This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m definitely not having a complete mental breakdown in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life while wearing a slouchy, cartoon pajama T-shirt while clutching a vibrator that has enough horsepower to jumpstart a Toyota. Totally normal, run-of-the mill evening. Nothing to see here. Just your average girl-meets-boy story. Except instead of a cute coffee shop meet-cute, I’m casually offering my virginity to a professional sex-haver like I’m struggling to get a pickle jar open and his thick, muscular arms are the magic solution.
I swear he wasnot this hotfifteen minutes ago.
I mean, I noticed he was attractive before—in a vague, objective way, the same way you’d notice a nice painting or a well-designed lamp. But now that I’m actually looking at him, now that my brain has apparently decided to fully processvisual information for the first time tonight, I’m realizing that “attractive” doesn’t quite cover it.
He’s gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes my brain short-circuit like I’ve just licked a 9-volt battery while standing in the rain. The angles of his face are model-like, and his sharp jaw could probably slice cheese with ease. His lips look like he’s been sucking on one of those cherry popsicles that stain your tongue for days, and his eyes are so dark yet sparkly, it’s like looking into tiny galaxies. And sweet baby giraffe, is this man tall. I’d need NASA’s help to kiss him without developing serious neck strain. My five-foot-three self would need a stepladder, a trampoline, and possibly rocket assistance just to boop him on the nose.
I’ve spent twenty-three years following my mother’s advice about waiting for true love. Saving myself for someone special. Someone who would see me—the real me—and choose me every time.
And now I’m about to throw all of that away. Why? I’m not sure, but lately my virginity feels like some kind of bouncer at club Grow The Fuck Up Already, and I’d really like to kick that bastard to the curb so I can finally get in. I’m tired of being treated like a child. Hiring an escort is the antithesis of childish behavior…or so my logic says. My loyal brain is working overtime to make this make sense, because it doesn’t. But on the other hand, the last time I can remember actually wanting a man was…never.
This is either rock bottom or the beginning of something. I genuinely cannot tell which.
Taio stands in the entryway like a sculpture that wandered in from a museum, patiently waiting through my silent, category-five mental hurricane. The ticking of the wall clock sounds like a time bomb counting down to social catastrophe. When theawkward lull stretches so long I swear I can see the houseplant growing in real time, he finally asks, “Where do you want me?”
“Um…” My eyes ping-pong between the couch and the hallway leading to my bedroom, which suddenly seems miles away. He reads the panic on my face like I’m a neon billboard flashing:Virgin in Distress.
“I meant to sit and talk, Charlie. I’m not asking you what piece of furniture you want me to bend you over.”
I palm-smack my forehead so hard I probably leave a cartoon-worthy red mark. “Oh, right. Well, first should I…” I gesture vaguely toward the hallway, my arm flopping like a dying fish. “Shower? Change into something sexier? Burn this Tweety Bird shirt in a ritual sacrifice?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable,” he says with the faintest hint of a smile as he retreats to the couch, his long legs folding gracefully into my cramped living space. “And I like the shirt. Team Tweety over Sylvester any day. You look good in it. Very girl next door.”
“You like ‘girl next door’?” I ask, my voice catching. Part of me wants to believe he finds me genuinely attractive—that beneath the professional veneer, there’s something genuine. But another part whispers this is just his job. Does Taio actually get to choose who he sleeps with? Or does he just smile and nod at whatever’s in front of him? I picture him checking his watch when I’m not looking, calculating his hourly rate while I fumble through my first time.
“I like you.”
I pout at him. “Oh, please. You can’t possibly know that yet.”
He winks at me. “I can, and I do. I mean, I don’t have a ring in my pocket or anything, but you’re funny, nice, and so refreshingly down-to-earth. I’m happy to be here.”
“Okay,” I chirp out uncomfortably as if his compliments might eat me alive. “I’m just going to go…” I don’t finish mysentence, I’m already gone, bolting toward the master bathroom like my T-shirt is on fire. Which, metaphorically speaking, it should be. No one in the history of seduction has ever successfully gotten laid while dressed as a cartoon canary.
I slam the bathroom door behind me and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Oh.Oh no.
It’s worse than I thought. The shirt is even more aggressively yellow under the bathroom lights. My hair is somehow greasy and dry, just really doing the most to cover all bases. My face is a topographical map of exhaustion—dark circles, blotchy skin, the general pallor of someone who hasn’t seen direct sunlight in weeks.
This is the face of a woman about to have sex for the first time? This is the body I’m offering to a man who probably sleeps with supermodels on a regular basis?
Triage. I need triage.
I rip the ponytail holder out of my hair, wincing as it takes several strands with it. Finger-comb. Finger-comb harder. Okay, that’s…marginally better. Not great, just better. I can settle for that. Now, onto makeup. I dig through my toiletry bag with the frantic energy of a surgeon looking for a scalpel. Foundation—no time. Concealer—can’t find it. Mascara—yes, that’ll help, mascara makes everyone look more awake and alive and less like a sleep-deprived gremlin?—
I yank the wand out of the tube and jab it directly into my eyeball.
“Fuck!” I roar with an intensity that surprises even me.
Pain. Immediate, searing pain. My eye floods faster than theTitanictaking on seawater, and each blink feels like sandpaper coated in whiskey. The mascara spreads in an artistically questionable black river, transforming my under-eye area intowhat can only be described as a raccoon’s attempt at goth makeup after three espresso martinis.
I try to fix it with my finger. This transfers mascara to my other eye somehow. Now I have two black smudges. I look like a sad panda who lost a boxing match.
I grab a tissue and scrub at the mess, but the mascara is waterproof—of course it’s waterproof, I only use the industrial-strength kind for tour—and all I’m doing is smearing the disaster across a wider surface area.
I stop. Hands braced on the sink. Staring at the catastrophe in the mirror. I look like a clown. A sad, exhausted, sexually frustrated clown who is definitely not about to seduce anyone tonight. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Or maybe it’s a sob. It’s hard to tell the difference lately.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head.What are you doing, Charlie? Tell him to leave. This is absolute madness. This isn’t you. I know you’re lonely, but this isn’t the answer.
