667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  A heavy sigh wafted from behind the counter, and a young, redheaded woman stood just to flash me the stink eye. “He’s about to be.” She rolled her peepers and I panged with sudden sympathy for Jazmine. This lady looked at me as if I were the whore of Sodom. “You can finish closing, dude,” she told Hunter. “If you get around to it.”

  20. Do not let nay-sayers harsh your slut

  No matter! She was entitled to her opinion. And I did resemble the whore of Sodom. Black eye shadow, black stockings ending in a garter, and the pretend strut of a woman who had not bedded a guy named ‘Blayde.’

  Better go for it. My pelvis was overheating, and Hunter would put me out with his hose.

  (Yes, that’s what I meant.)

  I jumped onto the customer side of the counter and crossed my legs. My application dangled from my fingertips, painted scarlet.

  21. Red nail polish makes the happy Sodom whore

  Hunter finally stopped cleaning up his scattered cups and ran his palms down his black apron. “What was your name again?”

  “Dagmar. But my close friends call me Dag.”

  “Gr-great. Why don’t we meet in the back, Dagmar—?”

  “Dag.”

  “And I’ll look over your résumé and…and…”

  I giggled. “And my qualifications.” I jumped off the counter and onto my heels (ouch). Hello, future shin splints. He led me into the tiny back office, large enough only for a wee desk, three chairs, and an ancient copier.

  He sat behind the desk. I sat in front, hands on my crossed knees—prim, proper, pleather-y. His chest rose and fell in double time while he read my résumé—I don’t think it was my internship at Random Penguin that caused his erratic breath.

  “Well, Dagm—Dag,” he began, trying in vain not to gawk at my tits. “I see you’ve been in publishing. Why… Why do you want to work at JaVaVaVoom?”

  “I suspect that you didn’t go to school to study coffee?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I have an MFA in acting from Carnegie Mellon.”

  “Yup.”

  He flashed an adorable smile and unbent enough to lean back in the office chair, which appeared to be covered in my dress’s cousin. “Okay, I get it. But I don’t want to train someone just to have them quit a month from now.”

  “Look.” I stood, already regretting these five-inch heels. Ugh, who the hell dressed this way all the time? Carrie Bradshaw was a lie. “I got canned from my dream job so my boss could promote his girlfriend. And I’m done. Done. So now I’m here. I want a job I can master and actually be rewarded in for performing adequately.” His eyes followed my strut around the desk. “When I make a flavorful coffee or give correct change, will I be appreciated by you, Hunter?”

  His eyes widened to capacity and he nodded.

  “Excellent.”

  Now or never, Dag.

  22. Only the good die young

  I fell over him, my hands grasping the chair’s arms. This put my cleavage just under his chin. Hunter the manager’s mouth dropped. “Do you want to know why I chose this coffee shop to grace with my”—I dropped my gaze to his crotch—“skills?”

  He squeaked.

  My hand shaking (Stop it! We’re a saucy minx now!), I grabbed the back of his head by the hair and planted a whopper of a kiss on him. He squeaked again, which I took to be positive, I guess? I came up for air and plopped one knee to the right of his. I balanced on it to bring my other knee up…u—gah the hem of this skirt was too tight, and my pleather didn’t have a lot of give. Maybe I should have gone for latex?

  I could be my own condom.

  I gave up trying to straddle him and twisted to sit across his lap before pulling him in for another kiss. Mmm, nice. He smelled good, like clean soap. Normal soap, not like the fancy Sephora stuff Blade had used.

  Hunter opened his mouth to me and tentatively kissed back confidently enough to quicken my blood. Not bad. Not bad at all! But his arms stayed rigid at his sides, and I started to wonder if I’d have to do the bulk of the work…or if he was actually gay, and my sexual harassment was worse than I thought? Or—

  I crashed, hard, onto my butt—blam! “What the hell?” I squealed. He’d stood and, in my slippery dress made of recycled tires, I’d gone down—and not in the way I’d imagined.

  “Uh… I’m sorry.” He reached to me and I wiped the annoyed grimace off my face, lest my booty call flop.

