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THE BAD SEX CHALLENGE
Elodie
Pretty sure I shouldn’t have come to a bar staffed by the world’s most droolworthy bartender after hosting a chocolate as an aphrodisiac class.
After teaching all those oh-so-in-love couples at my shop tonight about the sensual powers of chocolate, I should have marched straight home and taken an antidote in the form of organizing the junk drawer or scrubbing the kitchen floor while thinking deep thoughts on how to adult better.
But the rosemary fries at Sticks and Stones lured me here, and as I wait for the kitchen to finish my to-go order, my libido takes the wheel.
That man mixing a mojito at the other end of the bar is seriously scorching. This place should come with a warning sign reading: Enter this establishment at your own risk.
I need to tap the brakes and stop staring at the ink on his arms, the scruff on his jaw, the sin in his dark eyes.
I pop in my earbuds and scroll through my podcasts for a distraction. I hit start on a new episode of my friend’s dating show, and after the Heartbreakers and Matchmakers intro, a soprano-pitched guest host immediately begins: “Who wants to take the bad sex challenge? Tell us your sex troubles and we’ll help you figure out how to do it…better.”
Intrigued, I listen for another minute. But while the guest hosts—a disgustingly happy married couple—offer to tackle the between-the-sheets troubles of the single listeners by recreating the bad sex, off-air of course, my attention strays once more to Mister Droolworthy. I’ve seen him here a few times when I’ve swung by. Exchanged a word here or there. And admired the view.
Right now, he’s dropping a sprig of mint into a frosted glass. I’d let him fix my sex life. I’d let him fix it so hard. I bet he could fix it with those hands, those arms, that firm body…that’s coming my way.
Ack!
He delivers the mint-sprigged drink to a woman behind me, then stops right by my side. I smile a little innocently then pop out my earbuds.
“Something amusing?” he asks when he reaches me, with a tease of a smile coasting over those lips. Why does he have to have a bedroom voice to match those bedroom eyes?
Because the universe likes to taunt me with things I can’t have—like a mortgage and a hot-ass man.
“Very much so. It’s the bad sex challenge,” I tell him, after hitting stop on the podcast.
He frowns. “Who would take that?”
“Apparently lots of couples are taking it without even knowing it.”
He wiggles his fingers, beckoning me to share more. “Details.”
“I hate to break it to you, but there’s a lot of bad sex out there in the world. People suffering from this condition are calling into this podcast with their sex woes, and then this happily horny couple are offering their fixes.”
“Sex and woe. Two words that should not go together.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right,” he says, but he’s clearly intrigued. He hasn’t even asked me for a drink order. He tips his forehead toward my phone. “So do they fix them? These…sex woes?”
It’s said with a shudder.
I make a seesaw gesture. “Sort of. They say they’re going to try out the bad sex to diagnose what others are doing wrong. Then, they’ll share tips to help make the sex lives of others great again.”
“I did not know Good Sex Samaritans existed,” he says, deadpanning amazement.
“You learn something new every day.”
“I guess it’s actually the great sex challenge then.” He takes a beat, his gaze lingering on me for several long, delicious seconds. “Right?”
Sign me up for that, I want to say. Right now. Right here. But even I’m not that impulsive. “That doesn’t sound like such a terrible ordeal,” I say with a bob of my shoulder.
“Challenge accepted then,” he says, then clears his throat, and almost like it’s hard for him, he shakes his head and shifts to business mode. “Need anything while we finish up your order?”
