Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (3 page)

"Didn’t you guys break up because he cheated on you?"

"Yeah, well…John said the whole waiting until marriage rule only applied to people he could see himself marrying. Apparently, band girls had a different set of rules."

Ollie is having a coughing fit in the corner. I want to punch him.

"But why did you lie?"

"We were at that party freshman year, and everyone had all these crazy stories, and we were playing that annoying game, and I just felt like such a loser—"

"Well, that's stupid," Bridget interrupts, cutting off my words. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, please, you know my first time was nothing special. I would totally take it back if I could."

"Your what?" Ollie bellows from the corner.

"Please, Oliver." Bridget rolls her eyes. "Control yourself."

"Who was he? Was it that asshole Jimmy, god what was his last name? Jimmy… Jimmy…"

"Ew, no, it wasn't Jimmy." Bridget and I make eye contact, biting our lips, holding in barely containable mirth. Jimmy was one of Ollie's football teammates in high school and Bridget dated him for this exact purpose—to annoy her brother.

"Andrew? That creepy artist guy from college?"

Bridget and I remain absolutely silent, because, obviously we both know that yes, it was Andrew, that creepy artist guy from college. Truth be told, he was a fantastically gorgeous brooding painter Bridget dated during her freshman year—and yes, he was ridiculously sexy, and yes, he was a bit creepy. Bridget still blames the paint fumes for taking away her sanity—I blame the brood. The brood does things to girls, makes them crazy.

I should know.

Ollie can do a mean brood when he wants to.

"It was Andrew." He fumes at the realization. "That guy? Really? I'm going to kill him. You cried over him for all of Christmas break—there were tear stains on my wrapping paper!"

"I'm an artist," Bridget says with a shrug. "I feel things very deeply. It's a blessing and a curse."

"But—"

"Okay," Bridget shouts over him, grabbing her brother by the arms and pushing him out of the kitchen. "That's enough sharing for one evening. Ollie, go unpack. Skye and I need to talk."

He protests for a few more minutes, but even though Bridget is smaller than him (and not by much), her will is iron. I learned a long time ago to never try to out argue her. It’s exhausting and in the end, pointless.

Which is why when she finally pushes her brother from the room and I can breathe easily again, I tell her the honest truth when she asks, "So, are you okay?"

"I don't know." And I don’t. "How in the world am I supposed to write a sex column?"

"You'll be fine. You’re a writer, embellish. And I'll help you—if you need any sordid details, don't hesitate to ask."

"As if I have to ask." I nudge her and raise my eyebrows.

"See what I mean? I've probably already given you enough material for your first few months of columns anyway." That just might be accurate. Bridget has a long trail of broken male hearts behind her. "Be excited, it's a new challenge. It's your dream job, sort of. Close enough anyway."

And she's right.

I'm getting paid to write. I have benefits. I have an office I go to every day and coworkers and a boss I'm sure I'll hate soon enough.

"I'm a journalist," I say, suddenly realizing for the first time in all of the fear that my dream has sort of come true. "I'm a real journalist."

And we do in fact drink those margaritas. Lots of them. Too many of them. But in the slight tequila haze, my anxiety drains away.

Everything will be fine.

My job.

My life.

Living with Ollie.

Everything will be fine.

And I truly believe it as Bridget and I say goodnight, and I stumble into my tiny room with a twin bed that's lofted over my dresser drawers. I'm happy as I struggle to launch myself onto the mattress, using my corner desk as a prop for my foot. I'm excited as I lie down for sleep, ready to dream about my first real day of work tomorrow morning.

But then a gentle knock sounds against my door.

And there's only one person it could be.

"Skye?" he whispers into the dark.

I could pretend to be asleep, but the alcohol has drowned out my neuroses, replacing them with curiosity. "What do you want, Ollie?"

"I just…" He sighs. My eyes are closed but I can perfectly imagine the way he's running his hand through his hair, messing it up—an unconscious move he doesn’t even realize makes my heart melt. Makes every girl's heart melt.

"Don't apologize," I say. It's the closest reference I've made to talking about what happened. And he understands immediately. Understands that I don't want to talk about it—but I doubt he understands why. It's not because I'm embarrassed or hurt or vulnerable. It's because I can't bear to hear the regret in his voice. Because before he did what he did, before that moment, I had the best few minutes of my life. And I don't want to hear that he wishes they never happened.

"Okay, can I say one thing then?"

"Sure." I rollover, finally sitting up. Even in the dark, his eyes shine, glowing blue. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking.

"It’s just, I can tell you're nervous about the new job, but you shouldn’t be, Skye. You’re a great writer, and well…" He shrugs, scanning the room for a moment. There's a note of honesty in his tone that I rarely ever hear, that I've learned to recognize over the years. "You don't have to have sex to be sexy, Skye. Some people do, maybe, but not you. Never you."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the dark with my racing heart.

I'm hungover for my first day of work. Hungover! I'm the girl who used to show up to class ten minutes early so I could organize my pens before the lecture began. The girl who color-coordinated her notes. How did I end up here?

