The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

by Meghan Quinn

  “I can only imagine how well that went over.” Derk chuckled.

  “Not the best time of my life.” I ran my hand over my face. “What the hell am I going to do?”

  “I would say talk to Rosie, see if she’s really pregnant.”

  That thought crossed my mind, but then again, if she was clueless to being pregnant, maybe it would be a good thing right now, given the insanity draining from her every second of the day. If she was pregnant, I needed to get past the campaign proposal first so I could make sure I was there if she needed me. This was going to stress her out. I wanted to take care of her to the best of my ability, not blow her off because I had to work late.

  “Yeah, I’m going to wait.”

  Derk shook his head. “Don’t you watch movies and shows? Never wait to discuss important things; it only blows up in your face down the road. Don’t be that guy.”

  He was right, I didn’t want to be that guy, but once again, this was real life and I knew what was best for us. Rosie would need me when she found out she was pregnant. The next two weeks were going to be full of meetings and refining my proposal . . . a lot of late nights at the office. If I could get through those weeks, then I’d devote myself to her after. I was also betting on the bachelorette party to keep her busy.

  “I know, and I’ll bring it to her attention. I just have to get past this proposal first, then I can be at her beck and call. Please tell me you can keep this conversation between us.”

  “I don’t keep things from Delaney.”

  “Give me two fucking weeks; show some loyalty, man. I’m throwing you your boring bachelor party anyway . . . on a Sunday.”

  “Delaney’s decision,” Derk added.

  “I know, but help me out here. Give me two weeks. Your party is coming up; it will be perfect timing. I’ll talk to her after the parties, once everything dies down.”

  Derk gave me a skeptical look. “I don’t know, man. I can see this going wrong in so many ways.”

  “How?” I asked. “I can fake it. She doesn’t know that I know she’s pregnant. And it might not even be true. She might just be . . . I don’t know having some whacked-out hormone thing going on.”

  “She’s pregnant.” Derk didn’t play games; he called it as he saw it.

  “I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut in defeat. “She is so fucking pregnant.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Man Balls Mahki

  ROSIE

  “Get ready, up your tension, and . . . go,” the instructor screamed into her microphone. “Eat that hill, push through it, pump those legs and eat it.”

  The only thing eating anything in this psychedelic room of spin torture was the bike seat, chomping away at poor, poor Virginia.

  I’d met Delaney at one of her spin classes for the third time, and what I’d come to find out was people in these classes didn’t have any sort of private parts. I was tempted to take a peek at Delaney’s vagina to see it was still intact while in the locker room, because there was no way in hell her crotch was still intact.

  The seats on these spin bikes were made for Barbie and Ken dolls, in the land of plastic where sexual organs didn’t exist.

  Every time the instructor told us to speed up, I swear to Jesus Himself, the spin seat opened its jaws and began chomping at my vagina. Pedal after pedal, the digging of the seat against my area, drilling my underwear into my sensitive skin made me want to puke, to the point that I was numb for hours on end, unable to see if Virginia was still breathing.

  It was painful.

  Then there was the classroom.

  Up front, on either side of the instructor’s bike were screens playing what looked like screensavers from the ’90s. Neon geometric shapes floated across the screen, changing colors at a rapid pace, causing any sober human to feel like they were tripping on acid.

  Music blasted from every direction, and not basic music like Roy Orbison talking about a pretty woman walking down the street. This was Kidz Bop on growth hormone steroids. The beat was entirely too fast—apparently to help you ride faster—and the singers sounded more like robots resurrected from the graveyard of an abandoned Star Wars set than actual human beings.

  Combine the music and screens with the black lights—yes, there were black lights—and you had sensory overload of epic proportions. Kind of like cosmic bowling, but on shrooms.

  Delaney claimed to love the atmosphere. I, on the other hand, despised everything about spin class. I wanted to ditch the exercise, but after putting on my spandex workout pants the other day, I realized they weren’t lying, I needed to do something, so I was here, letting the bike seat eat away at my crotch in the worst way possible.

  Ever had the sharp part of a pen cap try to jab its way through your slit? Yeah, me either until I came to this class.

  What was it like for men to ride these torture devices? Were their balls shriveled up so far in their body it didn’t affect them anymore? That was my only guess how they exercised in the spin room.

  “Let’s move! Up, down, up, down.”

  In tandem, the whole class moved their butts with the music, alternating from hill to flat in seconds. I looked around while I barely pedaled and marveled at all the numb genitals.

  Good for you, guys.

  “Brunette in the back with the handkerchief in her hair who is pedaling like a grandma carrying her dog in a bike basket, pick it up, or I’m going to keep the entire class a half hour later. Move it.”

  I looked around for the brunette who was ruining everything for us when Delaney smacked me in the arm from the side. “Hey, idiot, she’s talking to you. Move your effing legs. I have a date with Derk after this.”

  “Is she talking to me?” I pointed at myself.

  Over the speakers, the instructor’s voice boomed. “Yes, I’m talking to you. Now, get moving.”

  Embarrassment seared through me.

  I pedaled faster, ignoring Virginia’s protests. You know how people wear shirts that say, “Sweat is just fat crying”?

