Total pages in book: 6
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
I need a killer starting line, but I don’t quite have it yet so I step inside, grab my metal watering can and fill it up at the sink. Then I return to my deck, watering the little pots of sage that I recently planted, then the kale, the pole beans and the rosemary too.
I set down the can as my cat, Hot Stuff, rubs against my ankle, purring as he marks me. Bending down, I stroke his soft head for a bit, then stand and lean against the brick railing, checking out my patch of Grove Street, lined with pretty trees stretching their branches in the spring. It’s the kind of block where you might shoot a movie. The kind of block where anything feels possible.
Resting my elbows on the edge of the brick, I watch the evening roll by.
My heart thumps a little faster as the silhouette of a man comes into view below. Closer, then even closer. I recognize those strong arms, that square jaw, the delicious amount of scruff.
That’s him. “Mister Dessert,” I call out.
But he keeps walking because . . . earbuds.
Damn earbuds.
He’s probably listening to a baking podcast about making delicious cake for the woman you can’t stop thinking about. I try to wave too, but he doesn’t look up.
Le sigh.
Then he passes me, and I get a back view for the first time.
Oh. My. Stars.
Did I just become an ass woman?
I think so.
I can’t look away from his booty. My eyes are drawn to his perfect tush, and his fantastic pants—trim, checked, blue. They’re fashionable and such a welcome change from what most men wear—baggy, boring cargo shorts or too-loose jeans or, barf, khakis. “I shall call him Mister Sexy Pants,” I declare, as he turns into a nearby building.
I don’t feel so silly anymore. I feel . . . inspired. I break out my phone and dictate my column.
5
His First Appearance
Veronica
* * *
The Virgin Club
Breaking the Good News to Your Date
* * *
If you’re going to have a crush, you might as well name that crush. I gave mine a name today.
I call him Mister Sexy Pants. I’ve seen him around once or twice. Fine, fine, one time we talked, the other time I just stared like a peeping Tom as he walked past me on the street below.
But I don’t think anyone could blame me. He’s witty, funny, and so easy on the eyes.
He’s also become the object of my fantasies. Yep. I’m not afraid to admit I’ve whispered my crush’s name alone at night with my battery-operated friends.
I’ve asked him to do unholy things to my body alone in the dark.
Hell, I’ve begged.
Which makes me wonder . . .
How would I tell him about my V-card if we ever had the chance?
The reveal is a thing the unplucked have to consider.
Some might think a virgin’s top worry is how it’ll feel when she finally does the deed. And, if you’re into guys, there’s the will-it-fit question.
Me? The thing that keeps me up at night is how I’m going to break the ice.
If we go out for drinks, do I order a virgin Piña Colada, give the drink a coquettish look, then say, The cocktail isn’t the only virgin here?
Or I could say, Wanna put your Piña in my Colada sometime?
Maybe I take him shopping for olive oil, hold up a bottle of extra virgin and say, This, me, same.
But those feel twee.
Then there’s the super direct approach. Over a cup of coffee, I could clear my throat, then say, “Hey, I haven’t ever tried reverse cowgirl, girl on top, doggy style, or any variation on the above, but I’d really like to with you.”
First date, fifth date, text, in person? What’s a never-been-touched-down-there gal to do? Do you treat it like a secret or a fact?
I’m here to tell you the choice is all yours. There is no right or wrong way. You don’t owe it to anyone to reveal it in their time. Do it in your own time.
Say it when you meet. Or don’t say it when you meet. Share it over drinks or coffee. Or don’t. Wait till the fifth date or the tenth or the first. It’s your virginity. It’s not anyone else’s.
As for me, when I meet the right guy, I’ll probably keep it simple and say something like, “Want to go where only a battery-operated friend has gone before?”
Until then, I’ll be picturing Mister Sexy Pants . . .
* * *
Your Friendly Neighborhood Virgin
6
The Synonym Slinger
Milo
* * *
A month or so later . . .
* * *
Today is the day.
I am wound like a top.
All my bones are cranked tight, my nerves stretched thin.
I’ve been waiting for this chance for months. But before I walk into this hornet’s nest of a meeting, I need to burn off my worries, so I cruise along the High Line on my bike.