667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  The hostess came by then and told us our table was ready. Well, she told Yash. I could have been a pile of non-existence, but who could blame her? He’d become the only real thing in the room to me too. All rays of candlelight simultaneously led to and from his body, his beautiful brown skin, his shining eyes.

  57. His magnificent butt

  I called his butt a mistake because it would surely lead to…

  We settled at a table toward the front of the dining room, next to a brick wall, a view of the street beside us. I concentrated on the Asian fusion menu before me, feeling nervous as hell. Obviously, I needed more champagne-bubble courage. I ordered another. I couldn’t be so drunk that I didn’t remember the sexing, though. He couldn’t be Giselle’s boyfriend, so I had to remember the nookie at all costs.

  58. Too drunk to remember was not a mistake I was willing to make

  Oh, this man looked at me like… Wow. He couldn’t take his eyes off my cleavage. Although, swoon, he desperately tried to fight and/or hide it.

  My breasts had never been lusted after in such a blatant manner. They perked under the attention. I’d never thought of the girls as fabulous but, looking down now, they amazed even me.

  Damn, Dag.

  After we both tore ourselves away from my assets, we decided which dishes to order family-style. I discovered Yash was a vegetarian. He explained he wasn’t a terribly devout Hindu, but he’d grown up in a vegetarian household and really enjoyed it.

  The food ordered, Yash asked me the question dreaded by all faithless liars. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell, really. I love traveling.”

  He set his manly chin on his manly hand and I imagined both in a very filthy circumstance. “How many countries have you been to?” asked he and his manly chin.

  59. Boy, lying sure does take a lot of preparation

  “Uh…twenty-thr—twenty?”

  Yash blinked. “Are you asking me?”

  I laughed merrily, and also covering-ly. “Of course not!”

  60. Is twenty too many or too few?

  “About twenty,” I say.

  “Which was your favorite?”

  My heart began beating a wild tattoo—not of passion, but of flop-sweated panic. Dagmar had visited Canada, eh, and Greece with her dad and sister when she’d been twelve. Dad and Vanessa actually visited every other year or so, but I’d only been invited on one trip—when our overseas family had finally asked about me.

  “Greece,” I tell him. “My family’s homeland. Well, several generations ago. Just gorgeous. I love the Aegean and the slow pace there.”

  “I’d love to visit.”

  He licked his lips and began to open them and, lest he ask me another question, I jumped right in. “Where are you from?”

  A pause, then, “I was born in a slum call center in Bombay, where all Indian people come from.”

  I blinked. “I thought…the UK? Is that your accent?”

  His shoulders fell. “Yes. Sorry—usually ‘where are you from’ is assuming I’m from India.”

  “What good English you speak!” I grinned, but he didn’t return it. “That was a joke. Most of England speaks English.”

  “It’s true.” That slow smile spread from one corner of his luscious mouth to the other. “I am very articulate for an English brown person.”

  “And I obviously tell good jokes for a woman.”

  He chuckled and murmured, “All that and jokes too,” and I fell further into my lust hole.

  61. The lust hole is connected to the

  62. Lady boner

  “What other countries have you visited?” Yash asked.

  Note to Dagmar—next time you pretend to be Giselle, say you’re an accountant.

  I cleared my throat. I sipped champagne. I searched in vain for the waiter to save me, but he didn’t. His tip would suffer because of his lack of psychic ability.

  “Let’s see,” I began, slowly. Very slowly. Countries I could fib about…

  63. “Iceland”

  “Really?” he exclaimed. “I adore Iceland! I’ve been backpacking or skiing there half a dozen times.”

  64. “Egypt”

  I nearly screamed it because I didn’t know anything about Iceland, except that they must have ice. Otherwise, what did they ski on?

  His eyebrows raised. “My parents took me to Egypt after I graduated high school.”

  Oh, for the love of—

  65. Why had I chosen to lie to a rich guy with a passport?

  I smiled and nodded, determined to push ahead. Perhaps if I kept babbling, the sheer volume of countries would confound him.