  Well, in my case, sweat was my vagina crying out to all other vaginas for a lifeline, for help in any kind of capacity, even if it was a pussy tap from one lady to another.

  “Well, she’s rude,” I hissed at Delaney.

  We could barely hear each other over the music, but what I did hear fly out of Delaney’s mouth was, “Want that love chub forever?”

  She knew how to hit me where it hurt. Therefore, I spent the last ten minutes of class pounding out my crotch until I didn’t think there was anything left. Every full rotation of the pedal was a knife up my core, slowly disintegrating any sexual organ I grew myself.

  After the music stopped and Lance Armstrong took off her clip-on shoes, she smiled at everyone and told them to enjoy their day. From beneath the towel I dried my face with, I flipped her off. There was a special place in hell for people like her and Marta.

  “You know, if you’re going to go to that class, you should really try to work out,” Delaney said, as we walked to the locker room.

  “Excuse me for wanting to save the nerve endings in my crotch.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that bad; you have to get used to it.”

  “I don’t think I will ever get used to having a bike seat eat me out.” I spoke the words, as an elderly woman was heading to water aerobics.

  Her look of disgust barely affected me. I was feeling too delirious from Satan’s spin class.

  “Speak a little louder about your sexual acts with a bike next time, Rosie. I don’t think the kids in the play area heard you.”

  I huffed and followed Delaney into the locker room.

  Locker rooms were weird. There were some women in this world who had zero regard for keeping their bodies private, and it was always the women who had string beans as boobs hanging off their chests and grey bushes that would make the goliath, Marta, faint.

  I was opening my locker when I leaned over to Delaney. “What’s with the old ladies in here not wearing clothes?”
r />   “It’s a locker room, Rosie. They don’t need to wear clothes.”

  I pointed my finger at the ground. “This is America; we wear clothes in public.”

  Delaney rolled her eyes at me and shut her locker. “I don’t know why I drag you to the gym . . . all you do is complain.”

  “It’s really not my kind of place. I found that out rather quickly when the man next to me on the first day of spin class was spewing sweat all over me. How does salty water drip off someone at that rate, and then fling about the room? It was like he was trying to give the entire class a shower with his bodily fluids.”

  “I can’t handle you right now. Are you taking a shower?”

  “I have to. I have that meeting with Jenny.”

  Delaney perked up. “Where are you going?”

  I stuck my chin in the air and headed toward the showers, not forgetting a towel this time. First go around, I had to dry off with my sweaty clothes; it wasn’t a productive showering time. “That is none of your business.”

  “Does it have to do with male strippers and their dicks hitting me in the face?”

  I paused, and so did everyone else around us. I whispered to Delaney, “And you thought I was too loud about the bike. Jeeze, Delaney, everyone probably thinks we’re a couple of pervs.”

  “Let them; maybe they’ll keep their dangling boobies away from us.”

  “One can only hope.” I laughed.

  I took a quick shower and got dressed in the stall. l was a prude, and I was okay with that. I worked quickly because, just like Delaney, I had a date to make.

  “Thank you so much for coming with me, Jenny. I didn’t want to pick out strippers by myself, and there was no way Henry would go with me. Plus he’s working late . . . again.”

  Third night in a row he’d stayed late at the office, and every time he’d gotten home, he’d been too tired to fulfill my sexual needs. If I thought my vagina felt heavy back then; she now felt like fifty pounds slung around in my underwear. I was surprised my underwear hadn’t snapped in half from the weight. I needed to get laid . . . badly.

  I told myself every night not to overreact, not to lash out irrationally at him. He was working hard, and I should honor that. But there was a nagging voice in the back of my head that kept saying he was hiding something.

  My insane imagination tried to tell me that instead of working, he was banging Tasha on the conference room table, but I knew that couldn’t be the truth. I continued to tell myself that over and over again. He’d told me, to my face, I was all he ever needed. But maybe he’d changed his mind since I couldn’t fit in my jeans anymore.

  “I’m glad we’re able to get together. I hate that we don’t get to see each other at work right now.”

  “Me too, but I’m not going to lie, I enjoy working from home, except that I have to take care of Sir Licks-a-Lot. I can’t sleep naked anymore because I wake up in the middle of the night to him hovering over me, batting at my nipple as if it were his own personal boxing bag.”

  “Such a sick cat. I don’t know why Gladys loves him so much. I’ve never seen the appeal.”

  I leaned closer to Jenny as I spoke. “And to make things worse, one time I woke up horny from it. I was so confused that night, not quite sure how to react.”

  “What did you do?” Jenny giggled.

  “I sat up in bed for a second, wondering if I should wake up Henry to take care of it, but I couldn’t fathom the idea of the foreplay being with Sir Licks-a-Lot, so I went back to sleep all wound up.”

  “Completely understandable. I think that was a smart move on your part. You don’t want to give that stupid cat any satisfaction over his nipple play.”

  “That’s how I saw it as well.” I took a sip of my water bottle. I was trying to flush out all the toxins in my body, as I’d read that helped you lose weight. “Have you heard anything about moving back into the building?”

