The Randy Romance Novelist (8 page)

Fuck, Tasha.

Could this nightmare get any worse?

It could, actually . . . if Rosie found out.

Moist

ROSIE

“Delaney, can I ask you a question?”

“Always,” she said, over the phone.

I was lying across the couch, twirling the water sprayer in my hand, pointing it at Sir Licks-a-Lot- occasionally, just daring him to do something wrong while I talked to Delaney on the phone.

Working from home was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me, besides Henry of course. I was able to get my actual work done in the morning, so I was able to spend the rest of the afternoon, when I was battling demon cat, baking cookies, moving furniture around so it was more functional for the space we were living in, and even painting my toenails. I’d just finished, that was why I still had cotton balls smashed between my toesies and the reason why Sir Licks-a-Lot was eyeing my foot, as if he was a child staring at a decorated foot of cotton candy.

Casually, I asked Delaney, “You’ve had lots of sex, right?”

“How is that a question? You know the answer to that.” The preposterous tone in her voice made me giggle. Yup, I knew in great detail how much sex she’d had.

Sharing a dorm room and an apartment with the girl since college had well educated me on the amount of sex she had, especially with Derk. I just needed a segue into my actual question. I might not be a virgin anymore, but I was still very shy when it came to talking about private parts and whatnot. That’s why we called them private parts, because our parts were supposed to remain private. At least that’s what my mother told me.

“I mean, do you have a lot of sex, like . . . during the day?”

“When I’m at work, I don’t typically fuck under my desk, but when I get home, yeah. What are you getting at?”

I cleared my throat, trying to get the words out, but all it did was draw Sir Licks-a-Lot’s attention back to my foot. If he clawed my toe again, he would be making a new friend called, The Fire Escape, because that’s where he would be living from now on. He was the master clawer of toes in the middle of the night to unsuspecting dreaming angels, aka, myself. If one single piggy made it outside of the blankets, he knew about it, and he reminded you who the toe master was. The worst part was, he knew what he was doing because last night, when he got my pinky, I yelped and looked down at him, only to see him smiling that toothy white grin of his.

Bastard!

Turning back to the conversation, I said, “Lately, Henry and I have been having a lot of the sex.”

“It’s just sex, Rosie. You don’t have to put a ‘the’ in the front of it. But yes, you two have been going at it like porn stars on their first shoot. Animals! Grrrawwwlll.”

“Ew, stop, stop that now.” I shuddered just thinking of Henry and me as porn stars. “Please don’t refer to us as porn stars. Yes, do I make him have sex with me in different positions for my book? Of course . . .”

“How’s that coming, by the way?” Delaney asked, interrupting me.

“The book?”

“No, your pussy. Of course the book!” Delaney answered, exasperated with me.

“It’s doing well. The love story is coming along nicely, but I think it needs more. It needs more of a niche; you know?”

“I don’t know, actually, but let’s not get into that, back to lots of sex.”

And that was that. Delaney loved talking to me about the sex scenes in my book, but when I started to discuss the plot, or the antagonist, she immediately clammed up and changed the subject. She said she had no interest in plotting with me, and she meant that with love. What I really needed was a writing group, a place I could go and discuss my ideas and struggles when it came to writing; they would understand me. I made a mental note to look one up in the city; there had to be some kind of romance writing group in this giant urban jungle.

“Okay, um, so we’ve been doing it a lot, and it’s been amazing. I mean, he stuck his fingers inside me this morning—”

“Nope, no, no, no, no. We are not going into details. I love you, Rosie, but you and Henry are like siblings to me; I don’t want to know about fingers going up anyone. Gah, gross. He knows he has a dick, right, and that he can use it on you?”

“It was foreplay. He was getting me all . . . juicy.”

“Again, no. Do not say juicy,” Delaney chastised.

“Moist?”

Delaney made a disgusted noise on the other side of the phone. “Rosie! Have you not learned one thing from all those groups we participate in on Facebook?”

