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The Surviving Murder Association would be so damn disappointed in me. They are not going to renew my membership next year if I keep it up.
I’m not athletic. I’m that person whose arms get tired from holding her Kindle up for too many hours late into the night. But I’m not the sort of person who gives up either.
And why, within a matter of twenty-four hours, have I been pressed against two men’s cocks and not had sex? Is it broken? Is my vagina broken? Soon she’ll spend her days sitting on an old dusty shelf, remembering her sad glory days of all the men who tried to grind her gears and failed. When all along all she was missing was one good screw. I sigh a pitiful sound at the memoir I’m painting of the Little Vagina that Couldn’t.
Between those fictional pages, I’ve loved a thousand men, met a thousand friends, and I’ve also met my fair share of villains. No one spots a villain faster than a book nerd.
It isn’t about kissing him. It’s about wanting to want him, but he’s checked out. I can’t want someone who isn’t here. He doesn’t want to be here; he wants to feel lost. Numb. I don’t even know what, but he doesn’t want to feel all the things in life I want to feel.
Apparently, the normal sex life I’d hoped for is setting the bar too low. Somehow, I’ve fallen into the option of an extraordinary sex life and there’s no going back now. If sex was an Olympic sport, I’d be going for gold with #1 printed across the ass of these lucky panties of mine.
If we weren’t climbing aimlessly, I’d give my spirit animal friend a high five right now.
I’ve made friends with the deadliest men of Wanderlust; a spy, a traitor, and a murderer. And I might be worse than they are.
It’s easy to hate the villains. No one ever tells you it’s just as easy to fall for them.
