body with him. It’s all in the moment. But this isn’t a moment. This is The End. The beginning of The End.
I know he will never understand. Maybe no man will ever understand this type of thinking. But at least they understand the principle behind it.
“Sorry, dude. I don’t smoke and I’m not looking.”
&nbs
p; “Got a boyfriend?”
“No. I’m just not looking.”
“Got to open your mind, girl. Prince Charming is late. Live life while you’re young.”
“I deserve more than free pot, Balzac.”
He slaps his hands together in a laugh. “Who says it’s free? Know what I’m saying?”
“Touché!”
“All right, you have a good Valentine’s Day, little girl. Don’t be paying attention to those big bad wolves.”
I point at him in good fun. God, Valentine’s Day. It’s always such a drag.
I hurriedly start to walk home—at last, my own apartment away from mom and dad!—and cringe at the thought of the Big V.
Valentine’s Day, the sour reminder for every single person that no one loves you, and for the moment, no one’s even lusting after you. You’ve successfully alienated every man who could have been the one and are now one of those pathetic doggies in the window, just hoping for pity sex.
God, I have to be strong. I keep reminding myself being alone is a good thing. It’s empowering. It’s brave. Fucking Elsa from Frozen was alone and that was the best part of the damn movie.
I keep telling myself that I reject men all the time, everyone from gangsta ass badboys to Christian boys, to nice guys and dirty old perverts. I COULD have anyone I want for Valentine’s Day. I’m the one who’s decided to wait—I’m proud, dammit!
But then why do I feel so sad on Valentine’s Day? Because it’s all corporate-sponsored lecturing, suggesting that love is the only thing that keeps us going? Or maybe I’m resentful because I haven’t met The Right One yet and that he’s long overdue to make an appearance in my life.
Well, maybe this Valentine’s Day will be different. Maybe this time I’ll win. Maybe this year, I will meet the Right One…the one man who is my “Maximilian von Heune” but in real life!
And if I have my wish, the one and only will be Zander Troy.
* * *
“Ugh!” my portly father says, as both my parents scurry around the kitchen, having prepared dinner. “Are you talking about Zander Troy again?” He shakes his head, as if trying to understand why I would do something so physically unhealthy as obsess over such an Evil Man.
“I was just saying!” I laugh. “He’s what I consider an attractive man. I’m not saying I would like marry him or anything.”
Mom interjects, grabbing her graying hair in terror at the thought. “Well he’s not the marrying kind! You deserve a man who will cherish you and marry you! Zander is a total skirt chaser from what I’ve read.”
“He’s horrible!” Dad says, as if Zander was actually a serious option in my life. “Have you heard the way he treats women? He’s a very ugly man. Well, mentally and emotionally I mean.”
I guffaw at the thought. “But physically he’s okay, Dad? Right, is that what you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know. He’s not ugly. He’s better looking than the Elephant Man, at least.”
“That, he is!”
Speaking, of course, of Zander Troy’s gorgeous, movie-star-meets-warrior-king face. His eyes are voracious. His skin is perfectly tan; his lips soft, in deep contrast to the strong lines of his face. His hair is jet-black but wavy and he has just a spot of rough shadow on his chin and upper lip. He looks at the world the same way he looks at women. With his chin held high and a “what can you do for me?” taunt.
Everything in my skin changes when I think of him. And the fact that my parents hate him, well, that only helps. But I’m well aware the odds of me actually meeting billionaire-playboy Zander Troy are depressingly low.
“I know you’ll probably never meet him,” Mom says with a smiling headshake, “but just the thought of you crushing on him is unsettling.”
“Why’s that? Didn’t you fantasize about Rock Hudson or something?”
“About Robert Redford, thank you!” Mom says with a grin.
“It’s just that the boys that are considered attractive today are such jackasses,” Dad says without a smile. “They have no honor anymore.”
“Yeah but you never stood a chance with Robert Redford, Ma. You just liked the idea of him, right? Well, that’s all it is with Zander and I. I just like the idea of such a handsome…rich…really mean-looking guy.”
“Ugh!” Dad says, going back to reading his paper.
“But the problem is, baby,” Mom says, “once you put it into your head that you want somebody…you know, you draw that negative energy to you.”
“What?”
“Yes, the energy you put into it, is given back to you. You focus your mind on a bad boy, before you know it you start looking for it. And it finds you.”
