Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (4 page)

Her next words remain unspoken, but I hear them anyway. And then there's me…totally normal, totally insignificant me.

Yeah, I'm starting to get the message.

But I just smile and nod, trying to copy the robotic movements of the assistants we left behind. I end up with a stiff neck and an uncontrollable twitch.

I'll work on it.

As we round the last corner of desks, I see it. The coffee machine—and not just any old machine, but the fancy one. I could get a vanilla latte. A mocha. A vanilla mocha. A double espresso with hazelnut. A cappuccino. A—

"Would you like some coffee before we head into the meeting?"

Oh god, was I salivating? I swallow, licking my lips and feeling for drool. None. I breathe a sigh of complete relief.

Be cool…just be cool. "Yes, thank you."

"I'll meet you inside."

Nailed it.

And for a few minutes, I can actually breathe. Even just the smell of coffee has alleviated the pressure in my skull. Against the muffled roar of the newsroom, I experience a moment of complete peace, telling myself over and over—you have a job, a real job, as a real reporter. This is your dream and you have it.

But then the rest of the lifestyle team rounds the corner, a rainbow that's shockingly bright against the gentle storm cloud gray of the rest of the room, and my bubble shatters. I hastily click the button for a vanilla latte and follow the group inside. The click of a closing door has never sounded quite so ominous.

Victoria sits at the head of the table, queen of the court with her hands folded on the tabletop. There are about twelve other people in the room, the assistants I met as well as some editors I haven't been introduced to yet. And I realize I was wrong about one thing—there is one man on the style team, and I think he's wearing pants that are tighter than any article of clothing I own.

Just as I'm finally about to take a glorious sip of coffee, Victoria begins the meeting, and I know what's probably first on the agenda—me. The stranger in the corner hunched over her mug, completely out of place—the one getting baffled, curious looks from half the people in the room.

"Welcome, everyone. I have some really wonderful news today. We hired a new assistant. Skylar, introduce yourself to the group."

Eyes widen. Jaws minutely drop. And about a dozen gazes scan my body, judging the stuffy conservative suit, the button down, the barren face, the un-manicured nails, the barely brushed, let alone styled hair, the lack of jewelry—well, I have on gold studs, but that's practically nothing.

For a moment, I'm thrown into that nightmare every kid has growing up, that one where you show up to school and walk into class completely and utterly naked. Everyone is pointing and laughing, and you're horrified, unable to move, wondering how in the world did your mother let you out of the house nude? But then you wake up and relief washes over your body because, thank goodness, it was just a dream.

Yeah, I sort of feel like that. Except I'm awake. I think…

I pinch myself, hoping to come to in my tiny bedroom.

No such luck. Definitely awake.

I cough, clearing my throat and searching for my voice—which I'm pretty sure is burned out from screaming like a little girl in the back of my mind. "Hi, I'm Skylar Quinn, the new editorial assistant. I just graduated this past May, and I've been interning for the arts and literature team, specifically for the book review, for the past three months. And, um, today is my first day."

As soon as I say book review, they all knowingly nod. Not in an obvious way, but when twelve people do it, it's sort of easy to notice.

"And, tell them about your vision for the column," Victoria says encouragingly. "We spoke about it at some senior meetings, but I'd like the team to hear your plans."

I sort of want to hug her. But I won’t. Especially because a tingle of jealousy has tightened the air, shifting the mood in the room. I look to my left at the three assistants now straining to hold their smiles in place.

"Um…" I trail off. I didn’t even know about the column until yesterday—was I supposed to come up with a game plan overnight? Think, Skylar, think. Pulling crap out of thin air is what writers are born to do. "Well, as Victoria and I discussed, I want to make the column as approachable and entertaining as possible, to hopefully bring a new demographic and new readers to the newspaper, so I was thinking…" Come on! Words, say words. "Well, lots of girls my age," and by that I mean me, "don't actually feel that comfortable talking about sex, or reading about sex…" Or, you know, actually having sex… "So I thought this column could be more about the dating life of the average young professional woman. The trials and tribulations, various dating failures, the few successes, sort of entertaining experiences that every girl or woman can relate to."

