The Virgin Society Collection

3. I Will Never Stop Checking My Skirts

3

I WILL NEVER STOP CHECKING MY SKIRTS

Veronica

My mom taught me that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Like, literally.

A glass of lemonade is the first step to solving a problem , she’d say.

Nice idea from Mama Valentine, but I’m too busy hunting for a time machine because that’s the only thing that might erase the perma-pink shade of embarrassment tinging my cheeks.

But I have no luck finding a come-and-get-your-free-do-overs-here card when I return to my apartment post-dog walk, during which I replayed the sad French film The Loss of the Last Shred of My Dignity the whole time.

I take the next best route to putting the panty-flashing incident behind me. Stick my head in the sand of work for the rest of the day.

With StudMuffin curled up in his cuddle cup bed, I smooth my hand down my skirt—I will never stop double-checking my skirts. I head to the kitchen table and toggle on my laptop. Time to divert my brainpower to this editorial letter. It’ll distract me from the meet-the-hottie again mishap loop in my head, and I can stay ahead of schedule at work. The letter is due in two days, but sending it early will impress my boss, Blanche Thatcher. Blanche loves over-deliverers, so perhaps this letter can help secure my promotion. And, let’s be honest, beat out the competition, like Darius Daniels with his sharp editorial eye, and Caroline Lopez, with her firm but loving style.

Opening Microsoft Word, I review what I already wrote pre-ignominious incident. I consult the piece of paper by my laptop—I draft all my editorial letters by hand—then I tweak some of the initial text and finish off the last few lines.

The tension between archenemies Frog and Prince is exquisite, and the final battle scene on the rickety bridge over the roaring waters sent shivers down my spine as the antagonists parried. Could you tease out that moment even more on those pages? Just add a touch more oomph to the fight, and it’ll be *chef’s kiss.*

I can’t wait to see what you do with this amazing adventure tale!

Sincerely,

Veronica Valentine

Editor, McGee Whitney Books for Young Readers

That should do the trick. I start a new email and copy the letter into it. But since this letter might help me nab a promotion, I’m going to treat it like soup. Let my words simmer a bit before I hit send.

I set aside questions of oomph and dramatic tension between Frog and Prince and log in to my personal email. Scrolling through my messages, I save one from Peace of Cake about the new vanilla celebration special, and then I star a note from Just for Her advertising twenty percent off on its newest toy, The Wave 2.0, powered by sonic waves. Ooh, baby. Imma gonna need that too. Since The Wave 1.0 was a ten out of ten I’d use it again.

I’m about to close out when I spot a note from Bellamy Hart, who oversees my anonymous column at The Dating Pool. I open it at cheetah speed.

Love the ideas for your next column, V. I’m open to either “How to Break the News to Your Date” or “Assumptions People Make about Virgins.” I favor the latter, but I’m good with both. Let the muse decide. Can you send it in tomorrow morning so I can run it in the evening, as per usual?

Can I send it tomorrow? Please. How about tonight, Bellamy? Time to impress her too.

Especially since my mind is already wandering from thoughts of princes and frogs to other things that could be teased.

Like, say, me , by Mister Sexy Pants.

While StudMuffin adjusts himself into a tighter dog ball in his bed, my monster-sized Siamese leaps onto my lap. I meet his pretty blue eyes. “Which topic do you like better, Hot Stuff?”

As I stroke his soft fur, thoughts of the frog and the prince melt away entirely, replaced by vivid images of a man in tight pants, displaying a chivalry you rarely see anymore.

That run-in this afternoon did nothing to douse my crush after that fun, flirty convo from the cake shop a few months ago. Meeting him again today stoked the flames, thanks to his reaction. Most men would have scowled, reprimanded me, and rode off. I can’t stand rudeness. I went on a date two weeks ago with a musician who showed up twenty-five minutes late and he didn’t even apologize. But he’s a knight in shining armor compared to the guy I had dinner with a month ago. When the smoke detector at the restaurant bleeped during dinner, my date darted up, and rushed out first, pushing other diners aside like his pants were on fire.

So the chivalry of my main crush picking up my glitter tube when my dog wanted to devour his bicycle is delectable.

I step away from the table, set Hot Stuff down, weave through the tiny living room, then push open the doors to my balcony, drawing a deep inhale of the herb-y scent of rosemary and sage, kale and pole beans from the miniature garden. As I stare down at the scene of the glitter crime, words and ideas snap into place.

I replay the moment once again and imagine a new ending.

Then I open my dictation app and pace the tiny width of my balcony, talking into the phone as my next column takes shape.