  He pulled me upward, but I couldn’t get my spike heels underneath me. I buckled, a drunken giraffe, and we started to fall, almost in slow motion. I flailed. He flailed. We flailed! I flapped my loose hand for the desk as he yanked my other arm. We tipped backward and timberrrrrrrr!-ed. A rolling file cabinet, three cardboard boxes, and the ancient copier all went flying as we flopped across them.

  Ow, pain, strain, ick, poke, ouch! What was digging into my butt? Breaths heavy—not in the way I’d imagined—I reached around—not in the way I’d imagined—to remove the copier plug from my unmentionables.

  Hunter groaned and yanked a stapler from his…somewhere. He tossed it behind him with a half-smile, which I returned.

  Okay. We could recover from this—Dagmar Kostopoulos was not a quitter. My skirt already bunched around my waist, and we were on the floor…half of my seduction had been accidentally accomplished!

  Sexy, like a cougar—well, maybe a young librarian cougar—I crawled the two feet to his prostrate body. He held up his hands, and I gleefully grabbed them and pressed them to my pleather breasts. “Yes, Hunter!” I gasped. “Show me how you make my latte foam.”

  “Do what?”

  “You’re going to churn my foam, baby.”

  “That’s not how foam works. Have you ever, uh, made a cappuccino before?”

  Wow, romance was a difficult genre. These scenes were freaking hard to write. And I obviously didn’t know how to make coffee.

  Okay, so my words were terrible—actions would save this. I shoved him backward to the floor, the better to take advantage of him without further injury.

  Ack! He bounced off the copier with a sick thud and groaned, his hand flying to the back of his head. “Dagmar, stop, please!”

  “I, uh—” Oh, no. I hadn’t been getting sexy with him… I was pretty sure this qualified as assault. “We got off on the wrong foot. This office is much too small for—”

  “For what?” He crawled backward and stood. “We can’t do this. It’s against the coffee code. I want to hire you, so I can’t sleep with you. If—if that’s what you were trying…?”

  23. If they have to ask if you’re trying to hump them, you’re fucking up

  No. No no no! “Hunter,” I purred in the best (and only) purr of my life. “Hunter, cutie. I’m not your employee yet. Let’s just have a little fun.” I took one step forward, he took two back. Jesus, what did a girl have to do to get some sleazy sex?

  24. Sluttery should be easier than this!

  He put his hands up again and I realized he wasn’t trying to grope my boobs. If I wanted my boobs groped tonight, I’d have to do it myself.

  25. Sigh

  My shoulders slumped and tears chased into my eyes. Tears! Over this guy I didn’t even know. I gritted my teeth to keep a week’s worth of emotions at bay. “I’m sorry,” I told him, most sincerely. “I’ve really fucked this up, in the bad way.”

  Without more useless words, I turned and left the office, my head held high, my giraffe gait infused with dignity and grace. Well, after I pulled my plastic skirt over my thong.

  “Dag!” He caught up with me in the middle of the dark, empty coffee shop. “Uh… You’re hired, okay? You didn’t have to do all that—”

  “I wanted to do that.” His eyes nearly bugged out. It seemed to be a common occurrence for him. “You’re cute, and I’m feeling…”

  26. Depressed

  27. Irrelevant

  28. Pathetic

  29. Uncomfortably sweaty between the cheeks

  30. Unlovable

  “Adventurous,
” I lied.

  Ick. I didn’t want to hear any more from any man at the moment, even though it wasn’t fair, as I had been the one who’d committed—

  31. Semi-accidental sexual harassment

  At the door, I turned and asked, “When do I start, boss?” That had sounded entirely too overachieving, so I added, “I’m not doing any five a.m. shit.”

  He grinned. “You can close with me day after tomorrow. Come in at four p.m.”

  I nodded. “Hey, Hunter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Coffee code?”

  His hooded eyes alit. “I’ll tell you all about it! Uh, see, one must always strive for the perfect cup. And designs in the foam—well, that’s pretty advanced, we probably won’t tackle that on the first day, and—”

  With a faux-interested smile, I backed out of the door. This job already seemed eighty percent more jobby than I’d intended, and ninety percent less naked. How was being a floozy so difficult? Jazmine made easy look so easy. Obviously I needed to give that lady more credit. She had skills I didn’t understand, like a Jedi in Spandex.

