Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
But all growing up, I’d watched my mother use her sex appeal like a weapon, luring in one man after another. She played up the stereotype of sexy Latina woman to the hilt, wearing tight, revealing clothing that highlighted her ample assets.
I hated it. Hated the admiring glances the boys in my classes shot her way on the few instances she actually showed up at my school functions. Hated the way my father was still broken-hearted over her years after she’d left him.
And I especially hated the fact that since I was her spitting image, everyone expected me to turn out just the same.
As soon as my breasts began developing, I started wearing the baggiest, most unsexy clothing I could find. I cut my thick, glossy brown hair short. I studied hard and focused on grades and avoided boys and parties like the plague.
When I got to college, I chilled out a little. I had hormones just like any other girl. Sure, I was curious. Touching and getting myself off took care of that a little bit, but I wasn’t immune to romantic dreams.
My sophomore year, I got my first serious boyfriend. I met Brian in my Principals of Financial Accounting class. He seemed like a sweet, funny guy.
Until we were alone and all he wanted to do was reach under my oversized shirt to grab my boobs, which, in his words, he “couldn’t stop thinking about titty-fucking.”
Yeah, me and Brian didn’t last long. I tried one more time, with a guy named Jeremy who was part of the group of friends me and my roommate hung out with. I told him up front I wanted to take things slowly. He said that was totally fine with him. We dated for several months. Which was when I walked in on him screwing my roommate.
Shocker that I was put off sex.
I didn’t want to be labeled a cock-tease either so I just didn’t go there. I tried dating a couple more times but ended up breaking things off fairly quickly. Mostly I just automatically friend-zoned guys. I kept my hair short and continued wearing clothes that covered up my curves.
My girlfriends told me all the time that I was nuts and that all these guys I thought were just friends were actually hoping for something more with me.
But then I graduated college and was still a virgin and it just started to be totally weird. How do you tell someone on the third or fourth date… so look, I want to mess around with you, but I’m kinda sorta a virgin and still a little terrified about sex, cool?
Yeah, I never found a way to bring that up in polite conversations and would just stop returning a dude’s calls after the second or third date.
To my friends, I pretended I was waiting for some mythical perfect guy to lose it to, just to get them off my back about it. And then everything got intense with me working sixty to seventy hours a week and the last thing on my mind was a guy.
Now here I am and my virginity is possibly the thing that’s put me in the running for the position of sex-slave/baby-mama to a complete stranger so giant that I doubt I’ll be able to breathe if he lays on top of me.
And they say good things come to those who wait.
Bull shit.
My whole life has been about waiting. Playing it safe. Be the good girl, don’t color outside the lines. Put in the hard work trying to prove myself to Dad, then to my college professors, then to my boss at New World Media. Just waiting for the day for it to all pay off.
And right when it was all starting to—I finally had the house, the job, I was even thinking about getting a cat—boom!—my life explodes and suddenly now I’m—
“All done,” the doctor interrupts my thoughts, pulling off her gloves with a loud snap.
What? No. She can’t be done. My eyes leap to her but she won’t meet my gaze.
Instead, she speaks toward the door. “The rest of the information you requested will be in my report. I’ll email it to you within the hour,” she says, quickly packing up her tools in baggies and then replacing them in her black medical bag.
“Wait, that’s it?” I ask, sitting up. “Don’t you need to ask me more questions? Give me some vitamins or something? Draw some blood?”
“We already have the results of your most recent blood test,” the doctor says, still avoiding my gaze. I might as well be a plastic mannequin to her. “And I’ve already recommended vitamins. It’ll all be in my report.”
And with that, she’s walking out of the room. She gives the huge man standing in the hallway as wide a berth as she can. Then she’s gone.