by Stella James
“So, do you want kids someday?”
Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Just to be clear, I love kids. They are funny and honest and usually pretty cute. But do I want my own? Nope. I don’t. I know people say that and then in the back of their minds they think oh, well maybe someday if I find the right person. Nope. Not me. I just really don’t want them. I don’t know why, I just don’t. I’m sure a therapist would tell me it has something to do with the fact that my womb provider took off when I was twelve, leaving my dad to raise two preteens on his own. But it’s not, because I have never been the girl dreaming of having a family. Fun aunt, yes. Mama bear, no. And when you’re twenty seven years old and live in the same small town you grew up in, the dating pool starts to consist of dudes that are looking to fertilize. Usually the question doesn’t come up on the first date. Derek was clearly an eager beaver. But it always comes up eventually and when I give my honest answer, because I am always honest, things get weird. They start looking at me like I’m their filthy little filler until wifey comes along and that shit just isn’t fair. I love sex, especially really good sex. But I want to be a wife. I want a commitment with one person. I would love to fall in love. Unfortunately, it’s been my experience that no one wants to marry the woman who won’t let them spray her lady garden with homemade miracle grow. So that’s where it ends. I end things because I refuse to be the waiting room before happily ever after. I am a fucking catch and I deserve more than that. I’m petite with perky tits and a lovely, well-manicured vagina. I’m a business owner and a wicked hair stylist. I have PHENOMENAL taste in music. Where the fuck is my prince charming? Where is my happily ever after?
So there I sat. Staring at the tiny candle flickering next to my wine glass as if it would give me all the answers to my problems when out of nowhere, he appeared. I swear I could feel him before I could see him. Over six feet of pure masculine beef wrapped in a polished suit. He approached the bar and took the seat beside me. The timber of his voice sent all kinds of shivers to my lady parts when he ordered a whiskey neat. He smelled like man heaven. His hair was thick and dark with touches of grey at his temples. If I had to guess I’d put him near forty. Too bad I had already made a vow to myself after Derek the dud that I would be steering clear of any and all dick unless it was attached to a man prepared to accept me the way I am. On the other hand, perhaps a nice healthy one nighter was the way to begin my newfound celibacy. Sure, one night to get it all out before I lock the doors to Monaville. It started with a flirtatious grin, a whispering touch and ended with the best sex of my life. He asked me my name, I looked at my shoes and replied, Red. I asked him his name, he looked down at his suit and said, Slick. And boy was he.
I take an unpleasantly cold shower and get dressed for work. I’m going to do some serious research tonight and find out if there is such a thing as penis obsessive disorder. Either that or I’m hitting up Amazon for a new vibrator.
