667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  “Shut up. Instead of that, I could just change my name to Giselle, get a job at the airline, and never see my family again!”

  Mel sipped her latte. “I like that last part.”

  We slumped in our seats and drank the restorative caffeine. After a couple of quiet minutes, Mel sniffed into the air. “What is that smell?”

  I lifted up the skirt and took a whiff. Oh, hell. “Patchouli and…unknown. Ack, it’s so gross.”

  “You have to rinse that whole thing out with vinegar and then dry it.”

  “I guess I’ll be going home then. He’d better be very appreciative of this uniform. I’d better not have to wear it long.” I winked.

  She groaned. “I feel obligated to warn you, Dag—”

  I plugged my fingers into my ears like an actual child. “Nope. I don’t want to hear it. My life is made of lies and denial, and that’s the way I enjoy it.”

  Myrtle meowed, and I took that as agreement. Two in favor of horrid living, one against.

  The ayes had it.

  Mel gave me a look tinged with sadness. I couldn’t take her pity. Pity? After all the fantastic changes I’d been making in my life? We were outing a serial rapist. I’d stood up for myself against multiple scumbags and had gotten a new job on my own terms. Heck, I even had a new cat and a boyfriend! I was no Kardashian, but I was pretty happy at the moment, even if some parts of my life had taken an…odd turn.

  I scooped Myrtle back into her bag and stood. “I’m gonna go and wash this thing.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Mel said, rising also. “Or Yash. He’s really nice, Dag.”

  My stomach dropped. “I know he’s nice. Nobody minds having what is too good for them.”

  “He’s not too good for you, so shut up, Jane Austen.”

  I pretend gasped and she broke into a smile.

  I said, “We’re not…serious, okay? And I’ve already been hurt, Mel. At least I’m the one in charge of it now and not a pathetic loser chasing after crumbs from the people running the show. I’ll see you Sunday night—I have to work tomorrow.” I swooped her into my arms for a hug to diminish the razor in my words and left the shop.

  The air had become frigid and steam shot up from the subway grates, turning the night as murky as my thoughts. Mel’s words rang in my head, swirling and whirling on my walk to the train, on the train, on the way up to my apartment. I gathered my laundry stuff and nearly ran down the stairs to the basement.

  No. No. I wouldn’t backslide. I’d overcome too many of my mousey, pathetic ways.

  I plunged the uniform into the warm water of the laundry room’s washing machine and poured vinegar after. I slept better now than I had in years—decades even—because I didn’t lie awake worrying about my father’s approval, or my job, or if I needed to go to the gym more because I’d caught Blade ogling a model-waitress-nurse. I didn’t cry anymore when my sister tagged me in nasty jabs on Facebook. I didn’t spend half my weekend ironing ugly khaki clothing to make me look like an efficiency beast.

  I had fun now. I was fun now. And I’d be damned if I’d return to that sad sack Dagmar. The very thought made hot sweats break out across my skin.

  Maybe I really would change my name to Giselle.

  I took the stairs back up to my apartment two at a time, and I didn’t set a timer for the wash. It took me twenty minutes, but I managed a French twist, then I set the jaunty pillbox uniform hat on my head and took a picture for Yash. He replied that my hair was going to get way too mussed to keep it on. My giggles filled the whole apartment.

  Mussed.

  Nope—no going back.

  A couple of hours later, I informed Yash that his flight was ready to board. Yes, yes—eye-roll worthy, but I didn’t care. I ordered Indian food and hoped that it was good Indian food since he was, well, Indian.

  The uniform fit tightly—very—but I did manage to get it on if I didn’t button the skirt. And the horrible smell had fled. I’d quickly used hem tape to hitch the skirt to a mini, and I slipped on black heels to complete the ensemble. No doubt the conservative button-down wasn’t meant to open so far over my cleavage. In my defense, however, it wouldn’t close over my not-so-massive girls.

  All in all, I thought while posing in front of my mirror, not bad. And we wouldn’t even have to bang in a disgusting airplane lavatory.