“Dad, what is Mom talking about?”
“I dunno…”
“I’m just saying!”
“You mean like, if I wish for Zander Troy, the universe will help me find him? Well heck, I am so going to wish for that right now! Send me Zander Troy for Valentine’s Day, Universe!”
Mom laughs but continues her dire warning. “I don’t mean that literally. I just mean once you decide for yourself that you want a bad guy, a mean person, someone who takes advantage of you…you basically decide that’s what you want. Maybe you’ll never meet Zander. But maybe you’ll meet some other guy who disrespects you and fall for him. You see what I mean?”
“Ah, I see. Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve turned down a lot of guys. Bad boys, you might say. I’m waiting for something better than average.”
“Good.”
“I’m waiting for Zander,” I say with a laugh.
“You are not! You know money isn’t everything.”
“Oh goodness, Mother. It’s not just about the money. He’s just so…”
“So what?”
“He’s a powerful guy. And you know, he actually does really good things. Like stop global warming events? He believes in stuff. Not a lot of guys are so…ambitious.”
“Oh please,” Mom says. “Rich guys will say anything to make women think they’re something special. All he cares about is…well…you know! Getting into your pants!”
“Who hasn’t heard of Troy and his gambling?” Dad scoffs. “His womanizing, all-night partying. And cheating people out of money. How do you think those rich families stay rich?”
“He isn’t like that!” I say defensively. My parents mean well but they don’t know any better. To them and their old-fashioned values, the idea of Zander Troy is offensive. Because good men don’t swing. Good men don’t get stoned and drunk. And most of all, good men aren’t supposed to know how much they’re worth!
* * *
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Everybody in high school forces you to become a cliché. So it’s no surprise that even after I graduated, I still kept the label they all gave me. Catholic School Girl. Guilt-ridden, horny as hell, and never as strong as I think I should be. I forgo therapy not just because telling your problems to an old dude is expensive nowadays…but also because a psych doctor is just not as good as a Catholic priest at making me feel alive.
I enjoy listening to the holy silences inside the confessional. There is something very intimate about a quiet, dark room.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“I dunno. Months…pretty long time.”
“What has kept you away, my child?”
“I guess I’m just a bad girl,” I say, struggling not to laugh. I must be the Devil’s child, since I actually get more excited confessing my sins than committing sins. Obviously, since I’m probably still more pure than this priest!
“What is your confession?”
“I uh…well, I am mostly a good person. I still love my parents. I don’t go to church much, but I try to do good for the world. I don’t blaspheme or anything like that, you know.”
“But your mind is not content,” he says, wisely discerning lust is my downfall.
“I have very, very dirty thoughts. Like consta
ntly. I’m still a virgin, but god, I just don’t know how much longer I can last.”
“Don’t you want to be clean for your husband on your wedding night?”
“I dunno…honestly, you know, I think my husband should love me regardless of that. I’m confessing to you because I’m saying, I really don’t think I can last much longer. I do want my first time to be special but I know I can’t hold out forever. Sometimes I look at men…lustfully, you know? Like the way no girl should ever look at a man.”
“That is quite a confession,” he says with a gulp.
“I know it’s a sin and I’m sorry. But all I can do is wait until the right man comes along. Someone special. I’m not going to cheapen the experience just because I’m weak.”
“Well…that’s something, I guess,” he mumbles.
“And it really sucks that I haven’t found him yet and that I’m going to be alone on Valentine’s Day. That part always hurts.”
“Maybe patience builds character,” he says.
“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend. BUT…I do have someone I really like.”
“Is he Catholic?” the priest says in very subtle sarcasm.
“Well…I assume,” I say with a forced smile. “He is a good person, has a good heart. I don’t know if we’ll ever be together. But I sure hope so.”
“Well maybe if he likes you, he would wait for you. Until marriage.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Zander Troy is not really the marrying type.”
“Zander Troy?” he says, suddenly very abrupt. “Zander Troy is not Catholic! Zander is a horrible, immoral man!”
I sigh.
“No, no, child. Don’t idolize such a conniving, devilish man. He will use you and defile you and throw you to the dogs!”
“Well, gee, Father, thanks for being so understanding.”
“That man is bad news. He doesn’t deserve a woman of purity. He fills his towers with drugs and prostitutes!”