Let’s Kiss and Tell

Chapter 1 Lucy

Lucy

Propped on my kitchen table like little dolls are eight silicone vibrators. All different shapes, sizes, and colors. I place a pale pink tool that looks like either a pop star’s microphone or a generous scoop of strawberry ice cream back with the rest and mark in my notepad:

Picking up a muted beige, teardrop-shaped instrument next, I analyze the weight and feeling of the “Cleo.” It fits perfectly in my palm and it’s surprisingly one of the softest things I’ve ever touched. I make another note:

THE CLEO: feels like skin.

I scan the bullet-point features printed on the side of the box: 11 different intensity settings, waterproof, quiet motor, and body-safe silicone in colors like clay, sand, onyx, and espresso. I didn’t think I needed those things, but I guess I do. Marketing is witchcraft.

“Clitoris licking and sucking?” I say out loud. That one’s new.

I’m no stranger to self-pleasuring accoutrements, but I’ll admit, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of my dominant hand.

It’s not that I’m opposed to having the help, there’s just nothing—or nobody—from my experience that can bring a level of satisfaction the way I can.

I know exactly how and when I like to orgasm.

I like doing things on my own.

Unfortunately, what I want is beside the point right now. What matters is what the 4.4 million weekly readers of The Rue want. Well, at least those who care enough to read the sex column of the online magazine.

My job is to put myself in the average woman’s shoes…

or underwear, all while comfortably sprinkling references to my personal life for entertainment.

I’m not paid to write about all the ways you can get yourself off without a vibrator.

I’m paid to slip into 1970s magazine jargon and help women “spice things up” with articles titled “5 Vibrators to Make You Orgasm in Under 5 Minutes.”

My eyes cut back to the display of sex toys in front of me. If I didn’t know any better, I would think the Cleo is probably some kind of mini–Bluetooth speaker, or maybe a minimalist contraption for your moisturizer.

Subtlety, I quickly jot down.

On most days, work feels exactly like what it is.

Work. But when I have eight adult toys next to my plate of cold, unfinished Eggo waffles, I can only laugh that this is how I make a living.

This is the territory that comes with writing about sex.

Days mostly consist of writing about the LA dating scene and researching different kinds of yeast infections or reasons why you’re attracted to your stepbrother.

I think back to how this became my life.

My first kiss was in sixth grade. Ryan Young kissed me behind a tree on the last day of school, and it was over before I knew what was happening. I immediately ran home and wrote about it in my diary.

I wish I could say I lost my virginity to my teenage crush by candlelight while his parents were away for the weekend.

Instead, I lost it to a guy I barely knew in the bathroom of a high school party.

That weekend I wrote a short story called “Girls Are Faster Than Boys, in Everything but Sex.” I got an A.

By senior year, I had never been in love and realized I never want to be.

When I was fifteen, I found out my dad was having an affair with another woman.

It gutted me. What’s worse is that even though my mom knew, she still chose to stay with my dad.

She chose to stay with the man who lied to her, all to protect our “family.” Meanwhile, my father’s actions proved the two of us never mattered to begin with.

I was far too embarrassed to tell anyone, so the only person who knew was whoever read my admissions essay for journalism school.

I could blame my labeled “misconstrued views on love and sex” on the fact that I simply haven’t had the chance to romanticize love and sex.

At a young age, I was quickly exposed to the realities of relationships.

I never cried over a tub of ice cream because John Doe broke my heart.

I never sulked about how the dating scene is rotten and it’s impossible to find a decent partner.

Instead, I choose to write about an alternate take on relationships. I empower people to celebrate how wonderful it is to be single, how important it is to explore their sexuality, and why you don’t need to be in love to be happy. Hence, the many vibrators.

My phone buzzes across the table, interrupting my thoughts. I reach over, seeing a new text from Chris.

Chris:

My buddy’s playing a pool party in Inglewood tonight. Come.

My face inadvertently scrunches. I think I’d rather do anything else than spend an evening outside with people drinking and dancing to EDM. Especially in the middle of this August heatwave we’ve been having.

I’ve known Chris for almost a year. For people who have been sporadically sleeping together, we barely know anything about each other. I think the most romantic thing he’s ever done was offer me his personal toothbrush the first time I stayed the night…after he used it.

