Page 2 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Have you ever listened to a cat whine from needing a little attention when in heat? Yeah, sounded like it was dying. Try writing in an environment like that. By the time I left work each day, I was a walking furball.
To keep myself from ending up as a crazy cat lady who didn’t mind when she ate thirty percent cat hair with each meal, I decided to write a romance novel. I’m the girl who lived in fantasies where love always prevailed, and a hero waited around the corner to swoop in on his white horse to save you. Given my love for love and my ability to get lost in my writing, I didn’t think it would be so hard to write my first romance. It was my favorite genre . . .butI forgot about one tiny speed bump in that plan.
I was a virgin.
At twenty-three.
Never “de-flowered”.
Always wondered about the act of coitus.
Answering Delaney’s question, I said, “Yes, I’ve started writing it again. I felt it was time to revisit Fabio and Mayberry.”
“Please tell me you did not actually name your character Fabio,” Henry chastised with a snort as he pulled three beers from the fridge.
“What’s wrong with Fabio?” I asked slightly offended. “I will have you know that Fabio was a well-to-do name in the eighties and nineties for the romance genre. He’s the king of all romance. You can’t go wrong with a name like that.”
“Rosie, you know I love you, but I think you need to get your head out of your books for a few hours and realize we’re not living in the eighties and nineties anymore. We’re living in an age of Christian Grey and Jett Colby, dominant men with kinky sides. Stop reading that heaving-bosom shit and get your head in the here and now,” Delaney said.
“There is nothing wrong with a heaving bosom,” I said, recalling what I had just been writing. What else would bosoms do in the heat of passion? Jiggle? Jiggling reminded me of my aunt Emily and her Jell-O salad, not two passionate humans rubbing bodies together.
“There sure is,” Henry said as he handed Delaney and me a beer. “When I have a girl writhing under me, I’m not thinking,damn, look at her heaving bosom. I’m thinking,shit, her tits are jiggling so damn fast from my thrusts, and I’m going to blow it all in a second.” Of course he would say jiggling.
“Ick, Henry. You’re so crude,” I responded.
“Hey, I’m just telling you how a guy thinks, might do you some good.”
“No, what will do her some good is actually losing her virginity,” Delaney said while taking a sip of her beer.
Oh dear God, this is humiliating. Henry had no idea of no idea of mylack ofsexual experience. I kept that to myself . . .andmy loudmouth friend.Thank you, Delaney.
“What?” Henry looked at me wide-eyed and almost a little hurt. “You’re a virgin? How did I not know this? How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Delaney,” I gritted out. I was completely mortified. Being a virgin wasn’t something I made known given I was twenty-three and only had two kisses under my belt of sexual proactivity. “That was private.”
“Sorry,” Delaney said with an innocent smile. “It just slipped.”
I didn’t believe her one bit.
“You’re seriously a virgin?” Henry asked again, still dumbfounded from the news.
“Well, if you must know, I am. I haven’t found the right guy yet,” I said, staring at my beer bottle, starting to feel slightly sorry for myself.
“I can’t believe that. I’m, I . . .” Henry was clearly struggling to find words to express his shock. I didn’t blame him, as we told each other everything.At least he’s not mad for holding back suchvitalinformation. Yet . . .
“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” I said. “I just, I don’t know—”
“You haven’t tried,” Delaney said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie. Marcus and Dwayne don’t count. You barely poked your head out of your books long enough to kiss them on the cheek. You’re living through your characters, when you need to be living in real life.”
“I’m not living in my books. They’re just my friends,” I replied softly. Any serious reader would know what I’m talking about.
“Don’t say that,” Delaney said, pointing at me. “We talked about this, Rosie. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are not your friends.”
“Pride and Prejudice is a fine example of literature and romance,” I shot back.
“You need to get fucked,” Delaney shouted, tossing her arms to the sky. “You need to drop the books, spread your legs, and get fucked, Rosie. If you have any chance in writing that book of yours, you need to experience the sensations firsthand.”
“Ha, firsthand.” Henry chuckled to himself.
