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I can hear Tai from the movie Clueless in my head right now—You’re a virgin who can’t drive.
Obviously, I can drive. Well, I can drive an automatic. But a stick shift? Yeah, that might as well be a metaphor for my sex life. Inept and literally clueless.
It can’t be that hard, though…right?
People have been having sex since…forever.
And the sex equation isn’t fucking rocket science. Take one hard penis, add in a vagina that serves as a metaphorical shaft slip-n-slide, and bingo bango, sex is happening.
I stare at my virginal beaver in the mirror and wonder if there’re some details I’m missing here…
Does lube need to be involved?
Is my vagina one-size-fits-all like those jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants?
Or does size actually matter in this scenario?
Jesus. Am I really trying to understand the logistics of sex right now? While I’m fresh out of the shower, in a sexy, charming man’s bathroom? A man I just so happen to know from my childhood?
Yes. You really are that woman. I awkwardly push myself back up to standing, brush the wet locks out of my eyes, and hitch my bare hip against the bathroom counter.
A heavy sigh escapes my lungs when I glance down at the purity ring on my finger again.
This stupid ring might as well be an albatross around my neck. It has followed me all the way through my teenage years, and now, only a short while away from my thirties, I’m still wearing the damn thing.
What is it with this stupid ring?
What is it with me?
Personally, I actually love the idea of sex.
You also want to do the sex.
Hell yes, I do. I want to have sex.
I want to know what it feels like to have a man inside me.
I want to fucking feel a man inside me.
But with my insane schedule and my overbearing team that includes my agent and manager and her assistants and a whole plethora of other people who help me be the flawless, virginal sexpot that is Raquel Weaver to the rest of the world, I don’t even have time to date, much less have sex.
I stare at my reflection again in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy from my hot shower, and my hair is wet and hanging past my shoulders. But my eyes, well, they’re bright. Mischievous, even. It’s like they know more than I do.
Three soft raps tap against the door, and I jump at the unexpected sound, gripping the marble counter in surprise.
“Rocky?” A husky, now-familiar voice asks gently from the other side. “You okay? You need anything?”
Rocky. Talk about a true blast from the past. No one has called me that ridiculous nickname since I was a kid, but damn, I kind of love it. It reminds me of simpler times, easier times, better times.
I mull over his questions in my mind. Am I okay? Do I need anything?
As if they have a mind of their own, my eyes spot the reflection of the ring on my finger. The pavé diamonds shimmer and shine beneath the vanity lights hanging above the mirror, and my brain begins to think about all the things I do need…
Things I need to see and touch and taste and feel.
Things I need to experience for myself.
Things I need to finally do for me and no one else.
“Rocky?”
His voice doesn’t startle me this time. Instead, I smile.
“I’m good,” I say, and I quickly realize there is one thing missing inside this bathroom—a change of clothes. The very change of clothes—his clothes, in fact—that he said he’d get me.
Could this be the most perfect seduction scenario?
“Almost done,” I spout a half-truth, and my smile brightens like the lightbulb that just switched on in my mind.
Technically, I am almost done in this bathroom.
But, tonight? Yeah, I think I’m just getting started…
Harrison
Never cry over spilled milk.
That’s what my mom always said, but I have to admit, until today, I never paid it much attention. As a kid, I spilled shit all the time. Milk. Juice. Water. If it was liquid, I was splattering it all over fucking creation.
Our mop got a lot of action, sure, but every time, my mom would simply laugh. Not a little, demure giggle, but big, uproarious belly laughing. Ellie Hughes thought life was made for living, and she’d be damned if she let me dwell in the valleys. Hell, maybe that’s why I was always wreaking havoc on all of our flooring—my accidents were a precursor to something upbeat.
Anyway, I haven’t thought much about all those puddles of laughter in a long time.
But today is proof positive: my mom—well, she was a teacher way ahead of her time.
Cereal poured and the financial section of the New York Times in hand, I make my way to my circular, glass kitchen table and take a seat that faces the TV.
