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“Right.”
“I’m not trying to marry you, though I’m sure I’ll enjoy our time together endlessly—”
“I’m sure.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her mockery.
“I’m trying to avoid ending up with another chattier, day-spa-loving version of Walter.”
“Walter?” she asked with good reason.
“My cat.”
Incredulity warred with confusion on her face, pulling her lips out flat to the sides and back again several times.
I knew I was talking her in circles. I just hoped her confusion would lead to grudging acceptance.
Just when I feared she’d chew her lip raw if she kept on at that pace for much longer, she broke the silence with one simple question. “Why me?”
Once again, honesty prevailed.
“Because you’re here.”
She pursed her lips around the sour of my words, but as I tore my gaze away to look into her bright blue eyes, I knew I wasn’t done.
Not with her, not with this conversation, and not with being stupid for the day.
“And you’re fucking beautiful.”
“Beautiful?!” I shrieked, slamming the door to my apartment behind me. The walls shook from the undeserved abuse. “For fuck’s sake, all it takes is one guy—who’s never even been on your let’s get naked together radar—to call you beautiful and you’re acting like some desperate hussy! Really? Really? That’s all it takes?” I dropped my purse to the floor and kicked off my heels. “Where is your pride, you stupid hussy! Where is your fucking pride?”
Cassie barreled out of her room like a herd of buffalo with a curling iron in hand and the cord trailing behind her, startling me enough that I slammed my ass into the counter of our island.
“Where’s the stupid hussy?” she yelled, eyes manic and searching.
I rolled my own eyes dramatically, too pissed at myself to laugh at her antics. “You’re looking at her!” I pointed at myself like a lunatic. “She’s here! She’s right fucking here!”
“Oh,” she sighed, losing her aggressive stance, dropping the unlikely weapon to her side, and standing straight at once. “You don’t count. I thought there was actually a stupid hussy out here you needed to be saved from. I was ready to throw down and beat some ass.”
“Oh, I am a stupid hussy. A pathetic slut who’s a disgrace to our gender. Trust me.”
“Nooooo, you’re not. You’re a Wheorgiebag, but even that isn’t a real whore. Whores have excessively loose vaginas. I’m talking big enough to store all of their whoring money, and yours has never even been open for business. Probably couldn’t even fit a nickel.”
She had a point. My vagina was sealed tighter than Fort Knox. A proverbial “do not pass go” zone for all cockbandits begging entry. It wasn’t because I was a prude or saving myself for marriage. I had just never found the right guy I deemed worthy of thrusting into my goodie bag.
Maybe I was too picky. Maybe my sex therapist mother had driven me to insanity. Or maybe my expectations of waiting to do the deed with a man I had an actual connection with were unrealistic in this day and age. I mean, the plethora of dick and sac pics floating around social media could’ve been evidence of this.
Don’t even get me started on the reaction I received from men when they found out I was a single, twenty-six-year-old woman with an unclaimed V-card. I might as well have told them I was a unicorn who could shoot sparkles out of my ass.
And it wasn’t like I was averse to all sex. I was a big-time advocate for oral. Well, as long as there was a giving and receiving clause in the agreement. Call me crude, but if I’m going to suck it, you’re going to eat it. Period. End of story.
Despite the shocked reactions and stigma revolving around being a woman who had made it through college with her virginity still intact, I stuck to my guns, refusing to just give it up to whoever was hard and willing. It wasn’t a statement of abstinence or strong religious views. It was just me, being myself, and doing what I thought was right for me.
That’s the most important thing when it comes to a woman’s sexual prerogative. She should decide what she really wants without being influenced by social norms or penis peer pressure.
“You’re doing it again,” Cassie interrupted my thoughts.
I tilted my head, confused. “What am I doing?”
“You’re doing that ‘this is why I’m still a virgin’ inner monologue thing. Do I need to turn on the fireplace for a bra-burning ritual? Or should we throw out the razors and let our pit hair run rampant?”
