Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
I could refuse to marry a stranger.
But none of that would be enough.
Instead, I chose this, because it’s the last thing I can really control.
A tattoo can be lasered away. A piercing comes out. My father can find me and make sure I say my vows whether I agree to do it or not.
But my virginity will never grow back.
And so I’m giving it away tonight, even though I’m itching with how awkward and uncomfortable I feel.
Which is why I packed my favorite vibrator.
Some stupid, insane voice in my head thought it would be a good idea to have it, just in case things went wrong and I needed a little helping hand.
Like if I weren’t in the mood? Maybe it would… assist? I could whip it out like hey, stranger, I actually brought my own sex toy! I promise I’m not weird!
As if tonight were about getting off and not just getting on with it.
Irrational, I know, but for some reason it felt like a good luck totem at the time. Like if I brought a sex toy, I’d have more confidence or something.
I’m aware how insane I must seem.
I definitely feel like I’m losing my mind.
The alcohol starts to help. I bop around in my stool at the bar, bouncing a little bit to the loud, pulsing beat. Honestly, people do this sort of thing all the time. They meet in places like this, build some kind of connection, and have a one-night stand. It can’t be that hard.
I just need to send the right signals.
How do I let men know I want some no-strings-attached sex? Without coming across as a hooker, ideally?
Although, it might not be so bad if I manage to pull this off and also earn some spending money…
I try making eye contact with a few of the men sitting near me. One’s around my age, maybe a little older, and doesn’t seem to be here with anyone, but he’s way too lost in scrolling on his phone. I catch the eye of another guy and try giving him a big, friendly smile, but I must look deranged because he quickly turns away.
Not the best showing so far.
After my third glass of wine, I’ve got a good buzz going, but I’m feeling pretty dejected. I ask for a fourth, even though I know it isn’t a good idea, and leave a big tip for the bartender. I gather up all my courage and turn toward the dance floor, thinking this is the only way I’ll be able to attract a mate, like I’m some kind of peacock in a nature documentary. I’ll shake my ass, get all sweaty, maybe let some guy grind up on me, and that might go somewhere. I can do this; I can definitely do it.
I throw myself around, take one step toward the dance floor, and slam into a guy so hard I spill my drink all down his shirt.
“What the fuck?” the guy says, looking at himself, his big, pig-like eyes going wide with shock.
He’s heavyset with a shaved head and a thick nose. I’m guessing banker, maybe car salesman, hard to really say, but he’s definitely bristling with testosterone in all the worst ways.
There’s a moment of pure horror where I’m gaping at the humongous, soaking wet stain on his expensive-looking shirt and he’s glaring from me back down at himself like he can’t believe this is happening, and neither of us does anything, like if we acknowledge the stain any further that’ll somehow make it real.
Then he must decide being wet sucks and he grabs my arm.
“I’m fucking soaked, you clumsy bitch,” he snarls at me.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I swear, it was an accident.” My heart’s racing with terror, and this is basically my worst nightmare playing out in real time.
“I don’t give a shit if it was an accident. I’m fucking drenched.” His grip tightens, and I realize he’s drunk. Like, really drunk. His eyes are glassy, and his lips are pulled back in rage. He’s roided-out, and his top three buttons are undone, and there’s a big glittering chain around his neck. His gelled hair looks like a helmet on his square head.
I revise my initial assessment. Not a banker or a salesman.
More like a cheap mafia prize fighter.
Panic slams into my chest. Now I have to deal with this asshole, placate him somehow, fix his shirt or dry him off or give him money or something, and forget about sex tonight.
It’s not happening.
I wasted my one chance. I’m getting married in four weeks, and my father won’t be going out of town again before it happens. That means there won’t be any other risky nights like this one, no last-ditch shots at keeping a piece of myself purely for myself.
“Seriously, I’m really sorry. Here, I have money in my clutch—” An insane plan forms in my brain. I don’t even know why, but the way he’s talking to me, the way he’s grabbing me, it manages to turn all my fear into pure anger. Fuck this guy for ruining my night. Fuck him for thinking he can touch me just because I made a mistake.