But there’s this mental block when it comes to viewing sex in a normal, adult way. Chronic embarrassment. Nervous awkwardness. Nagging anxiety.
My friends, though it comes from a place of love, adore teasing memercilesslyabout this. The fact that I can’t even say wordslikecockorpussy—I mean,Jesus—without blushing, and turn into a stammering mess whenever anyone starts talking about sex in front of me, even in the most vanilla terms.
The fact that I’ve managed to hit twenty-three years old without ever having had it…sex, that is.
That tingling sensation drags its way up my spine again as the pornographic gasps fill the room, which seems to be throbbing with its own sexual energy.
If my friends could see me now…
I cringe.
I’d die.
It doesn’t matter that I—like everyone in the club—am wearing a Venetian half-mask that covers my eyes. It doesn’t matter that I’m dressed more brazenly than I have ever been in my entirelife. Or that I’m wearing a black wig to cover my blonde locks.
If I saw one person in this place that I knew, I’d spontaneously combust.
“There you are, beautiful.”
My spine snaps straight, but luckily, no spontaneous combusting occurs. Because this one person here whodoesknow me doesn’tactuallyknow me at all.
All the same, my body clenches and tightens, my skin prickling with anxiety as I turn toward the much older man with the paunch grinning down at me and reeking of vodka.
“Sooo…howsabout we go find a private room, baby,” he leers. “Unless you wanna be a bad girl and ride my dick right here for the crowd.”
Nausea surges inside me.
Remember why you’re here.
I reject the urge to run and instead force what I hope is a seductive expression to my face.
“You know what?” I bat my eyes beneath the mask. “Maybe I could go find another girl to join us for somerealhot, steamy times.”
Somerealhot, steamy times.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit one million, four hundred and three as to why Evelina Nikitin is a twenty-three-year-old virgin.
My idea of “sexy talk” sounds like something out of a Rita Hayworth movie.
Luckily, my date—and my ticket into Club Venom tonight—iswasted. Not just drunk.Russiandrunk. That's saying something.
I met Oleg—or was it Olev?—outside the nondescript entrance to Venom about half an hour ago. Not by chance. I’ve spent a week canvasing the place from the outside, trying to figure out how I—obviouslynota member of the exclusive, members-only club—could get in. I mean, it’s not like a gym where they’re giving out free trials.
A few nights ago, though, I spotted a couple of girls who looked about my age walking out of the club quite late, giggling as they made their way to a cocktail bar down the street. I followed them there, and while I might not do sex, I’m a pro at small talk. Which is how I found out that they, like me, weren’t members,but had both been brought as “personal dates” by older men whowere.
Now, I don’t have a “sexy and alluring” bone in my body. But Oleg-Olev is drunk as a freaking skunk. All it took was waiting outside wearing the sexiest dress I own, flashing a little of my almost nonexistent cleavage when he stumbled up to me, and swallowing my nausea and saying “of course” when he asked me with a leer if I was looking for a “daddy” for the night.
I mean, puke.
But you do what you have to for family. You meet the devil in Hell if you want to cut a deal with him.
When your back’s against the wall…
Oleg-Olev grins drunkenly at me, sloshing the tumbler of vodka in his hand.
“Oh, youdirtylittle thing,” he slurs, breathing alcohol fumes in my face that make my nose wrinkle. “Lookin’ for a little backup to handle my dick, Vivian?”
It has since occurred to me after entering this place that the whole point of the mandatory masks isanonymity. But Oleg-Olev told me his name outside, so I happily told him my fake name: Vivian.