My head is pounding and there is only one thing I can think about, my sweet release from this misery—coffee. I've spent the past hour in a no food, no drink new employee orientation, and as I make my way to the elevator with the rest of the horde, all I can think is that this city is truly out to get me.

I passed five coffee shops on my way to work. Five! Could I stop and buy anything? No, of course not. Why you ask? Let me explain.

The plan this morning? Wake up early. Take a shower. Eat a nutritious breakfast. Brew a cup of coffee to go. Pick out a fabulous outfit. Leave the apartment with twenty minutes to spare just in case my commute went awry.

The reality? Roll out of bed after pressing the snooze button three times. Chug a gallon of water. Realize you now feel bloated and your headache hasn't dissipated at all. Splash water on your face when you look at the time and realize you are already five minutes late. Throw on the first thing you find. Grab a handful of pretzels from the open bag on the counter, quickly realize they're stale…eat them anyway. Run down the streets like a maniac until you get on the subway. Notice you are sweating profusely. Cry inside because you can't do anything about it.

Yup. That about explains my morning.

And now, I'm waiting on the elevator, creepily stalking the wondrously delicious smelling cups in other people's hands. A gentle waft of mocha teases my nose. Then a hint of vanilla. Is that caramel?

I lean in.

Oh god, yes it is.

I want one.

So much.

When the door opens, I flinch, pulled from my cravings just in time. It’s my floor.

"Excuse me," I mumble as I squeeze through people, wincing when the full force of the newsroom's fluorescent lighting hits my fragile eyes.

It’s going to be a very long day.

My gaze slides longingly to my former home—a cubicle in the far corner of the room, barely visible behind the mounds of books piled around it. The shelf against the wall is overflowing, and I itch to open the packages resting unopened on the floor, wondering what new books were sent in for review. The seat is open, waiting for me. And I almost give in, running as fast as my feet will take me to where I know I belong.

But I can't.

Instead, I tear my eyes away and look in the opposite direction to the lifestyle section. The wall is covered in fashion spreads, the latest looks from the runway. And next to them is
the
bright red door—the one the rest of the women in the office talk about only in hushed voices—the fashion closet. There are office legends about what sorts of designer items wait behind that door. And the closer and closer I walk, the more and more I feel as though I've stepped into some sort of alternate newsroom universe. Everyone here is a woman. Everyone is uniquely beautiful. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. And the clothes…

My breath catches, looking around. There are no muted colors to be found. I could be naked and be less out of place here than I am now in my navy suit and white button down shirt. I see neon yellow pants, an evergreen jacket complete with magenta cuffs, a bright blue dress under an oversized cable-knit sweater—and is that a jumpsuit? Prints and bold colors surround me. One girl is wearing a bright red and pink polka-dotted blouse paired with an orange beaded necklace—and it actually looks good!

I stop in the middle of the hallway, unable to move any closer as my eyes sink lower and lower, dread mounting. And yes. There they are. Heels. A sea of them. And not comfortable heels, as if such a thing really exists, but four-inch stilettos that give me vertigo just looking at them. The longer I stare the dizzier I become.

Will I have to wear those?

My toes ache, crying out—no, no, don’t do that to us!

I lean against the wall, off-balance in my plain nude flats. Suddenly the room is spinning. Or am I spinning?

I need coffee.

No, I need a brain-transplant.

Okay, that might be a little drastic, but I need something and fast, because there is no way I'll ever be able to fit in here. Ever.

"Skylar?" a voice calls.

I swallow my terror and turn toward the sound. An office door is open, and waiting just inside is the woman I can only assume is my new boss.

"Good morning," I manage to say in a surprisingly strong voice.

"Skylar, come in." She stands, walking over to greet me. "How was orientation? Let's talk before I show you where your desk is."

All I can do is nod dumbly as she leads me inside.

"I'm Victoria Neives," she says after sitting down and folding her hands on top of her amazingly neat desk. "I first want to apologize for how unorthodox this whole situation was. Normally, we would have met at the interview and you would have had a few days to adjust to the whole idea of working here, but you came so highly recommended that I decided to act fast."

Ooh, highly recommended? I like the sound of that, so I sit up a little higher and smile. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she replies, leaning back in her chair, looking at me with a somewhat sorry expression.

Oh god, am I getting fired? After only an hour? That's got to be a record or something. But they wouldn’t. Not yet. Not before I've even had a chance.

"You've probably noticed that you're not the typical girl we might hire for the style section…"

Crap! I
am
getting fired.

I nod politely, trying to keep my jaw from dropping too noticeably while I search for a solution. Is it the heels? I'll wear the heels, I swear. Or the color thing? I can buy a neon blouse. Okay, maybe not neon exactly, but something not black or tan or navy. I can be fun. I am fun.

"But that's the exact reason we hired you. You’re a normal, everyday girl. Not a socialite. Not a model. Not a fashionista. Just an average girl."

Okay…so I'm not fired.

I'm average, normal, and not at all unique or special in any way, but I'm not fired. That's good…right? In a backhanded, no I'm not going to go cry in the bathroom I swear, sort of way?

