The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

by Meghan Quinn

  “Matthew Macfadyen.”

  “Really? That’s his name?” Greg asked with a confused look. “Huh, never would have guessed that. Anyway, if you said that guy, I would have had to end this date.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a P&P fan.”

  “That Elizabeth Bennet is a strong-willed chick to stand up to Mr. Darcy.”

  A slow grin spread across his face, loosening the tension in my body. Maybe I had a rough conversation with Henry that truly hurt my heart, but sitting here with Greg, drinking wine, it almost seemed so natural.

  “You really know how to win over a girl’s heart with that kind of talk.”

  “I’m a Jane-ite, what can I say?” he said, referring to the name Jane Austen fans called themselves.

  “Shut up, you are not. Next thing you’re going to tell me you’re a Brony.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Frankly, Rainbow Dash is my favorite My Little Pony, but Toola-Roola really has my heart at times.”

  I spat some wine out of my mouth from his confession and grabbed for a towel to wipe my lips, as he threw his head back and laughed.

  “Please tell me you’re not really a Brony? How do you even know their names?”

  “I have a six-year-old niece who is obsessed. I watch her occasionally for my brother and can you guess her latest addiction?”

  “My Little Pony?”

  “Bingo,” Greg said while tapping my nose. “I get sucked into watching the damn show and playing with her figurines. I have to be honest, some of those ponies are real bitches.”

  “I can only imagine. There is only so much sparkle in the world to go around.”

  “It’s so true.” He shook his head and smiled. “Enough pony talk, shall we get started on our pizzas?”

  “Sure. Let me wash my hands real quick so I can help.”

  I got off the barstool and went to his sink. I really admired his small but modern kitchen. It was clean and well decorated. The guy had his stuff together, that was for sure.

  “How old are you again?” I asked.

  “Wow, getting down to it, aren’t we?” He chuckled and answered. “Thirty.”

  “Thirty? Wow, you’re an old man.”

  “An old man? Really? Well I guess I’ll just be enjoying the pizza for myself.”

  “No I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly while drying my hands. “You’re . . . cultured.”

  “Ha. All right, nice recovery. Here”—he handed me half of the dough—“start kneading it and stretching it out so we can put some sauce and cheese on it. I have some toppings in the fridge you can choose from as well.”

  “Did you make this dough from scratch?” I asked, seriously impressed.

  “I can see from the awe in your eyes that impresses you, so I hate that I have to say no. The pizza shop around the corner sells their dough, so I grabbed some for us tonight.”

  “Smart idea. Whenever I make homemade pizza, I grab a box of Jiffy pizza crust and let’s just say it always turns out like crap.”

  Laughing, Greg agreed. “Worst pizza dough mix ever. The only thing Jiffy is good for is their corn mix. That stuff is legit.”

  “You know every Southern cook is swearing your name from that statement.”

  “Hey, I’m a city boy, I don’t know any better. A little honey on that cornbread and you’re good to go. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

  “Pretty sure it does,” I teased as I struggled to knead my dough. Greg didn’t seem to be having the same issues as me. “Why is your dough getting all stretched out and mine is shriveling up like balls in a cold vat of water?”

  Did I just say that? I threw my hand over my mouth, shocked that I said such a thing on a first date. When I looked at Greg, he was gaping at me as a smile spread across his handsome face.

  “Oh my God, I didn’t know I was getting a little potty mouth with the package I invited over. I like it.” He chuckled. “To answer your question, you need to knead the dough, make love to it.”

  Easy for him, I thought. He definitely wasn’t a virgin, not with that body, that face, and those hands. Nope, he was experienced.

  How do you make love to dough? Visions of me making out with the dough, thrusting my tongue at it and stroking the dough until it flattened ran through my mind. The whole idea was completely absurd, but then again, maybe it could work.

  I leaned my head down for a second and then common sense kicked me in the ass and told me to be a normal human. Instead of making out with my pizza dough, I watched what Greg was doing and mimicked his movements.

  “I think my fists are too small,” I said as I pounded on the dough.

  Greg pulled away from his pizza and grabbed my hands. He brought them close to his face and examined them carefully.

  “You know, I think you’re right. These hands are too dainty. Here, take my dough and I will take yours.”

  “What a chivalrous man,” I joked.

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  We flattened out our pizza dough and once we were satisfied, we placed them on a baking sheet.

  “All right, this is the fun part; time to put on some toppings.” He went to the fridge and started pulling out bowls with Saran Wrap on them. “I have diced peppers, peperoni, black olives, and broccoli”—he winked at me—“some sausage and mushrooms.”

  “Black olives and broccoli . . . trying to win some brownie points, are we?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Remarkably,” I answered, knowing it really was.

  “Yes.” He fist-pumped the air like a nerd, making me giggle.

  Surprisingly, I was having a good time with Greg and was trying to figure out what was wrong with him. There was always something wrong.

  After we put the toppings on our pizzas, we placed them in the oven and waited for them to cook. He invited me to his couch, and I sat down, crossing one leg under my seat so I was facing him. He turned toward me with his arm on the back of the couch. He was wearing a navy polo and jeans; he looked casual, yet very nice.