I know somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, I should delete his number. But Chris is someone who has no expectations. He never has and never will. To me, that’s a good thing.

I tap another unread message.

Dylan:

Made a reservation at Uchi for 7

A few nights ago, I matched with Dylan. Nothing about his dating profile was unique, but the picture of him hiking with his dog was enough to make me cave.

While the stack of men’s names in my recent text history might not look great, I’m a twenty-nine-year-old journalist who writes about sex for a living.

My dating life is practically a prerequisite.

Lucy:

Perfect!

I catch that it’s 5:44 p.m., which means I need to start getting ready in fifteen minutes. Luckily, what I’m about to do should take only five.

With the Cleo in hand, I cue a lo-fi jazz album and light a few candles to really add to the mood. I draw my linen curtains closed and turn on the Do Not Disturb feature on my phone.

Making myself comfortable, I pull up a YouTube clip of a young Tony Danza from Who’s the Boss. Specifically, one where he’s shirtless. After another clip or two, I set a six-minute timer, close my eyes, and get to work.

The Rue is an online magazine covering topics from sex and relationships to beauty, pop culture, and fashion.

Among other digital publications that focus on topics like tech, food, and real estate, The Rue is owned by the world-renowned LA Journal—depending on who I’m talking to, that little detail tends to validate my credentials.

The LA Journal, along with its other co-operated sites, is in the heart of the city, and my least favorite part of Los Angeles—downtown.

Downtown LA has all the grime of New York and all the crime of South LA, without being at all charming.

While I would rather be anywhere else than the I-10E at eight a.m. on a Monday, I still pinch myself every time I open the doors below the striking marquee and see the publication’s name in the lobby. I love this building.

“Good morning.” A woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties steps into the elevator after me. She presses the button marked 4, and I give her a cordial smile.

“Morning.”

The elevator doors open to her floor and the woman walks out. It’s barely a few breaths long, but for the time I do catch a glimpse of our parent publication, it feels like something big. Something important.

I’ve written more than two hundred and fifty articles in my career and worked at two other well-respected women’s magazines after college.

In the realm of my niche, I’m in a great place.

The only problem is, I want more. I don’t want mealymouthed listicles about sex toys to become my legacy.

I want to write clever, funny, and real stories about my views on intimacy.

I want to share my personal fuckups hoping that other women will know they’re not alone.

“Morning,” I say as I approach Jonah. He’s scrolling on his phone and sipping an almost finished iced coffee. “What’s going on today?”

“Mariah Carey interview.” He keeps his eyes glued to his screen.

Jonah is The Rue’s senior pop culture writer who’s the definition of cool.

He has more followers than some of the celebrities he interviews and is mind-numbingly attractive.

He has been told many times he looks like a young Lenny Kravitz.

I’ve told him that he should pursue modeling, but he’s far too opinionated to keep his mouth shut for a living.

“No big deal,” I say sarcastically while throwing my purse on my desk.

“How was the date?” Jonah swivels his chair, facing me.

Because Jonah is gay and has been happily married for three years, he always gets the biggest kick out of my “messy, straight, single life,” as he likes to say.

“Uh…” I think. Last night’s date with Dylan is already a forgotten memory. “Fine? He dropped like two hundred dollars on dinner.”

“On a first date?!”

“Yeah,” I say. “But the weird part is he doesn’t have a real job.”

“What does he do?”

“He said he’s an investor?” I try to remember the words he used. “And works with a bunch of different clients.”

Jonah squints. “Sounds fake.”

“He was very vague about it,” I agree. “Red flag.”

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“Probably not.” I fall onto my chair and open my laptop. “But Chris texted me last night…”

“Oh my god,” Jonah laughs. “What does he want now?”

“Probably sex if I had to guess?” I shrug.

“That man needs therapy, not pussy.” Jonah takes a sip of his coffee. “My theory is that Chris is in love with you…He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“No.” I make an uncomfortable face, because, well, the thought of that makes me uncomfortable. “He has yellow fever and likes the thrill of the chase.”

“You’re only half Filipino,” he counters.