In my pursuit of being an author, I decided to join some book groups on Facebook; my goodness, did they liked posting penis pictures. Delaney joined to “help me” after she saw me scrolling through my newsfeed and saw a butt shot of Stuart Reardon. Such a horn dog. But, in all honesty, I couldn’t blame her; Stu has a nice tush. Oh and that Franggy, man does he have a beard some ladies would like to sit on. Now she was a part of all the same groups. It led to great conversations, but they mostly revolved around the uncircumcised dick she saw that morning. I was privileged to hear her talk about wanting to have sex with one just once, so she could give it a test run. Like we always say, it’s for science!

Referring back to her question about what I had been educated on in those groups, I answered, “I’ve learned that penises come in all shapes and sizes and that the majority of the female population likes a good tattoo and appreciates a bad boy.”

“They also hate the word moist, Rosie! It makes them cringe, it makes them want to pick up their first born child and sell them on the sidewalk for five dollars or best offer, just to buy a razor blade so they can slice their ears off. Don’t you remember that one post about words
not
to use…”

“Umm…” I paused trying to reflect back.

“It’s that author you stalk, she asked readers to list their most hated words to be used in books, and do you know what the number one word was?”

“Anal seepage?

“Fuck you! No, you’re disgusting. Jesus, Rosie. It was moist!! They hate the word, moist!”

“What’s so wrong with it? They also hate the word panties, but what else are we supposed to call them? Underwear? That doesn’t seem very sexy. Unless every character for the rest of their lives wears thongs, you have to call them something else. So what is it? Underwear or panties?”

“I can’t even handle you right now,” Delaney said, deflated.

“And what’s wrong with saying the word lady folds? I mean, that’s what they are. They are folds of skin on a lady’s body. Lady folds is way less vulgar than the P word. And I really don’t think I’m ready to use the term ‘sex’ to describe Virginia. Oh, and that’s another thing, apparently naming your private part isn’t wildly accepted either. What’s a writer to do?”

Delaney took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know, Rosie. Maybe ask your stalkee. Maybe she will take a break from her meerkat turkey basting and answer your questions.”

“Hmm, that’s a good idea. I think I just might.”

Questions ran through my mind about the proper terms for vagina and how I could address them to Tara, when Delaney interrupted my thoughts. “Are you going to ask me your question?”

Completely forgetting about my question, I tried to remember what I was going to say, where this conversation was leading. “Oh, yeah, so lots of sex. I know there are such things as yeast and bladder infections, but those are more of an itch to the vag more than anything, right?”

“Umm, is this a question for your gyno?”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to go there again, not for another year. Last time I went, I saw hot man doctor, and this was before the red brick road incident. He said . . .” I cleared my throat from embarrassment. “He said he had to part my hair to get a good look.”

Silence.

Then, “I’m about one sentence away from hanging up this phone on you.”

“I’m sorry!” I said quickly. “Yeast infections are itchy and bladder infections make it feel like you have to pee all the time, kind of a burning sensation, right?”

“Right,” she drawled out.

“So what is it when your lady part feels heavy?”

More silence.

Too much silence.

Silence like she was no longer on the phone anymore kind of silence.

“Hello? Delaney? Are you still there?”

“I don’t—” Delaney started, but then stopped. “What do you mean by heavy?”

“Well, I don’t know. Just heavy. Like, your vagina is carrying around twenty pound weights and really struggling to hold them up. Heavy to the point that you feel like it’s really hanging low. Like, if something brushed up against my ankle, I wouldn’t even give it a second thought if I saw Virginia waving at me from down below.”

“I can honestly say, I’ve never experienced my pussy hanging low to the point of tying my shoelaces for me.”

“You know what I mean . . .”

“I really don’t, actually, Rosie. Please explain.”

“Ugh.” I shifted on the couch and looked around for Sir Licks-a-lot. He was nowhere to be found, so I set the water sprayer on the couch next to me, lifted my butt, and pulled my shorts and underwear down so I could see Virginia. I tucked my shirt in through the neck hole and then spread my legs to get a good look.

I played around, pulling things to the side and examining the inner parts of my entire sex machine. “It’s hard to explain. It almost feels like I’m allergic to Henry’s penis. Things are swollen; sometimes I feel like the folds . . .”

“Don’t say folds.”