  What had me laughing were his socks. They were yellow with strawberry frosted doughnuts on them.

  I nodded toward them and said, “Nice socks.”

  “Thanks, my mom gets me socks all the time with weird things on them.”

  “And you wear them? Aren’t you the model son?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s made it a hobby of hers now. She likes to find weird socks from different places. I get random packages of a pair of socks in the mail.”

  “Really? That’s cute. What’s been you’re favorite pair so far?”

  “Hmm, that’s a hard question. I have so many. Probably the pair that’s honoring the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.”

  “You mean Prince William and Kate Middleton?”

  “The one and only.” He smiled. “One sock has the duke and the other has the duchess. I can’t tell you how into the royal wedding my mom was. She flew to England to stand outside and wave a flag of their faces on it while they rode down the streets on London.”

  “Your mom was there?” I asked, completely awestruck. I mean, I wasn’t obsessed with the royal wedding, but I will admit I might have watched it, and I might have picked up a couple magazines but that was only because Kate Middleton was living a commoner’s dream. She was a peasant in the morning and a princess in the afternoon. When does that ever happen?

  “She was. She started saving for her plane ticket the minute William and Kate started dating.”

  “Seriously? But didn’t they break up at one point?”

  “They went their separate ways for a brief moment in time, but my mom held out for them and stayed positive. I wish I had a recording of when my mom called me to tell me they were back together, oh and then when they were engaged, God, I really thought she was going to have a heart attack, the woman was screeching in my ear. It was rather intense.”

  “I think I love your mom.” I laughed.

  “Were you into the royal weddin
g?”

  “I mean, I didn’t get a commemorative coin to remember the day but I watched, and I might have picked up a magazine or two. And I don’t care what people say, Pippa didn’t steal the show.”

  “I agree; she was beautiful but nothing beat Kate in that lace-top dress.”

  I paused and studied him for a second with a quirk in my lips.

  “Are you gay?” I asked.

  A guttural laugh came from him as his head flew back.

  “No, I just get to hear my mom talk about the royal family all the time. No joke, anything that happens, she calls to talk to me about it.”

  “How did she feel when Prince George came into the picture?”

  “She made a scrapbook for the occasion. Printing pictures off the Internet of Prince William as a baby and glued them next to Prince George, she swears they’re identical but they really aren’t. To please her, I just agree.”

  “You’re such a good son.” I patted his cheek.

  “I try to be, so obviously, when she sent me a package from London, mind you, I knew it had to be a pair of royal socks. She also put in some tea and shortbread, stating it was the best she had ever had.”

  “Seems like maybe she was supposed to be born in London.”

  “Tell me about it. She would move there in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for me and my brother. She is attached to my niece, so she would never live that far from her. We’re nervous though because my mom has already started talking to my niece about the royal family and becoming a princess one day. She believes she could be Prince George’s wife. She even tells my brother there is nothing wrong with his daughter being a cougar.”

  “Oh, that is amazing,” I chuckled. “Your mom seems awesome.”

  “She is.”

  The oven beeped, and I helped Greg take them out, cut them up, and plate them. I had to use a fork and knife to eat mine because I’d put a little too many toppings on mine, and every time I picked up a slice, it just flopped over, and all the toppings fell off.

  We ate our pizza, which was quite good, and talked about small things, keeping the conversation light and fun. The date I was dreading earlier, was turning out to be fun. I should have known Greg was going to be a good guy from the messages he’d sent me.

  After we finished the pizzas, cleaned up and wiped down the counters, Greg grabbed my hand and led me back to his couch, this time, he sat much closer, still wrapping his hand around the couch as his other hand held mine.

  “Thank you for coming over tonight,” he said, looking me directly in the eyes.

  “Thank you for having me over,” I responded just as Bear took a seat next to us and started licking himself.

  The loud slurp of his tongue echoed through the silent room, and it was all I could focus on.Glancing down, I looked at Bear and saw him lightly nibbling on his crotch, apparently trying to dig deep into his dirty junk. The noise, smell, and look of him cleaning himself had me revolting and wanting to dry-heave. I thought Sir Licks-a-Lot was bad when he cleaned his mini kitty balls, but this was one hundred times worse because the noise was like a slurping whale trying to waft through shit. It was nasty.

  “Doing you’re daily cleaning, bud?” Greg asked while looking fondly at Bear.

  I wiped the look of disgust off my face as I watched Greg admire his dog’s cleaning tactics and wondered how the man could possibly enjoy watching that, let alone hear it.

  “He’s really getting in there, isn’t he?” I asked, trying to be polite.

  “Oh yeah,” Greg responded, almost proud. “Bear has to have the cleanest balls in the Upper West side. Isn’t that right, buddy?” Greg asked as he leaned down and rubbed Bear on the head.

  “Well, what an accomplishment,” I said, trying to hide the sarcasm, which I did a good job at since Greg turned to me and smiled. He pulled me in closer to him and started playing with my hair.

  I could see it in the way he kept glancing down at my lips and the way he was inching closer every second. Yup, he wanted to kiss me.

