Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
She nods. “That is definitely a hurdle. Especially for someone like you.”
“What do you mean someone like me?”
“You know. Prude. Uptight. Frigid.”
“I’m not a prude. Or frigid,” I protest. Uptight might fit, though.
“You literally told me that you broke up with the last guy you were with, Jeff—”
“John,” I correct.
“John. All because he went down on you in the morning.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “Because we’d had sex the night before, and I had morning breath down there.”
“In your pussy?” She laughs.
“Don’t all vaginas have morning breath? We go pee in the night. And after sex, I’m pretty sure there are remnants of…you know, juices and things.”
“Oh my God. See!” She chuckles. “That’s what I’m talking about, Mila. If a guy wants to get down there, and he’s fully informed of recent activities, it’s his choice. Maybe he likes a little extra stank.”
“Sofie!”
“Just being real, Mila. Some people like the ripe brie. Some people are American cheese. The point is: it’s not your place to armchair quarterback a guy who wants to kiss the bearded clam. He’s a grown. Ass. Man.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call it a bearded clam.” Makes me imagine Gandolph the wizard with the face of a clam. No one wants that in their pants.
Also, I wasn’t raised to talk that way. To be clear, swearing was fine. Talking about sex wasn’t. My parents were the types who told me I should remain a virgin until marriage. I believed them until I was sixteen when my aunt disclosed how Mom and Dad were going at it for years before they got married. Such liars.
Sofie rolls her eyes again. “Fine, just for you, I’ll call it the flaming tumbleweed do-si-do.”
I glare. “You’re so not funny right now.”
“But aren’t I?” She grins.
I try not to smile. “Maybe. Just a little. But none of this makes me feel better. All you’ve done is make me out to be a sad little cat lady with intimacy issues.”
“Maybe that’s what you are.” She raises one brow. “Or maybe you’re the cat that needs a little turbulence to shake you out of your tree.”
“Shut up,” I say, half joking, because she could be right. After all, I’m the person who admits to avoiding personal reflection. I don’t enjoy deep diving into all the dark crevasses of my psyche. What if I get in there and don’t like what I see? The crevasses could be filled with delusions that I’m a functioning adult. “I don’t need some guy to shake my tree. I’ve got all the turbulence I can handle.”
“There’s good turbulence, and there’s bad. Carter sounds like the type who can teach you a few new things—break some boundaries, rock the boat, bust the bud—”
“Okay. I get it.”
“Mila, I’ve known you for a minute, and I think you’re wonderful just the way you are, but what worries me is that you don’t agree. You always focus on what’s wrong with your life or imperfect about yourself. You don’t take the time to really appreciate the wonderful things you have to offer, and maybe it’s because you don’t really know yourself. I think Carter could be good for you. I think he could take you out of your comfort zone. And in my humble, three-million-dollar-a-year paycheck opinion—”
“You had to go there, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Suck it up, buttercup. In my humble opinion, life starts when you get out of the comfort zone and test yourself. That, my dearest and most awesome friend, is when you find out what you’re truly made of.”
She’s right. I hate her for it, but she is. How can someone be so trashy, smart, and morally grounded all at once? She’s a feminist enigma.
“I’ll give him a chance,” I concede.
“Not just a chance, Mila. You need to meet him on his level, understand the man before you condemn the relationship to death.”
“I am not putting marshmallow goop on my vajayjay and letting people watch.”
“I never said you should. I was thinking you should let him do it to you. Or anything else he’d like. Within reason, of course. Let Carter push your limits, Mila.”
Fuck, I hate my life, but I’ll hate it even more if I let Mr. Right get away all because I was too afraid to step outside my comfort zone. If the shoe were on the other foot—or strawberry jam on the other nut—I would want him to give me the same chance, too. Judge me for who I am on the inside, not for what the world sees and all that.
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t ghost him. But I’m not going all in until I know what’s under this man’s hood.”
She gives me a look. “I think you already know.”
“I meant it figuratively.” And, yes, she’s right. I’ve seen his undercarriage. He has very generous parts all around.