  I even put a black ribbon around Myrtle’s neck—it turned her into a French ingénue from the 1960s. Until she chewed on one end and covered it in drool. “He doesn’t like you as it is,” I told her, “so be pretty.” She licked her butt, which was the equivalent of a cat shrug in the face of unrealistic feline beauty standards.

  While I waited for Yash, I blogged and prepped a few Twitter updates to time out over the next few days. It was fun to talk about getting the cat and the uniform, although I didn’t call it a flight attendant pretend job. I said I was pretending to be a nurse a.k.a. sexy scrubs. The instant validation that the Internet offered made me feel powerful. Yes, some condemned me, but many people, women especially, said they wished they had the guts to do what I was doing.

  My intercom buzzed and I jumped in my chair. I closed the laptop and ran to the panel to let Yash up. Happiness nearly melted my bones to know he was on the way, in my building, in my apartment. In my bed.

  351. But I didn’t really have feelings for Yash

  352. Just overwhelming joy whenever he was around

  353. And the feeling that I might die if I never saw him again

  354. Whoops that was a feeling

  355. But not feelings with an ‘S’

  356. Better not think about that too hard

  This logical flight of denial burst like a bubble when he knocked. I made a ridiculous girl sound, raced to the door, took a deep breath to calm myself, and opened it.

  I swept the door wide and gave a curtsey. “Welcome aboard, sir. If you’ll follow me to the first-class cabin?”

  He braced himself on one side of the threshold and fixed a hard gaze on me. “We have a problem, Dagmar.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  F*ck-Ups Three-Fifty-Seven through Three-Sixty-Seven

  In Preparation for Takeoff, Please Ensure that Your Seat Is in the Uh-Oh Position

  The world went black. Then red. Then kind of stripy. Breath would not fill my lungs, and I started to flounder. I wanted to say something, anything to make it better. Oh, shit—why hadn’t I prepared a speech for this inevitable moment?

  He licked his lips. He took a step forward to loom over me, his beautiful brown eyes full of censure.

  I floundered backward. “Yash, I—”

  “I only have a coach ticket, madam air hostess. I’m afraid I’m just a poor writer.”

  Yash grinned, and now it was me bracing myself on the door frame so I didn’t fall over. Holy hell. Sweet Beyoncé. Blessed Nicki Minaj! Wondrous relief turned my innards to sand. Thank you, God!

  Or maybe… Thank you, Satan?

  357. The fact that I may have switched deity teams was concerning

  I giggled and ran my hand down his arm. He wore a soft, V-neck cashmere sweater in royal blue, his heavy coat slung over an arm, and looked good enough to eat and lick and eat some more. His collarbone. His long, strong neck. The tiny peep of chest hair at the depth of the vee.

  Thank you, Satan!

  He kept up the bashful writer act as I led him into the living room and closed the door. “Well, I can see if perhaps I could bump you to first class. I mean”—I ran my fingers along the very deep opening of my blouse—“you do want me to serve you for the entire, long flight, right?”

  “Yes, Miss Dagmar.” It came out quite breathy, and my pulse leaped to know that I was making him as breathless as he’d made me. For slightly different reasons—my heart still beat a thousand miles an hour from leftover fear and adrenaline.

  358. Wow, it felt so good for him to use my real name, though!

  359. It had never, ever sounded sexy to me…until now


  I shrugged one shoulder like a proper coquette. “Oh, my. An opening has just been found for you.”

  “Really? That’s incredible. I’ve always been very happy with the openings you’ve presented to me.”

  You could not have wiped off the red that heated my cheeks right then for anything. We were both giggling at our dirty jokes when I gestured to his seat—number 1A, of course.

  “I can’t sit there,” he said, pointing. “An interloper is already in my chair.”

  I peeked around his shoulder to see Moaning Myrtle sitting smack in the middle of the couch. She started with that raspy, squeaking meow of hers and only stopped when Yash approached.

  He flicked his hands to try to shoo her away.

  She stared at him.

  He turned back to me helplessly.

  She stared at him.

  I stared at him.

  He crossed his arms. “I guess I’ll have to go back to coach. Across town.”

  I rushed forward and removed the cat, her protestations notwithstanding. “Not at all, sir, here’s your seat.”

