Not Safe for Work

by Nisha J. Tuli

These men are the Khakis—white hetero men of mediocre competence and undeserved confidence who wouldn’t know their way to a clitoris if someone strung them over a swamp rife with testicle-eating crocodiles.

But what was an act of self-preservation became a certified drought, and at this point, the only person I’m punishing is me. Not only am I working on my tan and reading as many romance novels as I can, but Molly’s right, and it’s time to find someone hot to make out with. I desperately need to get laid.

Girl, same

But it’s too late, and they’re both standing, fists balled at their sides. I rub my face with my hands and groan. Why are men?

I gesture vaguely in his direction as if to demonstrate how his nakedness is contaminating my food. Who am I kidding? I kind of want his nakedness contaminating my… everything.

“What kind of maniac dips their fries in mayo and ketchup?”

Me. I am the maniac.

“I want someone who makes me feel a little like I’m… burning in the best kind of way.”

What I meant was it’s hard to believe you’re an introvert because you shine in every room you enter.”

::swoon::

With that settled, we sit back, our arms and shoulders pressed together, and our fingers still twined. Now it truly registers: Rafe is holding my hand. I casually implode.