Things We Assume About Virgins

I’ve never flown on a private jet with cushy leather seats and world-class service. Nor have I spent an evening in a penthouse hotel suite with a view of the Seine.

Likewise, I’ve never banged on a balcony.

Yet I can say with one hundred percent certainty I’d enjoy the hell out of zooming through the sky at thirty thousand feet, savoring strawberries and champagne, and reclining all the way in the leather seats. (Note: it’s my fantasy so the seats are magically made of vegan leather.)

After my flight, I’d relish sweeping into my deluxe accommodation and sinking onto the soft, king-size bed overlooking the Seine.

I bet you’re sure you’d love to travel like that too, even if you never have.

So why the hell does the world think a virgin doesn’t know what she wants in bed?

I’ve never had sex, but I sure as hell have fantasies. Oh boy, do I ever have them.

Do you remember Mister Sexy Pants? I mentioned him a few weeks ago when he introduced me to the pleasures of ogling men in tight pants.

Today, I finally spoke to him again. And even though my valiant dog tried to defend me against a potential attack from his bike, and even though I accidentally flashed him my panties, he was still a perfect gentleman.

Which only gets me going more.

So now, I have a brand-new fantasy. Here goes.

I’m home, standing in front of the mirror, slicking on lipstick, when a text lands from Mister Sexy Pants. Hey, Sweet Cheeks, I’m on my way home from work. (Sidenote: Again, this is my fantasy, so he owns a combination bookstore and calorie-free cake shop. He’s good with his hands too. Obvs.) When he comes home from work, he spots the broken sink, but then calls out to me, “I’ll fix the broken pipe later. You come first, sunshine.”

“And you mean that literally,” I say, then I blow him a red-lipsticked kiss and sashay to the balcony. He follows me and I grab a handful of his shirt.

Wait. Nope.

In my fantasy, he’s already stripped off the shirt so I’m free to roam my adventurous hands across his firm pecs, then over the grooves of his abs.

I let go, spin around, and lift my skirt, giving him a peek of my come-and-get-me undies.

He growls with desire, then bends me over the railing. As he kisses the back of my neck, he whispers the sexiest words ever: “I’m going to give you a knee-weakening, toe-curling orgasm, then make you a panini.”

Gah. I am fanning myself right now.

So yeah, I’m here to tell you that a virgin can know what she wants even if she’s never had sex.

I have an active imagination and I’m not afraid to use it.

Nor should you be.

Fantasies let us explore who we are and what we want. There’s nothing wrong with taking some for a test drive together with a partner. Or alone with your mind. Just make sure you have enough batteries.

And don’t ever be ashamed of your dirty dreams.

I hit stop, then shake my booty. Whew. That felt damn good.

I hit transcribe on the audio file and head inside to edit and clean up the column. When I’m done, I read it again, pleased with this newest installment.

After one final read, I open an email to Bellamy and drop in the fabulous words. Then, as I let it simmer for a few, I jam through my work emails, fingers flying, hitting new productivity heights. Yes! This is how I’m making up for my mishap. With focused, diligent work. Maybe I did make lemonade today after all.

I step away to make a cup of chai to power me through the rest of my list.

When I return to the table, I set down the tea as Hot Stuff jumps from the couch onto the table. I grab for the cup, but he’s faster, skidding into it.

I yank it as far away from the keyboard as possible, the liquid sloshing onto the table rather than the machine.

Whew. That was close.

“Hot Stuff,” I mumble as I trot to the kitchen to grab a towel.

As I clean up the table, Hot Stuff parks himself next to my laptop, licking chai off his paw while giving me the evil eye.

“Yes, that was all my fault,” I say, flopping back down on the chair to finalize the work email as the light streaming through the window turns golden. Hmm. It’s evening now. No one in publishing likes getting work emails at this hour, but Bellamy is a night owl. I fire off the column to her and make a note to double check my editorial letter to Agnes in the morning, then send it when people are arriving at work.

I shower, dry my hair, and pop next door to order takeout Thai with my friend Ellie. When the food arrives, we hunker onto her purple couch with the pad thai and eggplant tofu and place bets on who’ll hook up in this episode of A Gentleman’s Deal .

My Spidey sense for canoodling is on point.

“You win.” Ellie pouts at the end.

“Which means you pay for takeout next week,” I say.

“As if I don’t know the rules,” she says.

When I return to my apartment, I contemplate taking up Just for Her on the offer, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

In the morning, I wake up to kisses on my nose, so I hop out of bed, tug on workout clothes, and grab my phone. My notifications are lit up, but that’s par for the course.

I’ll enjoy a quick walk, then dive straight into work mode and take care of all these pesky emails.

I’m properly dressed as I leave home. What an accomplishment.