I continued, despite her lecturing. “Like the folds are so large and mad that they’ve turned purple.” I put the phone on speaker, set it on the arm rest and dove in deeper to the ins and outs of my vagina. “Right now, it’s not as swollen as usual, but post-coitus, it’s usually more swollen. Is that something?”

“Why am I still listening to this conversation? You lost me at purple vagina and pushed me over the edge with post-coitus.”

“I’m not kidding, Delaney. I’m seriously concerned. Can vaginas be allergic to dicks?”

“How am I supposed to know? Search it on the internet. Wait, actually . . . don’t.”

“What am I supposed to do? What if it gets worse, what if my entire vagina falls off one night? Oh, my gosh, do you think it turns purple because Henry’s penis suffocates it? Do vaginas need oxygen during sex? He is kind of big for me.”

“You literally have made me speechless. I have nothing to say to you, Rosie.”

“You’re no help,” I said, spreading the lips on my vagina to get a closer look. Just as I was about to get an up close and personal with my “bean,” from the corner of my eye, I saw Sir Licks-a-Lot charging at me like Braveheart on his horse, one paw in the air, and a meow-like war cry escaping his cat mouth. His sights were set on my exposed area, as if he was just dying to have a pussy to pussy high five with me.

I screamed bloody murder and stuck my foot out as a force field, just as Henry opened the door to our apartment. Sir Licks-a-Lot was mid-jump when my knife hand connected with the side of his body, deflecting him to the side of the couch, where he clamped onto the water bottle and ran off with it.

“That demon,” I screamed, legs still spread, vagina still open for everyone to see.

Confusion was etched all over Henry’s face as he took in the scene before him. “Uh, hey, love. Getting a good look at your pussy for me?”

“Is Henry home?” Delaney called out over the speaker phone. “I hope so because I am done talking about your purple, heavy weighted, ankle tickling vagina. My best friend duties are over. Peace out, crazy. Call me once you’ve tested out some strippers.”

Delaney hung up the phone, leaving Henry and me to ourselves. Without saying a word, he walked over to me, kneeled before my spread legs, and asked, “Your vagina has been tickling your ankles?”

Before I could answer, his tongue was on me, melting me straight into the couch. All my worries and concerns were washed away the minute Henry’s mouth descended upon me.

***

“Henry, the Chinese food is getting cold!” I called out from the kitchen. I was wearing Henry’s shirt he wore to work, sleeves rolled up, of course, and Henry was just getting out of the shower.

It was Friday night, and instead of going out to the bars like Henry used to, he was snuggling up next to me and watching one of my favorite romantic comedies,
When Harry Met Sally
.

Two months ago, Henry could be found at some of the hippest clubs in the city, staying out until two in the morning, only to wake up at six to go to work. Now, he found himself tucked away in our modest apartment near Broadway, eating takeout, and watching sappy movies with me.

I was one hell of a lucky girl.

I worried sometimes that maybe he missed his old life, but whenever I brought it up, he always shut down that thought quickly. Pretty sure he was starting to get annoyed with my insecurities over our relationship, but honestly, it was one of the first ones I’d ever had, and Henry was really hot. I told him all the time he was out of my league, which he just laughed at and told me otherwise.

“Did you get spring rolls?” Henry asked, walking toward me in only a pair of sweats and a towel in hand, drying off his short brown hair. I took a moment to reflect on his well-cut chest and muscular arms, flexing with every movement. I drooled over the small beads of water that dripped off his head and the way his eyes lit up whenever he saw me.

“Uh, what?”

A smile crossed his face as he tossed the towel to the side and walked up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my stomach and kissed my neck gently. He didn’t shave, so his five o’clock shadow rubbed against my sensitive skin, sending shocks of pleasure down to my toes. I would never get tired of this . . . ever.

“Did you get spring rolls?” he asked again, nuzzling my ear.

“I think so?” I said in a question form. Not really sure what I’d ordered at this point, thanks to Henry’s ability to completely consume me.

“Well, let’s take a look.” Henry unlatched himself from my stomach, but still stood pressed up against me, looking over my shoulder. Searching through the beg, he pulled out a little bag of spring rolls. “I knew my girl wouldn’t fail me.” He kissed the side of my cheek and backed away, leaving me breathless and needy.