667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  279. Or ever again

  280. All the oxygen on planet Earth had fled

  281. For Yash was so hot, he’d burned it away

  “Yes,” I replied, breathlessly, like a proper heroine.

  282. How could I decline such an offer?

  283. Giselle was only human

  284. Dagmar was the demon

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour,” I assured him.

  “Good.” He paused and chuckled, and my panties suddenly got wet. “Mmmm, I can’t wait.”

  Mel caught up to me then, and I flicked off the phone.

  “You didn’t do it,” she said.

  I remained noncommittal and drew up the hood to my jacket. I yanked on the little strings, and the hood closed over my weak, dissembling face. Faux fur caught in my lip gloss, yet still I ran from her.

  She stomp-chased me. “Come back here! We’re picking a different guy for you!”

  “No!” I yelled into the wind.

  “It will never work, Dagmar.”

  “Yes, it will!”

  “How?”

  I stopped at a busy intersection and her determined little nay-saying self plowed into me, nearly knocking us both into oncoming traffic. She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Snap out of it! For his sake, if not your own.”

  “But he wants sex. Shouldn’t I give the nice man sex?”

  “You’re going to do it no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I am a professional fuck-up.”

  “You’re a loony.”

  I sniffed and began crossing the street. “I’m either a daring modern woman or Trash Whore McGhee, depending on the blog commenter.”

  285. Either way

  286. Sex sex sex

  We arrived at Mel’s place and I gave her a hug at her door. She shook her head and said, “You’re going to get hurt.”

  “Yeah, well… At least I’m the one doing the hurting this time. I’m not twiddling my good-girl thumbs while my boyfriend plans an exit strategy in L.A. and fucks Amy.” I kissed my bestie on the cheek. “Excellent job tonight, bestie. One of us should check the dummy email, right? In case the journalist writes back?”

  “Let’s meet tomorrow and go to the café again. You owe me a movie or something for abandoning me tonight for a man.”

  287. Ditching your girl to meet a guy? Definitely a fuck-up

  I started toward the street to hail a cab to Yash’s and waved back at her. “My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

  “Full Austen, you loony!”

  The whole cab ride to Yash’s, Mel’s words rang in my head. How did the jerks of this world deal with the guilt? They probably didn’t have any. They were out for themselves, and, therefore, they succeeded.

  288. They wanted

  289. They took

  290. They enjoyed

  291. Profit!

  Ugh, Dag, just shut up, already! This was fun sex, for goodness’ sake. Leave it to me to make a chart of it in my brain with a pro-con list and highlighted Post-it notes. I was the worst modern woman ever. The whore of Sodom got this stuff right two thousand years ago, and we had the benefit of birth control now.

  The cab stopped. I paid, rang the bell, and waited in the elevator.

  The doors slid open, and Yash stuck his head out of his door and waved me in with a huge, adorable grin…and a suggestive lick of the lips.

  My mouth fell open and the gears in my brain stopped. The sun seemed to shine from around him, from inside him. There was no tomorrow. There was no guilt. There existed only that smile, and the promise of what it meant for my immediate future. There was no Dagmar, only Giselle.

  And Giselle’s fuck buddy wanted to taste her. I giggled and closed his door behind me.

  * * * *

  “What are you smiling about?” a heavy-lidded Yash asked the next morning.

  I pressed my lips together and shrugged.

  For that bit of coquetry, I got a tickle on my backside. I jerked away, laughing, and he repeated, “I demand you tell me. You can’t smile for no reason—what do you think is going on here?”

  Even first thing in the morning, he could make me laugh. “Remembering last night. When this terrible man I know did terrible things to me.”

  He nodded and tucked my head into his shoulder. I snuggled into his warmth gladly. Yash was my personal drug, and I wanted all the high-flying hallucination I could get. Before the inevitable come-down.

  “I see,” he rumbled. “And what awful things did this degenerate do to you? So I know to never do them myself.”

  “Well… First he fed me wine.”

  He gasped. “Shocking. Plied you with drink?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And then he took my clothes off!”

  “No.” This time the tickle to my backside turned into a rub. No—a caress. Definitely a backside caress.