  The thrill I felt when someone leaned in to kiss me never seemed to change. I grew nervous and excited simultaneously.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned forward as well, just as Greg’s hand wrapped around my neck and pulled me in that last inch. His lips hit mine and gently started kissing me, and I reciprocated.

  The man knew how to kiss I realized as I let him explore me while I very slowly opened my mouth, but not quite enough for him to get too frisky. It was an innocent kiss, a sweet kiss, and one I thoroughly enjoyed.

  Everything was perfect except for the feeling of someone staring at us. Carefully, I opened up my eyes and glanced at Bear. To my horror, Bear was looking at me as he ever so slowly licked his crotch. It was as if he was watching soft porn and pleasuring himself. His eyes bore into my soul, and I couldn’t help but pull away from Greg. I got over things quite easily, but a dog pleasuring himself while watching me make out with his master was something I couldn’t handle.

  “What’s wrong?” Greg asked, confused as to why I pulled away.

  Clearing my throat, I chanced a look at Bear and said, “Bear seems to have a staring problem.”

  “What?” Greg asked, a little insulted.

  “He keeps looking at us and cleaning himself, while we’re kissing. It’s just a little weird.”

  “It’s not weird.” Greg laughed as he leaned over and patted Bear on the head. “You’re just curious, aren’t you, buddy?”

  In slow motion, I watched Bear’s long tongue with a black dot on the end—gross—fly out of his mouth and start licking Greg’s face, lips and yup, even tongue as Greg laughed from the onslaught of love from his dog. I think I’m going to up chuck.

  My eyes turned into microscopes, as I imagined every last germ spreading from Bear’s balls to Greg’s face in the matter of seconds.

  After a few moments, Greg pulled away and turned toward me. “He’s just a dog, nothing to worry about.”

  With a smile, Greg leaned forward and puckered his lips just as my hand flew up and basically palmed his head like a damn basketball.

  “Uh, what are you doing?” Greg asked between my fingers.

  I tried to see Greg, tried to see the man I saw earlier, but it was impossible. All I could see was small dog balls hanging off his face, dog feces, and dog pee tainting those lips. Thoughts of how many times Greg made out with his dog before I even got to his apartment tonight ran through my head. Did he make out with Bear right before I arrived? Did I in a roundabout way end up kissing Bear’s junk?

  “Ick,” I said, getting up and shaking my hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You have dog balls on your face.”

  “What?” Greg asked.

  “Dog balls. You have dog balls on your face. Jesus, I kissed a man with a dog-ball face.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “From your dog.” I pointed at Bear who was in proper ball-licking position but looking at both of us with the picture of innocence all over his face. “First of all, your dog licks his junk as if he’s digging through a basin of quicksand and secondly, do you realize the last thing your dog licked was his balls and then he licked your face? Call me a prude, but I don’t want dog balls on my face.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling my hand away. “You can’t possibly think I would want to kiss you after that display of affection with your dog.”

  “I feel like you’re insulting Bear. I’m not cool with that, Rosie.”

  Jesus.

  “Well, I’m not cool with your dog practically giving himself oral while he watched us kiss.”

  “Wow, talk about a one eighty. You’re a bit of a snob, Rosie.”

  “I’m a snob? Because I don’t want dog giblets on my face? Okay, I just thought that was being sanitary.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “You think?” I said sarcastically, as I grabbed my purse and stomped out of his apartmen
t, more angry than anything.

  June 12, 2018

  Getting lucky in the city is proving to be quite impossible. If it isn’t a pube in the back of my throat, then it’s man’s best friend . . . and I’m not talking about the penis.

  Really? Did he really think I was going to kiss him after he made out with his dog? Even if his dog wasn’t licking his junk beforehand, I still would have required a wipe down of the face before we went back to our lip lock.

  It’s common sense. Dogs carry a gaggle of germs on one millimeter of their tongues. If they’re not licking themselves, they’re eating their poop, or they’re eating someone else’s poop, or they’re drinking out of a toilet, or just licking the lamppost that every hobo in the city has peed on.

  Note to self: don’t date men with dogs unless you plan on making out with a melting pot of New York City’s finest bodily fluids.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Man-Milk Shuffle

  “Delaney, I can’t believe you’re engaged,” I said as I eyed the rock on Delaney’s finger. Derk really went all out when it came to her ring.

  “I know. I gave Derk the best blow job of my life last night as a thank you.”

  “That was him squealing?”

  “Yes.” She smiled as I cringed.

  I heard some hideous sound come from their bedroom and I assumed it was Delaney, even though it seemed a little deep for her . . . I wasn’t sure I could look at the man the same way.

  Even though I was slightly disturbed, I was still a little curious. “What did you do that had him making such awful noises?”

  “Don’t judge the noises”—Delaney waved her finger at me—“until you know what it’s like to lose all sense of what’s around you in the throws of passion.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She was right. I really had no room to judge, especially since I didn’t have any experience. The one time I was close to reaching that big O moment was with Phillip, the man who felt my fart caress his chin—poor Phillip. I’d made noises only a feral cat would make while searching for their mate in heat.

  “So what were you doing?” I asked as my face heated from thinking about that afternoon with Phillip. God, what a disaster.