Her Prologue
HER PROLOGUE
I Shall Call Him Mister Sexy Pants
I know a thing or two about fetishes thanks to my super-secret dating-in-the-city column, but I didn’t know about my own fetish until it began a few months ago. I’d justlanded thecolumn gig, so I took myself out to celebrate, as one does, with cake.
The guy who served me the slice at Peace of Cake was sexy and clever, andwe flirted over frosting for a few minutes,talking about nerdy things like fractions and synonyms. But then, a pack of teenagers swarmed the shop. I had to go, and Inevergothisname. He called me Miss Polka Dot. I called him Mister Dessert.
I returned a few days later, but he wasn’t there. Turned out he’d just been helping out a friend. I had no idea where to find him.
C’est la vie.
But a month after that,I wassitting on my third-floor balcony of myapartment in the Village, watching New York go by in the spring, when I spotted him walking down the street.And what a view. This specimen of bearded, inked modern man wasn’t picking his clothes from the conventional dude-drobe of baggy pants, loose jeans, or Boring-with-a-capital-B khakis. He was clearly dressing for my delight in those trim, checked pants that hugged his legs.
Thank you, Mister Sexy Pants.
I, Veronica Valentine, had discovered a brand-new kink. I had a thing for men wearing trendy, tight trousers, as I went on to detail the following week in my anonymous column, The Virgin Club.
But then,a little while after that,life happened, things happened, trouble happened, and my crush crashed into the middle of my life, where I’d have to see him every single stinking day.
The plan? Make sure he never, ever knows he’s the one and only Mister Sexy Pants.