  I wiggled my bum in appreciation. “And then he… He…” I couldn’t say it out loud.

  “He what?”

  “He…” I got up on my elbow and whispered in his ear. “He went down on me.”

  Yash flipped me over. It was my turn to gasp. Holy hell, he looked like the devil himself—too handsome by half, stubble on his chiseled jaw, unruly hair falling over his forehead. What was a girl to do?

  292. I had to let him do it again

  Wouldn’t Jane Austen want it that way?

  In the hazy afterglow of a class A orgasm, Yash went to make coffee, leaving me to my brain’s hijinks. Yash was so giving that he inevitably invited comparisons with Blade, who rarely performed that particular lovely task. But he’d always wanted me to suck the sausage. Slurp the salami? I am very bad at slang. I didn’t mind per se, but a lot of the time he’d just grab my head and start pushing it down—in the middle of watching TV, or once when I was making dinner.

  I grimaced and buried my face in a pillow. It’s just not polite to shove your girlfriend to her knees when she’s got a carrot in one hand and a peeler in the other. Potentially dangerous for one’s dick too.

  Blech.

  293. Better not think about that too hard

  Not thinking was quickly becoming my mantra.

  I decided not to be selfish, so I got up, slipped on a soft plaid robe of Yash’s, and joined him in the kitchen. Yash had busied himself with the coffee pot in nothing but boxers, and I had to stop myself from shoving him to his knees. Ahem.

  “More smirks on that face,” he said. “Do I need to come over there?”

  I sat on one of the stools at the counter and held up my hands. “No, no, I’ll behave. You’ll get dehydrated or something.”

  “One of us will,” he countered with a wicked smirk of his own.

  Oh, Momma.

  “Can I help? I make pretty good toast.”

  He poured me coffee and passed a mug over. “Toast? Did the pilots teach you that?”

  Pilots?

  Shit! I kept forgetting I was a flight attendant!

  “Yes,” I said. “I know how to make toast when marooned on a desert island and/or while wearing an oxygen mask.”

  “Very hot.”

  He pulled a stool to sit across from me at the narrow counter. “So what do you have going on today?”

  “I’m going to meet a friend later tonight, but, today, I was thinking of beginning my descent into crazy cat lady.”

  “Do—do what?”

  “I’m going to adopt a cat. Or four.”

  His face slid into a mask of horror. “Christ, why?”

  I gasped. “You don’t like cats? That is a far more egregious sin than what tentacle Scully did to the Lone Gunmen, which gave me a nightmare, FYI.”

  For real—Yash’s fan fic was funny, weird-ass stuff.

  “Hey, they enjoyed it.” He came around the corner. “Just—not four, okay? I can deal with one, if I must. But they’re so…so…” No words completed this sentence, but his expression conveyed every thesaurus synonym for ‘ick.’

  I poked my hand
into his chest. “You can’t tell me how many pets to have.”

  He took a noncommittal sip of his coffee.

  “Yeah, I see you.” I stood and drained my mug. “I’m going to rescue a helpless animal, like Mother Theresa would, you jerk.”

  I sashayed my way to the bedroom, where he met me. “Okay,” he said, waving the virtual white flag. “You’re worth putting up with a cat. How about a dog, though?”

  I stomped on his foot.

  He hopped away. “Hey! Not nice.”

  I hissed.

  Ever determined, he got in my face—adorably, but also obstinately. “Who will look after the cat when you take off for exotic locales like Cleveland?”

  Shit. I kept kept kept forgetting I was a flight attendant!

  “Um…my roommate. She wants one, too. So, bye, then, I guess.” I stuck out my tongue and started getting dressed.

  “Stop, stop, “ he begged. That half-smile tugged at his lips. “Want some company?”

  I pulled on my jeans. “I don’t know. You’ve been rude. You don’t deserve to see me play with my pussy.”

  He burst into laughter and fell back onto the bed. “If I’m nice, might you change your mind?”

  “I’ll have to consult her and see. But you’ll have to buy us muffins.”