  66. “Lapland

  67. “Indonesia

  68. “Jamaica

  69. “Westeros”

  He set aside his wine and quirked his head. “Westeros?”

  Oh, shit—that was from Game of Thrones. “Just—just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

  “Westeros seems a quite dangerous place. I don’t want to travel there, especially not for a destination wedding.” Yowza—book nerds were the best! “I would love to visit Jamaica, though,” he said.

  70. Victory!

  “Oh, it’s marvelous! The beaches, the people. The…food. The jerks!”

  His face slipped into confusion once again. If I didn’t lie more believably, it would freeze that way.

  I ran sweaty hands down my skirt. “Jerk is the spice they put on food there. It was another very successful joke made by me.”

  “Perhaps I’m not a very talented joke-hearer.”

  “Yes, let’s blame you.” Almost in slow motion, his mouth began to morph into what I knew was another question. No. I couldn’t discuss boogie boarding in Sri Lanka. No more questions! “Tell me about your family,” I demanded.

  71. Let him lie for a change

  “Wait,” I said. “Hold that thought, my good man. I’m going to dash lickety-split to the powder, see?” Ugh, why was I not talking like myself? The entire night had turned into a 1930s comedy of manners. Which meant I’d end up dunked in a fountain or arrested by the coppers.

  Without waiting for a response, I bolted. Once safely ensconced in an overly perfumed bathroom stall, I whipped out my phone.

  72. When telling copious lies, write them down for future reference

  I typed in Iceland…Wester—no, Jamaica… I sank onto the toilet lid, so overwhelmed by my own faithlessness that I didn’t even ponder the germs. I had to stop telling lies, or else I’d never get the D! Why was his so freaking complicated?

  I texted Mel.

  Me: Help! I’m drowning in Giselle’s bullshit backstory.

  Mel: Stop talking. Men only want to talk about themselves, anyway. What is your problem?

  Me: Not this one. This one is concerned about me and my feelings and history, damn him.

  Mel: Oh, that’s awful. What an asshole. What can I do?

  Me: Nothing. I just have to stay on this date long enough to get his clothes off.

  Mel: Now you’re thinking like a man. Smile and nod. Ask him questions. And when in doubt, compliment his muscles.

  Me: Okay, thanks.

  Mel: Good luck getting boned. I hope he stops being concerned with you as a person.

  Aw, she always knew what to say.

  Okay. I could do this.

  73. Smile and nod

  74. Ask him questions

  75. When in doubt, compliment his muscles

  I glanced at the time on my phone—ugh… How long had I been in this bathroom? Shit, shit, shit.

  76. He would think I was taking a shit, shit, shit

  I hurried to rejoin him at the table. His eyebrows knit together, even as he smiled at me. “Sorry,” I said. “Lipstick is so hard to apply.”

  There was that look again…

  “So!” I said while smiling and nodding. “Do you work out? ‘Cause…muscles.”

  He lit up. “Oh, thank you. Have you—”

  “Tell me about you
r next book!” No author could resist that statement, no matter how polite and giving they were on an emotional level. It was like asking my sister, “So, how are the kids doing?” It always bought me twenty minutes to mute the phone and not have to reply.

  “It’s a comedy about using time travel to prevent a hate crime.”

  Yes! It worked. He waxed poetic about his inspiration, main characters, themes and the plot points he considered particularly brilliant. Not that he put it that way, but an editor knows. It made me feel squishy and glowy inside, actually. That he desperately wanted to impress me with his book, even though he thought I hadn’t read the first one.

  By the time the delicious-smelling dishes started coming, we’d settled into a more comfortable rhythm of talking without any more background quizzes. My stomach unknit itself and came out of hiding from behind my spleen. Good thing, because I was stuffing that sucker.

  I used to care about eating daintily on a date. Blade would shame me if I really went to town on a lasagna the way it deserved.

  Damn. I really had put up with a lot of unacceptable crap from that guy.

