The Virgin Romance Novelist

By: Meghan Quinn



“Sorry,” Delaney said with an innocent smile. “It just slipped.”

I didn’t believe her one bit.

“You’re seriously a virgin?” Henry asked again, still dumbfounded from the news.

“Well, if you must know. I am. I just haven’t found the right guy, yet,” I said, while staring down at my beer bottle, starting to feel slightly sorry for myself.

“I can’t believe that. I’m, I…” Henry stuttered, trying to find the words to express his shock. I didn’t blame him; we told each other everything. I’m surprised he wasn’t madder at me for holding back such vital information.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” I defended. “I just, I don’t know…”

“You haven’t tried,” Delaney said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie. Marcus and Dwayne don’t count. You barely poked your head out of your books long enough to kiss them on the cheek. You’re living through your characters when you need to be living in real life.”

“I’m not living in my books; they’re just my friends,” I replied softly. Any serious reader would know what I’m talking about.

“Don’t say that,” Delaney said, pointing at me. “We talked about this, Rosie. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth are not your friends.”

“Pride and Prejudice is a fine example of literature and romance,” I shot back.

“You need to get fucked,” Delaney shouted. “You need to drop the books, spread your legs, and get fucked, Rosie. If you have any chance of writing that book of yours, you need to experience the sensations firsthand.”

Eeep!

“Ha, firsthand,” Henry chuckled to himself.

“What does that mean?” I asked confused.

They both looked at me and shook their heads.

“Masturbation,” Delaney eluded.

“Oh, gross. I would never do that.”

“Wait, hold up,” Henry said, while standing up and pointing his beer bottle at me. “So, not only are you a virgin, but you’re also telling me you’ve never even masturbated?”

Gulping, I said, “You mean, touching myself?”

“Damn, Rosie,” Henry said in disbelief. “How come I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never known about your sex life, or lack thereof?”

“Maybe because you were too busy banging your way through the English department,” I said in a snide tone, starting to get irritated at Delaney and Henry ganging up on me.

“Hey, got good grades, didn’t I?” he smirked.

“You’re irritating,” I said, while trudging back to my room.

“Hold it right there, missy,” Delaney said, as she got up and pulled on my arms. “You know I love you, right?” Her voice softened.

“I thought you did.”

“Don’t get all salty on us; we’re only trying to understand you. You want to write a romance novel because you want to have a future other than writing about the latest and greatest shit scooper, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, exasperated. “I also just love the idea of making my own love story, making two people fall in love who’ve been living through such different circumstances. It’s all about the find when it comes to love, the moment when you meet the one person in your life you can’t possibly live without, that was what intrigued me.”

“Agreed, but you know sex sells, correct?”

“Yes, I know that firsthand. I like books that have a little friskiness in them.” Although, the books I read were slightly outdated, things still happened in them, things that made my entire body heat up.

“It’s called sex, Rosie” Delaney corrected. Fucking, fornicating, poking the donut, making milk, smushing.”

“Porking,” Henry cut in. “Slapping the ham, knocking boots, dick twerking.”

“Riding the bologna pony, getting some stank on the hang down…”

Henry cut a look over at Delaney and said, “Getting some stank on the hang down? You’re better than that, Delaney.”

She shrugged her shoulders and was about to start up again when I said, “I get it. Sex, see I can say it.” Even though it felt like I had cotton in my mouth.

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