Page 7 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
I dated, but I never blind dated. I wasn’t really into the possible awkward moment where you meet the blind date and see that not only is he a foot shorter than you were told, but he also had a pet pimple on his chin that winked at you every time he smiled.
“Before you say no, he’s not like Marcus.”
Marcus was the last guy she set me up with, the chin-pimple winker.
“He’s Drew’s friend and is new to town. We said we would take him out to have some fun and thought you’d like to go with us. We’re going swing dancing . . .”
Damn her, damn her to hell. She knew I loved swing dancing, and it was very rare I went because I’d never found a partner . . . one that was semi-decent.
“He knows how to swing dance?”
“Some call him Fred Astaire,” Jenny said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“You thought Marcus looked like Andy Garcia, when in real life he looked like Pee-wee Herman, so excuse me if I don’t completely trust your opinion.”
“I told you, I was drunk when I first met Marcus, okay? I had my tequila goggles on. I apologized for that. Can we move on now?”
“Fine. When do you want to go out?” I asked, feeling apprehensive but somewhat excited about a possible date.
“This Friday,” she squealed while clapping her hands.
Thinking about my options, I nodded my head and pointed my finger at her before she got too excited. “Don’t make this a big deal. I’m only going because I haven’t been swing dancing in a while.”
“Eeeeee,” she squealed again, still clapping and bouncing her feet up and down. “You’re going on a date.”
“You exhaust me.” I pointed to her to leave. “I have to finish this article if I want to get out of here at a decent hour and before Sir Licks-a-lot comes back to plot my death.”
Nodding, she got up and clasped her hands by her chest. “You’re going to love Atticus.”
“Atticus?” I asked, but she left before she could answer my question.
Just from his name I was already starting to feel nervous about Friday and who this Atticus might be. Jenny, bless her heart, had great intentions, but her blind dates were usually picked up from the corner of Creepy Court and Loser Lane—but that was because they were usually her boyfriend’s friends, who wasn’t a winner himself . . . not that I should judge. I’d been on a handful of dates. I’m the friend, never the girlfriend, and I was okay with that until I realized I was twenty-three, still a virgin, and as sexually inexperienced as a tween with One Direction posters scouring her walls.
I finished my work, avoided the stares of Sir Licks-a-lot and his posse, who seemed to be crowding in the corner, writing a game plan on the wall with their nails while passing around a ball of catnip. I instantly felt nervous for my keyboard and prayed it made it through the night.
As I took the subway home, I thought about my life situation. I was currently being bullied by a twenty-pound tabby cat with the devil in his eyes; my job, which paid the bills, was horrifying to have on my résumé as a real-life job; and my sex life was non-existent. I needed a change big time.
I should be out perusing the sexual dating pot of the overeager gentlemen and horny homies New York City had to offer instead of dating my book boyfriends . . . even though they were the only men who truly satisfied me.Theywere perfect.
The eclectic people of the subway flowed in and out of the train, listening to music on their phones, texting, and some were even making out in the corner. Being the pervert I was, I watched the couple making out in fascination, how their hands ran up and down each other’s bodies, how they barely came up to breathe . . .I want that.
I wanted to know what it was like to stick my tongue down a guy’s throat. I wanted to know what it looked like to see a boner in action, instead of reading about it. If I’m going to get out of the crazy cat lady life I’m living and finally write the romance novel I’d been working on for years, I needed to experience life. I needed to have sex.
With renewed vigor, I walked from the subway to my apartment. I was going to make a game plan on how to lose my virginity. Delaney was right; I needed to start experimenting, getting myself out there and taking notes, because when I was finally ready to have a man bee pollinate my flower, I wanted to remember everything about it.
Dropping my purse on the side table, I grabbed some water from the fridge and went to my bedroom where there was a little gift bag on my bed with a note. I closed my door and flopped on my bed, wondering what one of my roommates left me. I opened the card and read it out loud.
“Time to find your big ‘O.’ Love you, Henry.”
Confused, I dug through the bag and pulled out a little pink nugget—the size of a bullet—and a Kindle that had a note on it saying it was fully stocked. My heart fluttered from the gift of books, but then I observed the nugget, wondering what it was.
“What the hell?”
I twisted it in my hand and it started vibrating, making my cheeks flame with embarrassing heat.
Oh.
My.