  Myrtle frowned at me as if to say, “You chose a man over our family.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her as if to say, “I chose a man and his cock over our family. Don’t make it seem petty.”

  As he sat, Yash asked, “Where’s Mel?”

  I almost said ‘At her apartment,’ but I remembered just in time. The thing I actually said was, “She’s visiting a first-class passenger of her own tonight.”

  “Good for her.”

  With a fresh smile, I bustled to place a napkin over his lap. It took me a moment or two to get it in just the right position, smoothed over his…his…

  He yanked me into that lap, with its growing erection, and tipped me back for a kiss. My body lit up with wanting him, his hands, his everything everywhere. One of his hands slid up my skirt to cup my ass, and I pulled away to come up for air. “Sir, your dinner service will get cold.”

  “Let it.”

  I yelped as he stood, me in his arms, and carried me to the bedroom.

  360. I should’ve been a fake air hostess years ago

  361. All of the benefits, none of the rude passengers or turbulence

  Obviously, I’d had sexual partners before. But I’d never had the experience Yash gave to me. He made love to me as if I were the only woman in the world. As if my skin were made of magic. As if my touch was the greatest thing ever to happen to him. He wasn’t merely a good lover—he was an amazing partner. My body had never responded as it did with him. I was a sex goddess, a muse, a siren all at once.

  And I’d never felt such blind, wanton lust in my life. Yash had awoken Sleeping Beauty. Well, the super dirty version written by Anne Rice. At one point in the last hour, I’d literally seen through space and time, and yes, I was using ‘literally’ correctly.

  After he’d had his way with me, he lay me back down on my bed and chuckled. “What’s that face?” he asked. “Have I not made your Mile High Club dreams come true? By the by, that was a dirty ‘come’ joke.”

  “You’re a lofty writer, after all,” I offered, slightly out of breath. “I didn’t mean to make a face. I’m very happy with my work shift this evening.” I nuzzled his chest. Gah, he smelled of sex and man and unicorns.

  “Okay.” He tucked me into his shoulder and played with my hair, which had, indeed, not survived his manly onslaught. The hat was long gone, although I still wore the crumpled remains of the skirt. Heh heh. “When I first got here, you gave me a very odd look, so I was worried you were upset.”

  My stomach twisted and my bliss ruptured. I sat up and clutched my rumpled sheet to my bosom. “No, nothing.” I turned to the side and looked down at him. His hair had flopped over his forehead and I smoothed it over his brow. “You’re wonderful.” He seemed to want to pursue the conversation, so I was tremendously grateful for Myrtle for mewing to be let on the bed right then. She was too small for the jump, so I helped her into Yash’s lap to distract him.

  It worked.

  “I think my dinner service is a bit cold,” I said, subject change-ingly.

  He sat up and tipped my chin to him. “I bet it was perfect, too. Dessert was certainly perfect.”

  A wave of guilt shot through me at being called ‘perfect’. I wasn’t perfect. I’d never be perfect. I’d tried, and it had been pointless, anyway.

  I plastered on a smile and stood. In the most authoritative way I could with bare breasts and a too-small skirt, I said, “Would you like dinner in the first-class cabin or the sleeper compartment?” Did airplanes even have sleeper compartments? Or was I pretending to be a train steward?

  My perfect beau ran a hand through all that amazing, wavy hair. “Wow, what a choice. And what a professional you are.”

  I shrugged. “I do get many, many tips.”

  “I bet. Let’s take dinner in the sleeper compartment?”

  I curtseyed, and his eyes followed my breasts, which made me blush anew.

  362. Really, if I was going to act like an immoral strumpet, I should stop blushing

  In my best sashay, I came around the bed and fluffed a pillow behind his back. It necessitated shoving my boobs in his face. Then, I grabbed a DVD from the living room and popped it into the player in the bedroom. At least Blade had left me with some good electronics (for which I’d paid half). I sat beside Yash on the bed and pushed buttons, and he took the opportunity to push some of mine. It was hard to get a DVD to play while he tickled my neck and lightly pinched my nipples.