  “A discerning puss. Fine.” He sighed. Then he did it again, with extra groan-y-ness. I hit him with his own robe. “Fine, I’ll come look at these stupid cats with you. If only to choose the most puppy-like one.”

  The puppy-like look he hit me with then could have melted the heart of a woman made of ice buried in a glacier on the planet Jupiter after she’d sworn off men for a thousand years.

  I was not a woman made of ice—I was a floozy made of…flooz. And my flooz was oozing like a raging river.

  294. No!

  295. No flooz ooze!

  A short time later, I made him buy me the biggest muffin we could find on the way to the cats. Munching and laughing and holding hands, we made our way to a no-kill shelter nearby.

  296. Munching

  297. Laughing

  298. Holding

  All of the above—giant mistakes. Especially munching and laughing. That’s a good way to choke and spit out muffin in front of your one-night stand. Or two-night stand. With bonus sex puns.

  We arrived at Purr-fect Pals, and I had to stop myself from running through the place squealing like a five-year-old.

  Then I thought… Why the hell shouldn’t I?

  “Oh maaaaah gawd!” I squealed. I tap-danced by the tabbies. I curtseyed to the calicos. I shook my butt at the black and white ones, whatever they’re called. The two ladies working the counter rolled their eyes at me, but Yash laughed at my antics, even as he ducked away from any feline attention. A flash of memory flitted through my mind—every adorable pet my father had never allowed me to own. Pets were a pain and distracted a girl from homework.

  Not even a gerbil.

  Or a goldfish.

  Although I had owned a pet spider in high school. My father and sister hadn’t known about him, or else they would’ve torn my room apart to kill him. Daddy Medium Legs and I had co-existed for years under the agreement that I didn’t stomp him, and he didn’t crawl into my mouth or ear as I slept. I’d kept my end of the bargain. Hopefully, he had, too. When I left for college, he’d disappeared. I always dreamed that he’d kept another overworked girl company through her lonely, nerdy high school years.

  A touch on the shoulder brought me back to reality, and the four-legged pets to be had.

  “Since you forced me here, want to tour the kitties?” Yash asked.

  I nodded, because how could one say no to a man who used the word ‘kitties?’ Even if it had come out a little like he’d said ‘broccoli farm.’

  Hand in hand, we wandered the world’s most purr-fect place. The generic pun should have irritated my elevated literary sensibilities, but it didn’t even give me paws.

  The kitties frolicked in the meowting room, which is, naturally, a meeting room for cats.

  My heart. My heart was going to explode. Yash tiptoed through cats young and old, avoiding them. But they wound around his long legs the more he tried to escape. He kept looking at me with despair and frustration in his eyes, every so often pointing to a particularly offensive one as if to say Look at the horrors I’m experiencing so I can fuck you. Look! His hatred was…hilarious.

  And also the kitties were adorable and stuff.

  “Mewr,” I heard from below me. I looked down…into a pair of endless amber eyes. The cat’s gray little ears flopped forward, and she frowned so forcefully that she reminded me of me in high school.

  I heard more sounds, like, “OhmahgahIloveyousomuch!” and “Ggggagaggrrrbbbrbrbrbrbbayay!” Suddenly, I fell to my knees, and the sad cat was in my arms, and the noises… They were coming from me!

  The call of the wild is coming from inside the house.

  “Wha is… Wha is… Wha is?” I kept saying it over and over again.

  “Scottish fold,” supplied a helpful shelter volunteer. “So adorable, right?”

  The cat began licking my face. I nuzzled the top of her head with my nose, and more of those ridiculous noises fell from my mouth.

  Yash gave a very loud, “Christ,” and sat on a nearby bench, his head in his hands.

  The volunteer, sensing an easy touch (heh), went in for the kill. Or no-kill, per the shelter rules. “She’s six weeks old, one of a litter that came in from the street in Brooklyn a couple of weeks ago. Already spayed and has her shots.”

  “Poor street kitty. Forced to sell her wares to a stranger.” She head-butted me and started purring. “She’s so sweet.” The cat meowed a mournful cry, clearly vouching for her tender nature. “I’ll take her,” I told the volunteer. “I probably need to sign something?”

