Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
The night before I left my parents’ house in Bloomfield for our camp adventure, I spent the night bingeing on rice crispy treats and Red Vines, watching all the classic summer virginity losing movies I could find.
My mom always told me she wanted to be Kristy McNichol or Tatum O’Neal when she was a teenager. Over the years, she made me watch The Bad News Bears a hundred times and Little Darlings a hundred more.
Now, here I am, a twenty-one-year-old virgin about to play out her own summer camp cherry-popping story, but from what I can tell, there’s no Matt Dillon in this crowd.
It’s not that I’m disinterested in sex. I have…urges.
My ex-boyfriend—slash implied fiancé—Greg would probably beg to differ on that, but I trusted my gut thank goodness, and after I found out he was skimming my bank account to support his CS’GO addiction, I found the courage to get off that ride.
That’s the thing about virginity. It’s a one-shot deal. If you ‘give’ it to someone with some emotional attachment and then, bam, you find out they’re a Greg, it feels like you’ve been punked.
So I decided to lose it to someone who won’t be some long-term disappointment. This way, it can be on my terms. A hot one-night stand or a short summer fling, and that’s it. No strings, no long sappy goodbyes.
No expectations.
That was the plan, at least. But the shine is fading already. Maybe I’ll wait until I start my master’s studies at NYU in the fall. There has to be some hot grad student in the speech therapy program that would happily take the honors.
I peel my thighs from the sticky vinyl seat cushion, adjusting myself as I grip the edge of the tabletop for support.
Our shot-buying benefactors are walking our way as Dolly shoots me a wink, leaning an elbow on the table, cocking her hip and swinging her leg forward and back, scuffing the bottom of her black cowboy boot on the linoleum floor.
“Which one do you fancy?” she hiss-whispers as they come closer. “You get first pick.”
My urge to bolt toward the door clutches at my throat. I look ridiculous in this cowgirl stripper outfit. I tug at the tied-up knot on the front of my shirt, the flesh of my belly pooching out, and there are dimples on my thighs where they push against the seat. I’m happy with my body, but right now I just wish I was wearing something a little less…obvious.
The next half hour is a blur of whipped cream covered shots and awkwardly watching my best friend flirt, while the taller guy with the shaved head tells me I should smile more. I grit my teeth and stay civil, because Dolly looks like she’s in hog heaven. The other guy seems genuinely interested in her and honestly is not a complete douche. He even bowed down and kissed the toe of her boot when she lifted it for him.
In another life, I think she’d have made one hell of a pro-domme.
I, on the other hand, am dreaming of a bubble bath back at the bed and breakfast, with my v-card living to see another day.
“Hey, give me a little smile.” Bald guy leans his meaty forearms on the edge of the table, his entire hulking weight tipping it off balance, spilling my bag and all of our drinks onto the floor around his feet as he steps back. “Jesus, fuck! Watch what you’re doing!”
His hands fly upward, spilled beer drenching the front of his jeans. His condescending sticky-sweet mask drops as anger digs into his ruddy features, red creeping over his face, making him look like a volcano ready to blow.
By this time, Dolly has transitioned to the dancefloor with baldy’s friend, smiling and spinning on her cowboy boots like she’s the hoedown queen of Ompotomic.
“You leaned on the table,” I snap, hopping off my chair and dropping into a crouch in a rush to salvage the contents of my bag from the beer and whiskey dripping down from the tabletop.
I play through the excuses I could use to get away from him—or get him to go away without cock blocking Dolly’s good time.
I swallow down the curses gathering in my throat, as he kicks at the broken glass around his feet, slapping his hands down the front of his grimy t-shirt as I pinch the corner of my dripping wallet on a grimace and shove it inside my bag.
“You’re not even my type.” He scowls on a disgusted grunt. “I was just being nice because my friend had a hard-on for your girl.”
He jerks his thumb toward the dance floor, making no effort to help me pick up the contents of my spilled bag, when a new pair of worn work boots strides into view from my left.