  I started the chilly walk toward home. Without a coat. In five-inch heels.

  To hell with this—I’d gotten a job today! My perky nips and I hailed a cab. Two nearly got in an accident pulling over. At least I’d impressed someone tonight.

  Perhaps I’d leaped to non-breathable fabric too quickly. It would take a week to peel myself out of this thing as it was. Or maybe I wasn’t as sexy as I’d hoped.

  32. Depressing realities must be avoided at all costs

  I messaged Yash at the world’s longest red light.

  Me: I’m not wearing pleather on our date. Don’t ask me why.

  I spent the remainder of the trip home giggling to myself. This evening had been the worst night on my back since the time Blade had taken magic mushrooms and kept trying to ‘oops’ me into anal sex.

  Why did men try this without an okay first? A girl notices.

  A. Girl. Most. Definitely. Notices.

  I got home, removed my dress using butter and pain, and settled into a hot bath with a giant glass of Syrah. I’d just begun an episode of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries on my tablet when my phone chirped.

  Leaning way out of the water (no dunking expensive electronics), I peered to see who dared interrupt the fierce Miss Fisher. Yash!

  Yash: I will ask. And you will answer.

  I nearly snarfed my wine. Oh, boy. Oh, handsome boy. Oh, handsome, clever boy. My head swirled, and not with the Syrah.

  Me: You and what army?

  Yash: Dumbledore’s.

  Aaaaaagh no, not a Harry Potter reference! Get inside my knickers, oh, handsome, clever, British geek boy.

  Me: Who?

  I waited a solid thirty seconds before adding:

  Me: Kidding. Did you just consider canceling our date?

  Yash: Yes. I got queasy. HP is a deal breaker. What house are you?

  Me: I’m a Ravenclaw…but lately feeling naughty, like a Slytherin.

  Yash: Interesting. You’ll tell me why tomorrow.

  Me: Never!

  Yash: I’m a Ravenclaw, too. But I will Slytherin your ass to make you spill your secrets.

  He’d what?

  Yash: …I mean.

  Me: You’re very confident about this date, aren’t you?

  Yash: Apparently.

  Me: I’m in the bath, and it’s getting cold, so I will sign off for the evening. Before you threaten to do any further damage to my ass.

  Yash: I was going to threaten your boobs as well, but I suppose that can wait until tomorrow. Sleep well, lovely Giselle.

  Giselle. Ick. For a few, perfect minutes, I’d forgotten.

  33. Fuck up by forgetting one’s own fuck-ups

  Me: Sleep well, lovely Yash.

  Yash: Stop it, I’m blushing.

  I set down the phone and sank into my water once again, my brain a-whir.

  One night. One-night stand. I could definitely say goodbye before any and all doom set in.

  Maybe we’d have a boring date. After all, I was boring ha ha ha ugh.

  Maybe he’d be lousy in the sack.

  Or maybe J.K. Rowling would give me ten million dollars, I’d grow six inches overnight, and also hell would freeze into a rainbow sno-cone.

  34. Maybe…not

  Chapter Five

  F*ck-Ups Thirty-Five through Ninety-Two

  Sin Should Not Require Such Effort

  While I assured my brain that tonight’s date with Yash meant nothing, my stomach had other ideas. As I stood outside the restaurant, the rebellious organ flipped and thrashed and sang Going to the Chapel to me. How did it even know those lyrics? Maybe it was caused by the shot Mel had insisted I take, or the fact that I froze in yet another ridiculous dress. No pleather for me tonight, though—just curve-hugging red. I was a human race car.

  I’d decided to keep almost all the details about myself the same as for Giselle. Background, childhood, etc. Except Giselle hadn’t gone to college, but had joined the friendly skies right out of high school. I didn’t know anything about any other college major besides English, so no degree was better than getting a third degree I couldn’t hack.