  He smiled through his patchy beard. “Yes, you’ll need to be screened by two of our staff.”

  Yash said, “Do you think your roommate will like her? She might not, so maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “Roommate?” The volunteer, name tag reading Achilles—really?—looked from one to the other of us. “Oh, we’ll need to meet you both.”

  I laughed. Achilles did not. “What?” I asked.

  “We have to make sure both of you are suitable. I hope one of you, at least, works at home?”

  “What?”

  “So that the cat will have constant cerebral stimulation and learning time.”

  “Giselle is a flight attendant,” Yash offered helpfully. “She knows how to land planes.”

  “Flight attendant?” Achilles gasped as if Yash had said I made cat pies for a living. He clutched his hemp necklace. “No. No, no. You’ll be away from home much too much! And a plane is no place for a cat!”

  What? “I—” I cleared my throat. “Yes, my roommate works from home. So, it’s fine. For the cat’s…mental acuity.” My frowning cat mewed and started pawing at my cleavage.

  Yash had begun laughing. Not politely.

  Achilles’ brows drew together. “We must meet this”—he literally air quoted—“‘roommate.’ Until then…” He yanked the purring furball from my boobs. “No cat for you!”

  A sear of pain. Yash’s jaw dropped. I looked down where three longs scratches erupted into blood across my cleavage.

  Yash pointed. “See? She hurt your b—” He’d been about to say ‘boobs’ in the cat shelter, but settled for making a vague hand gesture around his own chest. Much better.

  “You’re not helping,” I ground out.

  Achilles said, “Call the roommate if you want the cat today.” He stomped away without offering to help me with my bleeding tits. But they weren’t my biggest problem, although Yash might beg to differ, for he’d procured a tissue and had started to dab at them, his face full of worry.

  Worry more for the girls than me, I thought.

  299. How the hell would I manufacture a nonexistent ‘roommate’?

  Wait—


  Several moms were frowning my way, so I slapped his hand away from its graphic doctoring of my boobies. I whipped out my phone. “Mel! Roomie! What are you up to?”

  “Oh, no,” she replied less than enthusiastically. “Are you in jail? Did you sneak onto a flight in a stolen flight attendant uniform?”

  I laughed less than enthusiastically. “So very funny. No, I need you to come to the cat adoption place so they can meet you, my roommate, who works from home, so that they understand that my job as a flight attendant won’t put the cat’s…learning potential at risk.”

  A pause. “Was that a sentence that made sense to you? Because it sounded like a jumble of insanity to me.”

  I smiled at Yash, who still fixated on my chest, and at Achilles, who bared his teeth at me from across the room. I took several steps away and whispered directly into the mic of my phone. “Please? Please? I’m in love with a cat but they want me to have a ‘roommate’—”

  “Nice air quotes.”

  “Because of my fake job. Also, you need to call me my fake name.”

  A sigh sounded through the line. Another. By the third one, I knew I had her.

  “I want your DVD of Bridesmaids.”

  “Done.”

  “And the DVD of the all-woman Ghostbusters. And you have to clean my bathroom. I really hate scrubbing my bathtub.”

  Aw, heck. I didn’t even clean my own bathtub until it gained sentience. I shot a tight-teethed smile to Yash. “Yes, fine.”

  Mel whooped. “Okay! Let’s grift a cat.”

  Chapter Eleven

  F*ck-Ups Three Hundred through Three-Hundred-Seven

  Lying to Cats, Yash, Achilles, Brooklyn and McKatee

  While we waited for Mel to arrive, Yash retreated to the corner to hide from the beasties. A pretty little calico followed him. He backed up. She followed. He slid down to sit in the corner. She lay down right in front of him. He frowned up at me while I laughed. Served him right.

  Achilles vacillated between glaring at me from afar and sending smitten smiles to Yash. Yash’s job of being a writer had been well received, as had his bulging biceps.

  After five minutes or so, the calico placed one paw on Yash’s knee. His big brown eyes widened. He stared pointedly at his phone, but didn’t move the cat. She jumped into his lap, and my heart grew three seizes. Sizes.