  Yash paused a bite of spicy green beans halfway to his mouth to ask, “What’s wrong? Have I upset you?”

  I broke into the widest smile. “No! No, of course not. I—” It was okay to tell this truth. I took a deep breath and released it. “I’d just been thinking about my ex. Not in a good way. Actually, I’d been contrasting him with you. That’s probably weird.”

  He shook his head. “As long as I’m coming out on top?” He slid a bowl of basil tofu linguine toward me.

  I scooped some onto my plate, the fresh basil delighting my nose and wetting my mouth. “For sure you’re on top.”

  77. I would be on top later

  78. And so would he

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

  No. This was becoming such a real date. Such a real, excellent date. “Your pants are amazing. Where did you get those?”

  “Banana Republic, I think.” His face softened into lines of gorgeous earnestness, and he leaned forward to take my hand. “Okay, I see, it’s all right. Breakups can be so painful. You don’t have to be afraid of showing emotions to me. I want the real you, Giselle.”

  Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Don’t cry and shake your head, that’s the opposite. “That’s really great to hear, Yash. I want to show you the real…me.”

  79. As long as I didn’t have to discuss Iceland

  We joked and flirted and smiled the rest of the meal while I ate my weight in various pastas and rice. But even my tofu burps and lies couldn’t sour my anticipation for the next part of the date.

  80. Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex

  I offered to pay for half, but he passed over his credit card.

  “You don’t have to pay,” I assured him. “You’re definitely getting lucky.” It went against every instinct to say this to him. My whole life, my father had bludgeoned into my head that forward women would never get a decent man.

  81. To hell with that

  82. I’d go so far forward, my reverse would break

  “Really?” He leaned back in his chair and hit me with a panty-melting stare.

  83. They were long gone, anyway

  “Are you sure we should?” he asked, dead serious but for the flicker of the right side of his mouth. “Are you only here to take advantage of me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, were you under the impression that I cared about your hopes and dreams?”

  He laughed and guilt sliced from my heart to my gut. He was on a real date with me. He didn’t know I lived a horrifying lie.

  I should stop this. Yash was innocent. And hot. Hot and innocent and hot. He didn’t deserve a lying Jezebel—

  84. OMG I was a lying Jezebel

  85. Way to go, Dag!

  A Jezebel who would rip out his heart and stomp upon it with her ridiculous, sexy shoes.

  He signed the credit card slip and held out his hand to me. I took it. Oh, God—his hot and innocent and hot hand squeezed mine with just the right pressure. I felt it in my feet, and in various places between. I meant to say no, to leave—I did—but I followed him to the sidewalk.

  Once outside, he bit his lip and stared down the street, lost in thought. Now was the moment for me to do the right thing and leave. Now. Now that his butt was facing me in a very confrontational manner.

  He turned around to me, chuckling when he caught me staring at his backside. “Listen,” he began. Welp. Guess I’d be dumped before I even got to Jezebel all over him. “Giselle, I like you. A lot. You’re fun and beautiful—did I tell you how gorgeous you are tonight?”

  Beautiful? Me? I was the dark twin. Only the fair twin ever had ever been called ‘beautiful.’

  He continued, “I want to wait. I find you to be…a little odd. And funny, and…mysterious. I don’t want this to just be physical.”

  I took a step toward him and said seventy-five percent truthfully, “I don’t feel any shame in being physical.”

  “I didn’t say that you should.”

  One more step. I was closing in on him now. “Will you respect me less in the morning?”

  “Of course not.”

  I stood on tiptoe and reached to pull on the lapels of his jacket. “Then what’s the problem?”

  His marvelous eyes went limpid, his lashes fluttering. I was wearing him down.

  86. With my oddness

  87. With my mysteriousness

  88. With my fuck-ups

  This was my moment. I wasn’t a rule-following, beige-bra bore. I was Giselle, woman of mystery, strumpet of Sodom, world traveler on an airplane of lies!

