The Virgin Romance Novelist

By: Meghan Quinn



Unluckily for me, the walls are thin, the space is tight, and I unfortunately get to know every single person my roommates bring home on an intimate level. Henry was a ladies’ man, no surprise there, given his tanned skin, blue-green eyes and brown hair that was styled just right. Delaney, on the other hand, had a couple of relationships throughout college, but was now serious with her latest boo, Derk. Yes, Derk. Hideous name, especially when it’s screamed at the top of Delaney’s lungs as her headboard slams against my wall.

Now that we’ve graduated, we’re still living together, but going our separate ways in the work force. Henry got a job with one of the top marketing firms, Bentley Marketing, editing ads, and Delaney is working as a freelance writer for Cosmopolitan. She started writing articles about anything from haircuts for the summer to how to maximize your orgasm count in a night. I had that article saved in my notebook, as research.

Me, well, I wasn’t as lucky when it came to the job force and was unfortunately offered a job at Friendly Felines, where I write about the new and upcoming clumping formulas in cat litter. Our offices are located in Manhattan, but in the smallest of buildings, where my boss insists upon having a gaggle of unneutered and randy cats, who seem to be in heat every day. Have you ever listened to a cat whine from needing a little attention when in heat? Yeah, sounds like its dying. Try writing in an environment like that. I’m a walking fur ball when I leave work.

To keep myself from ending up as a crazy cat lady who doesn’t mind when she eats thirty percent cat hair with each meal, I decided to write a romance novel. I’m the girl who lives in fantasies where love always prevails and a hero is just waiting around the corner to swoop in on his white horse to save you. Given my love for love and my ability to get lost in my writing, I didn’t think it would be so hard to write my first romance, given the fact that it’s my favorite genre, but I forgot about one little speed bump in that plan. I was still a virgin.

Answering Delaney’s question, I said, “Yes, I’ve started writing it again. I felt like it was time to revisit Fabio and Mayberry.”

“Please tell me you did not actually name your character Fabio,” Henry said with a snort, while he went to the fridge and pulled out three beers.

“What’s wrong with Fabio?” I asked, slightly offended. “I will have you know, Fabio was a well to do name in the eighties and nineties for the romance genre. He’s the king of all romance. You just can’t go wrong with a name like that.”

“Rosie, you know I love you, but I think you need to get your head out of your books for a few hours and realize we’re not living in the eighties and nineties anymore. We’re living in an age of Christian Grey and Jett Colby, dominant men with kinky sides. Stop reading that heaving bosom shit and get your head in the here and now,” Delaney chastised me.

“There is nothing wrong with a heaving bosom,” I defended, thinking about what I was just writing. What else would bosoms do in the heat of passion? Jiggle? Jiggling reminded me of my Aunt Emily and her Jell-O salad, not two passionate humans rubbing bodies together.

“There sure is,” Henry said, as he handed Delaney and I each a beer. “When I have a girl writhing under me, I’m not thinking, damn look at her heaving bosom. I’m thinking, shit, her tits are jiggling so damn fast from my thrusts that I’m going to blow it all in a second.” Of course, he would say jiggling.

“Eck, Henry. You’re so crude,” I responded.

“Hey, I’m just telling you how a guy thinks, might do you some good.”

“No, what will do her some good is actually losing her virginity,” Delaney said, while taking a sip of her beer.

Embarrassment quickly rushed through my body as I awaited Henry’s response; he had no idea of my sexual experience, I kept that to myself…and my loud mouth friend, Delaney.

“What?!” Henry said while looking at me wide-eyed and almost a little hurt. “You’re a virgin? How did I not know this? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Delaney,” I gritted out, feeling completely mortified. Being a virgin wasn’t something I made public, given the fact that I was now twenty-three and only had two kisses under my belt of sexual proactivity.

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