  After a few minutes of naked kissing, during which I may have blacked out from overzealous whoremones, he finally deigned to let me feed him.

  Before I left, I played the movie. “Airplane!” he exclaimed. “You are too good to me, Giselle. Oops, I mean sexy Dagmar.”

  I laughed entirely too loud, like a machine gun of fakery, and bolted from the room.

  In the kitchen, I tamped down on my emotions—all of them, the good, bad, and guilty—and set about reheating our meal. How did truly bad people do it? I knew sociopaths had no conscience…but what about your run of the mill Wall Streeter, or those people who run over your feet with their SUV strollers even though there’s plenty of room, then scream that you tried to injure their baby. Yes, Vanessa had done that to me. And my feet.

  My ruminations screeched to a halt as Yash’s arms stole around me from behind. “Mmm, it’s starting to smell good. I’m sorry I let the food go cold.”

  “I’m not.”

  He pumped his hips forward—his naked hips—and we hit the counter. I did not mind hitting the counter. “Don’t do that sexy low voice thing you do,” he begged. “I’m starving, but I will carry you back to the bed like an animal.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said in the apparently sexy low voice thing I did. I swatted his hand from the very naughty place it had discovered. “Behave, you.”

  “Never.” With a great, heaving sigh that was absolutely on purpose, he unwound from me and leaned against the counter. He tore off a corner of naan bread and munched on it. Even that I denied him—I popped it in the oven to warm.

  “May I ask a question?” he asked.

  “You just did.”

  “Yes, so clever.”

  I got a pop to the backside for my insolence. “Sir, that is very inappropriate and against regulations. Do you want me to call the air marshal?”

  He held up his hands. “Don’t arrest me, please. I’m too brown, they’ll send me to Guantanamo.”

  I started to laugh, but the truth of that statement was just too depressing. Guantanamo might not exist as Guantanamo, but one existed somewhere. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, because that made up for state-sanctioned institutional racism, right?

  Time to get back to the subject. “Ask away,” I said with only a little trepidation.

  Fifteen percent trepidation.

  Eighty at most.

  “You asked me to outline my flaws.” He ran a finger down my arm, and I nearly dropped the
bowl of malai kofta I held. “So fess up. Tell me your darkest secrets.”

  My brows knit. “I-I… My flaws are…flaw-ier than yours.”

  “Everyone thinks that. Everyone with a good heart, anyway.”

  Bllllllleeeeeerrrrrggggggg. Now was it. Now was the time to come clean, right? Only three dates and six orgasms in… I should do this.

  “I… I—”

  363. “I’m a recovering perfectionist”

  He cocked his head. “Explain.”

  I stirred the food in my hand and set it aside to busy myself in the oven to check on the naan that had only been in there a minute. “‘Recovering perfectionist’ sounds like a humblebrag, but it’s not. It was a disease. I used to be…very driven, people-pleasing. Always the best grades, the longest hours, first in, last out. I bowed to every boyfriend’s whim, my father’s whim, and tried to make myself the perfect woman for them…but not for me. I think… I think I told myself that those were the same thing.”

  “They’re not.”

  The oven door slammed closed, although I hadn’t meant to do that. I squeezed my eyes shut—I’d actually started to tear up. “I know that now. Anyway, I lost an important job, my boyfriend dumped me and moved to L.A. the next day, and my father thinks I’m useless. So I stopped the ride and got off.” A nervous laugh escaped me. “So to speak.”

  “Is that when you became a flight attendant? What was your career before?”

  I took a deep breath. “I was…” The word ‘editor’ almost spurted from my mouth, but I couldn’t. The publishing community was too small, and I’d be found out far too quickly. “In advertising. A copywriter.”

  364. If you squinted through rose-colored glasses, it was kinda sorta with a fib on top true

  “You wrote?” His entire face lit up. “That’s amazing! Don’t get me wrong, nobody should be in an environment that makes them unhappy, but it’s lovely to hear you may have a little understanding of where I come from.”

  He was so beautiful in his joy that I threw my arms around him. “You’re an amazing writer, Yash. That is absolutely my educated opinion.”

  The way I got squeezed back, I almost suffocated. From happiness.