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Sophie
Present Day
Not to be dramatic, but I just experienced the worst sex of my life.
No, I’m not joking, but I wish I was. It’s the whole reason I hide in my bathroom, whispering to myself while the object of my frustration lies on my dorm bed.
Andre Bianchi: math whiz, business fraternity vice president, and voted most likely to leave you unsatisfied two rounds in a row.
“I should have taken the flavored condoms as a warning sign. No self-respecting male who has an inkling of a woman’s body would have flavored condoms. Stupidest purchase ever. Also, who invented those because no woman in their right mind wants to lick a condom!” I whisper to myself, brushing down my barely ruffled blonde hair. It’s further evidence supporting my sucky sex life. My hair looks as good as it did this morning when I brushed it. My makeup is barely smeared, and there are zero signs of rosy cheeks or post-coital glow. Green eyes blink back at me, looking as lackluster as my sex life right about now.
My chest squeezes to the point of difficulty breathing, reminding me of my disappointment yet again.
Clearly, I’m getting more A’s than orgasms at my university. I don’t know why the thought bothers me, but it really does. I don’t sleep around, and I can count my sexual encounters on one hand. Worse, none of those include a happily ever after for me. I’m starting to consider myself broken because how can this keep happening to me? The guys get off fine while I blink up at the ceiling, wondering what I experienced.
No endorphins released. No post-sex bliss. Nothing. Niente. Nada.
This recent encounter hits me hard. What’s the point of attending university if I’m going to live in my dorm, barely associating with others, experiencing sex once a year with a fellow bumbling accounting major? It ends with me asking them to go with a smile, pretending they rocked my world when I really sucked their dick while mentally listing off my pending assignments.
“Oh God. I thought about my accounting professor while giving a blowjob. This is the lowest of lows,” I mumble to myself, barely withholding a groan.
I can’t allow this to happen to me anymore. My type A personality is biting me in the ass, and not exactly in the Hi, my name is Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey is my daddy kind of way.
“Sophie, you’re going to march out there and tell him to hit the road. It’s past your bedtime, and you need to sleep off this terrible mood.” I sigh as I gather the courage needed to face the poor guy outside.
Andre was nice and polite, even offering to pay for dinner before. I don’t mean to be rude, but I struggle to understand my feelings right now. To be honest, I feel more disappointed in myself for not letting go, both mentally and physically. It’s a genuine struggle between fighting for control while attempting to take a mental vacation from my brain.
I grip the handle of my bathroom door and whip it open. “Hi, sorry about that. I think it’s—”
I let out a breath of relief as I check out my empty bed. Maybe tonight isn’t a total bust after all. My eyes catch a piece of paper on top of my pillow.
Thanks for a good time. Let’s do this again next weekend?
Nope. Absolutely not. I’d rather leave the country than see him again.
Wait. Now that’s an idea.
I grab a recently opened bottle of white wine from my mini fridge as I turn on my laptop. Forgoing the glass, I take a big swig straight from the bottle as I open up my dad’s Formula 1 calendar. He already booked next month’s flight to Melbourne.
I open up Pinterest, wondering how Melbourne looks. As I scroll through some posts while intermittently taking sips of wine, I click on one labeled Bucket List.
I end up getting sucked further into the land of lost time and pins, scrolling through multiple travel bucket lists. Blame my burning sense of curiosity at what people come up with. I love a good list, but I’ve never considered half these crazy items. My head grows foggier as I continue sipping wine and searching.
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline as another Naughty Bucket List crosses my feed. Interest eats away at me as I open up the list. Naughty is a word I’ve never associated myself with. At least not since I was five and my dad threatened to tell Santa I deserved coal for Christmas after I spilled a milkshake all over the interior of his McCoy Illusion.
Holy shit. People are mighty creative. I spend too much time going through multiple naughty lists. I could be studying, or sleeping, or finding a new beau on a dating app. But no. Buzzed me enjoys pinning my favorite sexy items. Where was this nonchalance two hours ago?
I don’t know if it’s my lonely evening or the wine I’ve consumed that inspires me to open my expertly tabbed agenda to one of the extra hidden pages in the back.
I work on a list of items I’ve never done but have always wanted to try. An hour later, I somehow have the coordination to type up the entire thing and color-code it. Before I press the print button, a name for the list comes to mind, and I type the words Fuck It List at the top.
I stare at the piece of printed paper, wondering why the hell I created this. Can I really convince my dad to let me join his F1 schedule? Better yet, can I really go through doing half these items? Ignoring my doubts, I pull out my personal laminator because, yes, I’m one of those people. I get the paper to fold after a few failed origami attempts and growls of frustration.
The Fuck It List shines in all its laminated glory. I smile at the twenty items I boldly, yet semi drunkenly, chose.
Go skinny-dipping.
Buy a vibrator.