  “Nothing. Gladys only emails me back after she’s read an article. I think she’s lost her mind, kind of gone postal since they took away all the cats. I think she’s trying to look for a building that will allow us to run a cat commune.”

  “She will never find that in New York City, but maybe upstate in the country somewhere.”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” Jenny warned. “I’m not all that excited about writing about painting your cat’s nails, but I don’t want to lose my job because she decided to move the company location upstate.”

  “Might be fun to live out of the city,” I replied, thinking of one day living in the suburbs.

  “Yeah, you can say that because you’re in a relationship with a sexy man who wears tailored suits that rival David Beckham’s. You can live away from the love mecca; me, on the other hand, I’m still trying to look for a man who doesn’t want to test the weight of my boobs on the first date.” Before I could say anything, Jenny said, “Don’t ask.”

  “Fair enough.” I sighed, thinking about Henry. “He really is sexy in suits and even better naked. I have a question . . . have you ever felt like you couldn’t get enough of the person you were with . . . sexually?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve had those moments.” The tension building up in me eased slightly from Jenny’s admission. Maybe this feeling was normal after all. “Especially when you’re with someone like Henry. I dated this guy in college. He had abs for days, and I swear I was straddling him every chance I got. Why? Have you been sexing it up a lot?”

  I could feel the heat overtake my face from embarrassment. Would I ever feel normal talking about sex with other people?

  “Yeah, but I’m glad it’s normal.”

  “It is, don’t worry about it. So, tell me, is he good?”

  “I’m not going to answer that,” I responded with a wink.

  Jenny clapped her hands and laughed. “I knew he would be. Even though he drives me crazy, I could tell he was good in bed. I think all men who wear tailored suits like that are good in bed. If they are confident enough to have their slacks plastered to their ass, then they have to be good at driving the bologna pony.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Rosie Bloom?” the receptionist called. “We’re ready for you.”

  “That’s me.” I stuck my arm up in the air like a nerd. We followed her past a curtain and into a big room with a stage that reminded me of a scene from Magic Mike. “Have you ever been to one of these?” I asked Jenny, feeling out of place. Stripper auditions weren’t my thing. Then again, were they anyone’s thing?

  Yes, they were Delaney’s thing. Damn her.

  “No, I’ve never been to an audition, but I have been to a bachelorette party where there were strippers. I snapped a man’s G-string that night.”

  “Charming.” I smiled and followed the lady to our seats.

  The room was dark, deep shades of blue were woven into the seats, and bright lights surrounded the stage. I was grateful it didn’t smell, which was a weird thing to say, but after the porn booths at the sex shop, I had to keep my guard up. Plus, I hadn’t known what kind of establishment I would visit to test out strippers. Delaney said this was the best company for hiring male talent, but that still warranted a cautionary sniff when arriving.

  “According to the appointment paperwork you filled out, you’re looking for a man with a”—the lady lifted the paper on her clipboard and read verbatim what was written—“a man with a giant cock, a twelve-pack of abs, no hair, and decent-sized nipples. Is that correct?”

  I was sweating; literally, sweat was dripping down my back. I just wrote down what Delaney demanded; I didn’t know the lady would read it back to me. I was mortified.

  “Um, that’s what the bride-to-be wanted.”

  “Are you the bride-to-be?” the lady asked, giving me a narrowed look.

  “What?” I brought my hand to my chest. “No, I’m not engaged. I’m the maid of honor. My friend is really intense about her bachelorette party. She gave me this giant list of things to cross off.” I held up the bi
nder, aka penis bible, and showed the lady. “See, this is for her, not for me.” I paused for a second and said, “Please don’t judge me for being here. I have a perfectly good wiener at home waiting for me. I don’t have to have one flopping in my face to get my jollies. I mean, I do like it when my boyfriend flops it in my face. He shows respect while flopping around, you know . . . never pokes me in the eye or anything. Arrgggggh, matey.”

  Jenny put her hand on my arm to silence me. “I think you’re done.”

  I nodded and shut up. Pretty sure I would never be coming here again.

  Looking awkward and uncomfortable, the lady wrote something in her notes—most likely about me—and then said, “The music will start soon and three men will come out to dance for you who meet your specifications. If you are satisfied with one of them, we will book him for . . . oh, it’s a Sunday night.”

  “The bride-to-be didn’t want to have to deal with Saturday night drunks in the city.”

  “Ah, yes, that makes sense. Smart thinking on her end, but inconvenient for everyone else. They’ll be right out.”

  Once she left the room, Jenny turned to me. “I didn’t like her. Who is she to judge a Sunday night bachelorette party?”

  “Everyone,” I answered honestly. “Everyone can judge a Sunday night bachelorette party for many reasons. One, it’s a Sunday night, therefore people will either have to go to work still inebriated, or they will have to take the day off. Two, Sundays are God’s day. Debauchery and flying penises don’t really say godly things.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think God would appreciate flying penises. Although, if you think about it, He created penises, thrusting pelvises, and the imagination; therefore, He created the flying penis, so maybe He just might appreciate the soaring salami.”

  “Maybe.” I laughed as the lights dimmed and music started to play. It was low at first, a sexy bass beat that sent chills through my veins.