  I yanked harder on his lapels to drag his mouth closer to mine. His tensed at the corners. Not for long. I raked my hand through his soft, wavy hair and closed the gap. He smelled of a rich cologne and…man. Mmmmmm, man skin. I pressed my cold lips to his, and he immediately tucked me into his chest.

  Too happy to be caught, I clutched him back. His firm mouth opened across mine and his warmth flooded me, blooming across my chest. He kissed like a demon and held me like a dream, and I pressed my thighs together against the ache he inspired.

  89. Was it a fuck-up too far to fuck him in the cab?

  “Take me,” I whispered against his lips.

  90. It was maudlin

  91. I didn’t care

  “No,” he whispered back.

  It felt like a record scratch against my lady bits. “What?” I managed to squeak.

  “God, you’re delicious. You’re enough to make a man sin for eternity.”

  I should kiss gifted writers more often.

  “But I meant what I said. Let’s pump the breaks, yeah?” He tucked some loose hair behind my ear and I exploded into a firework shaped like a frowny face. Leaning down all adorably, he peered into my eyes at my height. “Will you go out with me again?”

  92. “Yes,” I replied

  Number ninety-two was probably my worst fuck-up of the entire bunch.

  Chapter Six

  F*ck-Ups Ninety-Three through One-Thirty

  Cappucci-No

  I awoke the next morning…er, afternoon…and rolled over in my empty bed. A lust hangover thumped in my head. I’d thrown myself at two different dudes this week and had achieved absolutely no naked.

  93. No pecs

  94. No hairy chest

  95. No lovely neck smell

  Blade had emanated a sub-par neck smell. It had been a sign, but I’d ignored it.

  96. No amazing butt to grab

  97. No dick

  Hunter hadn’t cut me to the quick. He was so lovely, but he’d been an experiment. A failed experiment, like a Frankenstein monster who begged anew for death.

  But Yash…

  I rolled onto my face and moaned his name. “Yaaaaahhhhhhhhshshshshs.” It didn’t come out all that well. Also, he was supposed to be on top of me.

  My phone read three hours before I h
ad to be at the coffee shop. So, the better to be an asshole, I decided to write a blog post about my floptastic endeavors to get laid. I whipped out a post, didn’t spell check—

  98. spel chick is 4 old dagmer

  And pushed it live. I threw a link onto Twitter, then ordered Greek food as a reward for my hard, hard work.

  A bubble of excitement bounced around my tummy to be starting a new job. Money! Money money money! Money from the type of job I would not have to ruminate about once I clocked out.

  My bubble nearly performed back-flips, but then decided to burst into a yawn because I didn’t need to anticipate or worry. I was smart, and I’d worked retail in high school. Certainly the muscle memory would flood back, and I’d be fine.

  My phone dinged—Yash.

  Yash: I made a horrible mistake last night.

  Me: Why is that?

  Yash: I couldn’t sleep for wanting you.

  Oh yeaaaaaahhhhhh. I hadn’t gotten laid, but I’d left him wanting more.

  99. Slut win!

  100. Sometimes a failure can be a future mistake in the making

  I left him to stew while I brushed away my morning breath and threw on enough clothing not to shock the delivery guy.

  101. Then I took off my bra again because I was all about fucking up

  102. Besides, bras are torture devices of the devil

  Finally, I decided the poor, blue-balled man should suffer no longer without my witty text response.

  Me: You poor man. If only some hot woman had tried to get into your knickers last night.

  Knickers—I knew all the natty British slang.

  Yash: Look at you using all the natty British slang. Yes, I blame myself.

  Me: I blame you too.

  Yash: Forgive me tonight? Preferably naked?

  Argh! I had to close with Hunter tonight.

  Me: I have an overnight to Maui. Won’t be back for a couple of days.

  If I didn’t have work tomorrow, I had big plans to adopt a cat.

  103. It’s never too early to crazy cat lady

  104. Especially to spite your cat-hating ex

  Yea, though my loins were aflame with desire for a giant, bookish sex nerd, I would make him wait, for that is the price he shall pay for blue-ovaries-ing me!