Chapter one
No orgasm, no moan
Lulu
“Welcome toClit Talk Confidential, where we believe mediocre men should never be allowed near your vulva or your taxes.”
Amen.
I nod along, bouncing slightly on my toes as I stroll down a sun-drenched sidewalk in one of Denver’s newer suburbs, sipping a Green Goddess Explosion smoothie the exact color of pond scum. In my other hand, the leash of the most opinionated Mini Schnauzer in North America.
Miso, with the body of a stuffed toy and the attitude of a war general, marches ahead like she’s leading a military parade. Hertail is high, her jaw is set, and if she could flip off the squirrel on the corner, she would.
Technically, this is her neighborhood, not mine. I’m dog-sitting for Eli—my big brother and resident pain in my ass—who plays for the Colorado Storm. He and his wife, Tamara, are off on one last “just us” vacation before the new hockey season kicks off. They claimed it was for rest and connection, but the way Tamara winked when she handed me the keys tells me it’s less about sightseeing and more about horizontal cardio with a view.
And honestly, good for them. The further away from my eyeballs and earholes, the better.
Meanwhile, I’m twenty-three, single, and listening to sex-positive affirmations. Hanging out with a schnauzer who growls at mailboxes. Trying to pretend I’m not in a full-blown spiral about how my love life is a carousel of disappointment.
“This week,” the podcast host continues in my headphones, “we’re talking pleasure. More specifically, how to stop settling for orgasms that feel like drive-thru coffee—quick, lukewarm, and forgettable.”
I snort-laugh into my smoothie.
Too late. I’ve already got the punch card for those.
If orgasms were a grading system, I’ve been stuck in remedial classes for the last… forever. And it’s not because I don’t try. I do the work, I ask for what I want. I’ve got the damn anatomy memorized. The problem is, I keep attracting the same type: guys who see me as Eli’s pretty little sister, the blonde with a sparkly phone case and long legs. They flirt, they flatter, they pretend to care, but it always ends the same.
First, they ask what it’s like having an NHL player in the family. Then they ask for tickets, or maybe merch. Then they try to hang out at Eli’s place, like I’m some kind of concierge for Storm access. And all the while, they treat me as arm candy—smiling at my jokes without actually hearing them, calling mebabein bed while skipping over every part of me that isn’t directly connected to their dick.
It’s exhausting. And infuriating. And I’m not nearly as good at pretending it doesn’t hurt as I used to be.
So I’m doing the work. Listening to the podcasts and reclaiming my body. Buying toys. Saying words likeyoniwith a straight face. Unsubscribing from the idea that wanting pleasure makes me needy.
I’m also swiping. My new dating app strategy is brutally simple: I’m not looking for the one. I’m looking for someone who at leasttriesto make me come before they do. Maybe I’m setting the bar low, but if I’m not finding true love, I can at least find a true orgasm. Something that doesn’t end with me fake-moaning into a pillow while the guy on top congratulates himself.
Because I’m worth it.
I am a vibrant, confident, sexually empowered woman.
I am in charge of my body.
I am—
“ARF!”
Miso lunges, and my headphones disconnect with a loud blip as I’m jolted forward.
“And don’t fake it, honey! If he hasn’t earned the orgasm, he doesn’t get the moan!”
The podcast host’s gleeful voice blasts from my phone speaker at full volume, echoing into the quiet suburban street.
“Miso, no!” I shriek, stumbling forward to chase her, my smoothie, my phone, and every damn law of physics all but forgotten.
Thunk.
I grunt as I slam into a solid wall of six-foot-something, sweat-drenched jogger. Chest meets chest. Smoothie meets aerodynamics. Ass meets pavement.
An arch of green spirulina sails through the air, while my phone smacks the concrete and bounces into a hedge, still playing the podcast at a volume that would make my grandmother cross herself.