"The newspaper thought that the lifestyle section was getting too lofty, too untouchable. Everything was celebrity parties, high society, couture fashion, and they don’t want to change that. After all, people love to live vicariously. But market research showed that we were losing touch with younger demographics, women your age who have become used to finding all of this and more online. So they wanted us to bring something new to the mix, a human-interest angle that would hook a younger market and perhaps pull on the nostalgia of our older readers. And that's when we came up with the idea of your column—a small snippet each week about the sex and dating life of your everyday, college graduate. Something every woman could relate to. And we chose you because you were already working for the paper, the book editors couldn't stop raving about how wonderful your writing was, and the few pieces I did read were witty, funny, and the exact sort of thing our section needs."

Is it actually possible to be stunned speechless? Because I think I am. She likes my writing? She read my writing? She picked me because of my writing?

But Victoria presses on, unaware of my barely contained glee. "You'll have the normal duties of an assistant of course, copyediting, managing the databases, updating the calendars, filing event invitations, communicating with our freelancers, writing a few articles for the online site, but the other girls can help you get acquainted with that."

"Other girls?" I ask, finally finding my voice.

"Oh, silly me." Victoria stands, utterly graceful. "Let me introduce you to the other assistants."

I scramble to follow, the ugly duckling to her swan. I can't help but make the comparison—she's even wearing a cream suit, one that looks absolutely regal and stunning, especially against her dark skin. But it's more than just the clothes. It's everything. The tilt of her head—raised just enough to look down on everyone else. The curve of her spine—long and lean, especially on her five-foot-ten-size-zero frame. The bounce in her step, as though the entire world is her runway.

I, on the other hand, am hunched over, wide-eyed, hugging my purse for dear life as though I'm venturing into the wilds of the Amazon and not a corporate office. But really, it might as well be. Somehow, I just know I'm about to be fed to the sharks. Well, if it’s the Amazon, more like being fed to the crocodiles, right? Or the…what do they have down there?

Stay focused.

I look up just in time to see three other girls lift their heads in unison, as though they have a sixth sense and know where Victoria is at all times. And maybe they do…there's a sort of superhuman air about them.

"Victoria."

"Victoria."

"Victoria."

They all chorus in the same high-pitched, pleasant voice that hovers somewhere between earnestness and insincerity. I need to learn that voice. It says, yes, you interrupted me and yes, I don't feel like speaking to you right now, but hello, good morning, you are fabulous, and I am your servant. And then they all dip their heads to the side and smile the same inquiring smile, waiting patiently for Victoria to keep speaking.

They can't be human can they? Highly advanced robots? Clones? Aliens who have snuck their way into society, waiting until the day the mother ship returns to finally take over the world?

The last one.

Definitely the last one.

I read too much.

"Ladies, this is the new assistant, Skylar Quinn," Victoria says, moving to the side so I'm no longer hidden behind her. I keep my feet in place, trying my best not to cower as their eyes dip to my completely unfashionable outfit and then lift to my almost makeup free face. At least I don't wear glasses. Then I really would be a walking cliché.

But to my amazement, their smiles don't waver. They don't even flinch. They hold still, steady, faces warm and inviting.

Robots…maybe they’re robots.

"Hi, I'm Isabel." One girl steps forward and offers her hand, which I shake hesitantly, somewhat afraid to squeeze too hard and break the fragile bones in her fingers. Something about her seems familiar…and then I realize she looks just like Victoria. Same build, same deep brown eyes, same wavy brown hair.

"I'm Blythe," the next girl says. I shake her hand with a little more force and a little more fear. She's Upper East Side Barbie, with that same sort of air about her that the cheerleaders had in high school. What did it say again? Oh yeah—I remember now. I'm better than you, you are the dirt beneath my feet, worship me. And the longer I meet Blythe's eyes, the smaller I seem to feel.

So I look away, to the third and final girl.

"I'm Rebecca," she says, not offering her hand, but something about her seems a little more down to earth. I don't have time to figure out what that is though, because she turns away from me and looks at Victoria. "Are we still having the weekly meeting? It's almost ten. I'd be happy to print out the agenda."

"Yes, thank you, Rebecca. Please print an extra copy for Skylar. I'll take her to the conference room now."

And then we're off, walking the opposite direction back down the hall toward a glass-encased space at the other end of the newsroom. Finally somewhere familiar—somewhere I've been before.

The conference room.

And there's a coffee machine right outside.

Come to mama.

But as we approach, Victoria leans in, whispering to me. "Now do you see what I mean? We need you, the average girl, something this office is sorely lacking. Isabel, you probably noticed the resemblance, is my niece and her father is one of the wealthiest men in the Dominican. Have you ever heard of Casa de Campo? They own three waterfront homes there. She was a model for a while, but wanted a more stable life so I found her a position working for me. Blythe, on the other hand, grew up in a brownstone across from the Met. Her parents are big donors and she gets invitations to all of the major parties, the perfect socialite to keep us up-to-date with the Manhattan scene. And then, Rebecca, of course. Her father is a famous designer. She's the darling of New York Fashion Week."