  35. This was madness

  36. But a true fuck-up embraces the madness

  37. So what if the date goes horribly awry?

  38. I’ll just blog about it

  39. Get a book deal

  40. Rub it in Carmichael’s face

  41. Profit!

  Yes, really, going through the thousand lies I’d have to tell tonight would lead directly to a slot on the NYT list. Right.

  I turned around to run away.

  And ran smack into Yash.

  Smack! He stumbled backward and nearly fell but for the hand I caught at the last minute. Whoa, Nellie, he was a big boy. He filled out a soft wool burgundy jacket, and his chest strained under a crisp white button-down open at the neck.

  He righted himself and grinned sheepishly. “Running away?”

  42. Might as well start lying

  “Of course not. Just pacing to keep warm.” I wore a white wool princess coat, but had more inches of skin exposed than a bikini model. And I meant that in a good way.

  He took my elbow in a commanding manner and walked me inside. Despite the reservation he’d made, we were asked to wait in the bar for ten or so. This time, his hand lingered around my waist as he ushered me through a throng of well-dressed New Yorkers.

  He lit me up like a Christmas tree. Ah, to heck with dinner.

  43. Let’s get naked on the bar top and have people cheer us while throwing gin across our writhing bodies

  Yash stepped ahead of me to grab a just-vacated stool. He held my hand as I slipped onto it and guaranteed himself a BJ for not making me stand in yet another pair of new, stupid-in-the-extreme shoes.

  “Thank you,” I breathed in my most sultry voice.

  “Of course. What would you like to drink?”

  44. Blow job blow job blow job

  The idea was so naughty, I grabbed the bar and nearly dropped my clutch. His sweet brown eyes rendered my knees jelly, and I couldn’t suck in enough oxygen to keep my brain afloat above all the hormones. I licked my lips, his eyes following my tongue, the wonderful man. “Champagne,” I replied.

  45. More drunk = more better for telling lies

  He dutifully obtained alcohol and stood beside me, suddenly silent, a glass of wine in his hand. I clapped my whore mouth closed because I didn’t want to blow it before I blew him. Also, before he could reciprocate, because come on.

  “Did you have a flight today?” he asked.

  Uh, sure. “Yes. Got in from Honolulu this morning.” I’d actually been there about ten years ago.

  “Fantastic. Is that usual, for flight crews to be changing routes?”

  46. Uh…

  I took a swig of champagne. Why why why hadn’t I studied the lifestyle blog of a flight attendant? Instead, I’d:


  47. Shopped for a dress I couldn’t afford

  48. Ditto shoes

  49. And dove-gray panties and a bra that made my credit card sweat

  50. But that would inspire poets to verse

  51. (At least a dirty limerick)

  “My job is pretty boring,” I said. “I want to hear about being a writer. I Googled you.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “And without my consent, naughty girl.”

  I shrugged a shoulder adorably. “Your book is very popular.”

  “I got lucky.”

  Well, yes. Plenty of amazing writers never got read, and tons of terrible books made it to the top of the charts (like mine, I hoped!). But he was actually… “Luck usually follows some sort of talent.”

  52. Some of the time, anyway

  “You’re very kind,” he replied.

  “So should I read it?” I asked.

  “My book?”

  I smirked. “No, my date tomorrow night’s book.”

  He flashed me a half grin. That’s how his mouth moved—one half made a break for it, and the other followed along or not, as was its wont. “Who is tomorrow night’s date?”

  “Salman Rushdie, no big deal.”

  Laughing, he said, “You’re about the right age for him.”

  I leaned closer—

  53. The better to insert my tits under his gaze

  —And asked, “Is that your plan? Date me until you turn forty, and then exchange me for a younger model?”

  “I have to wait until forty?”

  I smacked him on the arm before remembering that I had no plans to date him. Just to have him drape his various manly attributes upon me until I couldn’t remember my own name. Or until I could.

  54. Who am I?

  55. Who is anyone?

  56. I’m very deep

  I slurped more of my drink. Mmmmmm, I could swear that actual courage floated in those tiny bubbles. “Forty in man years is one hundred and seventy-seven in lady years.”

  “It’s quite sad for you.”

  Nodding, I said, “At least we outlive you bastards. I plan to join a Golden Girls-like commune.”