Page 29 of Money Shot

This book read like an episode of the Jerry fucking Springer Show.

I fell in love with the guy who raped me as a teen, and used to come to my house as a babysitter and tie me up in the basement and stick broom handles in my twat. He beat me unconscious when I was twenty, and my family moved away, but I decided to stay because I truly loved him.

Then, after a few years of suggesting and me willingly complying with his requests to have threesomes with him and his brother, I woke up and decided to break it off.

After six months of sulking and smoking meth, I decided to give his other brother a try, only to fall in love with the stepfather.

Are you fucking kidding me right now?

As I read this worthless piece of shit, I held my breath in wait of the trip to Tijuana and the Shetland pony show. That’s really all this book was missing.

Great read?

I think not.

Hot sex scenes?

No.

Well written?

Yes.

But I don’t care to read another hot sex scene when the h is mentally challenged and incapable of standing up for herself against an H who is overbearing, has a thirteen inch cock, and can fuck for twelve hours straight without the aid of a Viagra.

“Fuck me and my brother, okay?”

“I don’t want to, it’s not right…”

“How can it be wrong if I want it and you love me, Aphilia?”

“I guess it can’t. Okay, I’ll do it, but only because I love you…”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a direct quote from this five star read. I’m sorry, but I about barfed.

And who in the absolute fuck names their kid Aphilia, anyway?

Nobody.

Want a five star review?

Write me a book about a girl named Sienna who gets her brains fucked out by a bearded biker.

My rating? Half a star because I liked the dedication, but with great reluctance I must give it one star because Goodreads won’t allow zero.

I published the review and reached for the bottle of wine. After raising it to my lips, I realized it was the same empty bottle I had so eagerly abandoned earlier.

Heavy, but empty.

Fuck.

After removing my glasses and tossing them to the side, I pushed myself away from my desk, stood, and sang backup for Madonna’s “Santa Baby,” which was the only thing that saved me from my wine deprived state of being. As the song came to a close, I smiled and fell back onto my bed with my arms outstretched.

After a moment of staring at the ceiling I rolled over and smashed my face into the closest pillow.

My lunch with Vince earlier in the day had been perfect.

Vince was perfect.

And I was sure I could be perfect for him, I just needed an opportunity.

I wrapped my arms around the pillow, squeezed it tight, and within a few seconds, began to softly cry.

And on that night, in a slightly drunken state of being, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in five years.