14. Jeanie
14 /
jeanie
A Re-Virginized State of Chaos
When Nathan asks me a question, I can’t hear it over the music but nod anyway. Which, in fairness works, because I’m still too stunned to speak.
I should be mad he fibbed about being a life coach, but instead, I’m reliving the ways he lap-danced for me. Or on me.
My sex still throbs at the attention. A little high-school rubbing over the clothing made it alert and hungry for more. I squeeze my thighs tight to suppress the long-forgotten need and pray to the stripper gods that I don’t come from reliving it all in my mind.
Did he touch me like that on purpose or by accident? Was it part of his routine? Is that how he dances with every woman?
I can’t be sure. I’ve never been to a bachelorette party with a stripper. Heck, I haven’t had a girlfriend to hang out with since high school.
I’ve always gotten along better with men. And by men, I mean one man. I’ve been busy catering to Roman for years by abandoning any real relationships outside my immediate family.
Everything about this night is new to me—from pretending to be Sophia’s friend, the instant comradery with the ladies, to the recently thawed waterfall between my legs. To say I’m in shock would be an understatement. So much so, I’m unable to move from my chair.
Nathan says something else, his lips curving, and dances away.
He performs for the other girls too, but not like he did with me. His next dance routine doesn’t have the same heat. All his moves are toned down. He maintains a wide buffer, never touching them in the same manner.
We are fake dating, so maybe the extra attention was part of his act to convince Sophia. When I reach this obvious conclusion, I adjust my askew dress and compose myself.
After tugging at my top to fan my chest, I blow out a breath as my body temperature finally regulates. But when I stand, my legs are still quaking. So much so, I’m unable to stop Sophia when she drags me to the bar.
She’s laughing at the video she filmed of the lap dance. When I watch over her shoulder, an entire story plays out on my face. In under a few moments, I swing from mortified to revved and turned on.
“Can you send me that?” I shake my phone but immediately realize my mistake. To do that, I’d have to share my phone number.
Sophia taps her screen. “You definitely need to post this on your social media. ”
I’m relieved when my phone chirps with an airdrop. Crisis averted.
“Your boyfriend is smokin’,” she says and orders another bottle of champagne. “I can’t believe he surprised us. Thank you. I know you planned that for me. I didn’t even know he was a stripper!”
Neither did I.
“You’re welcome?”
My shock has been replaced by an unmovable smile. Not because Sophia mistakenly believes I set this up, or that I’m killing it in wedding-sabotage mode, but because I haven’t stopped thinking about the way Nathan rolled his hips near mine. I squirm in my seat as I replay the video on my phone.
My thoughts wander into dangerous territory when Nathan’s head dives between my thighs on my phone’s screen. His forehead nudged so close to my clit, I was two seconds from smashing his face into it like a cherry-pie-eating contest. A pop of a laugh escapes me at the image in my head.
I liked it ... way too much.
Remorse creeps in like I’m deceiving Roman. I quickly toss the phone in my purse to try to forget. I blame Nathan’s unearthly hotness first, and second, because I have no other reason, the champagne. The bubbles clearly clouded my brain function, making it hard to remember why I’m here—kind of like Nathan.
At the thought, I sober up.
Focus. Must break up the wedding.
“That’s the thing about being a virgin. Everyone else has all the fun. ”
I catch the end of Sophia’s rant. She signals the bartender for another glass, and he quickly complies.
“I’m sorry. Did you say virgin ?” I stare as she pours a glass for me.
“A long time ago before Roman, I made a commitment to myself not to sleep with anyone ever again until I got married.”
“Like a self-induced sex-famine?” I ask.
I’ve been on the same train too, but for a completely different reason. Roman has ignored me for years. Even as I think hard, I can’t remember the last time we were intimate. Maybe as karmic payback, Sophia has her booty on lockdown.
Immediately, I’m deeply satisfied with the knowledge.
“Exactly! I re-virginized myself.” She toasts her triumph.
“Good for you! You deserve that, Fifi.” I toast her back to solidify her commitment to torturing Roman, but then realize I made another fatal error, one much worse than sharing my phone number.
“Aw, you haven’t called me Fifi since we were little.” Sophia slings an arm around my neck and tugs me close.
The nickname always made her clingy. Apparently, it still works. She leans her head on my shoulder, then slumps, losing consciousness.
I squeeze my eyes shut and curse myself. Panicking, I glance around, searching for Nathan, but he’s not here. As for the ladies? They’re too far gone to help.
Kayla and Elsie are passed out on our VIP sectional sofa. Ruby is making out with someone. Amelia is on the DJ stand, dancing her heart out with her new flame, while the others are missing in action.
Begrudgingly, my long-forgotten babysitter mode kicks in. With the help of a bouncer, I wrangle Sophia outside of the club and roll her into a cab, leaving the limo for the ladies.
When we arrive at the hotel, Sophia has regained some alertness. Because she’s unsteady, I place her onto a luggage cart and wheel her into the elevator. And because this night is getting worse, I learn she and Roman are staying on the same floor in a room across from mine.
Ugh.
Halfway down the hall, she rolls off the cart and onto her knees, laughing, which quickly turns to gagging.
She mutters, reminiscing about the time I tricked her into eating something disgusting. Younger me had shaped a stick of butter into two scoops that looked like vanilla ice cream and covered it with chocolate syrup. She was sold on the “dessert” when I added rainbow sprinkles.
“I’m gonna be sick like that, I can feel it.” Sophia holds her stomach and moans.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her.
But when her skin turns green, I lift her to her feet, determined not to let her spew carpet pizza. My shoulder slips under her arm like a crutch, and we stumble on one precarious step at a time.
To distract her, I randomly pick a song to sing from our youth. As I reach the famous hook, she only joins in for a bit before her interest flips to a new topic.
“Where’s Nathan? Nathan, come help us,” she yells instead.
“Shh, he’s sleeping,” I lie, trying to get her to shut up.
“No way. He’s waiting to grind on you again.”
She breaks free with more energy than expected and sloppily runs down the hall. Her arms and legs flail before her body slams into what she believes is my door. It’s not.
She bangs at it with a heavy arm.
At the sight, I become completely sober. It’s not because she’s about to wake some poor family and ruin their vacation, nor is it because Roman and Sophia’s room is across from mine.
It’s because she believes Nathan is asleep in my room, like two people in a committed relationship.