Well, that actually sounded pretty great if I do say so myself. But there's stillness in the air, as though everyone is in on something I'm missing.

"But, there will be some sex, right?" one of the editors finally asks.

They're staring, so I try to play it cool, looking down at my notebook while I swallow my hysteria. "Oh, sure, I mean, what’s the dating life of the average young professional without some sex?"

Not this average young professional, of course, the one you sort of hired to write about it. But lots of others I'm sure.

I chance a peek, scanning the group for a reaction.

They're nodding. They're smiling.

I might actually pull this off!

"And what’s your idea for the first column. If you're ready, we’d like to go to print with the launch next week."

I say the first thing that comes to mind. "What to do if you're crushing on the guy you live with?"

Wait, what?

No!

No!

Abort. I can’t write about that. Bridget will read this. Ollie might even read this. Say something else, quick.

"Or, um," I press forward before they get too attached to the idea, "I mean, what to do if you're crushing on the guy who lives next door or in your building. Like me, for example, there's this guy who I see every morning, in the, um, elevator. Yeah, the elevator. I can experiment with flirting, trying to get him to ask me out, that sort of thing and then write about how it goes."

My first professional lie, and it’s not even noon. That has to be a record.

"Well, that's not that difficult," Blythe chips in from the corner, smile way too kind to be sincere. "My neighbor asked me out on the elevator just this morning. I didn’t even have to do anything."

Well, good for you.

"That is so funny. I just got asked out by a guy in my building too," Rebecca chimes in, but her tone actually does sound genuine. Aloof maybe, but genuine. "I was doing laundry over the weekend at the same time as this guy in my building, and when I went to get my clothes from the dryer, there was a Post-it note waiting with his phone number on it."

Who are these girls? I haven’t been asked out since college. And really, that was only my ex John. And, well, if I'm being totally honest I wasn't so much asked out on a date. It was more of a drunken mutual attraction that happened to turn into a relationship that happened to last right until the end of my senior year.

Can I just bury myself now?

But Victoria leans in, excited. "I love it, Skylar. The idea is already resonating with girls your age. Go for it, and I expect a first draft on my desk by Friday. Now, Alexandra, where are we on the new designer previews?"

I'm dismissed. And I can't reach for my coffee fast enough.

Yum.

Still delicious.

I sink back in my chair as the meeting continues in what I can only describe as a foreign language. This—insert name I don't recognize—is a new—insert name I don't recognize. And she—insert name—is just like a new age—insert name—totally reminiscent of—insert name.

And so on, and so forth, until my hand cramps from taking so many notes on people I need to research just to be able to grasp a basic understanding of what is going on for next week's meeting. But it does give me another great idea for a column.

A new age love story—how the modern woman and her café latte defied the odds and managed to survive in the wilds of a hostile work environment.

They’ll love it.

Not.

I'm an utterly terrible flirt. Really. I know some girls might say that just to hear their friends jump to their defense and shower them in compliments. Not me. Oh, I'm really great at coming up with something fabulous to say five minutes after the boy is already gone, but in the moment? I'm a deer caught in the headlights, then…bam!

I'm determined to hit this first column out of the park. So determined that when I arrive home after my first day, I dive full force into reporter mode, which in this case could loosely be defined as stalker mode. But I need to find a boy—not Ollie!—to harass—I mean flirt with—for research.

So I wait, idling by the mailboxes, keeping an eye on the entrance.

He's too old.

He's with a girl.

He's too cute—I'd have no chance whatsoever.

He's not my type.

And then miraculously, a boy I've never noticed steps through the front door. Sandy blond hair. Gangly build that I secretly find sort of cute. Business casual. And as he walks by the doorman he nods in greeting—polite!

Okay, go time.

I pick up a discarded letter from the floor, pretending I actually have mail—which really, for the first time ever, the one time I really need mail, I have nothing, not even a
dear resident
marketing pamphlet. But the envelope I just grabbed from the floor will do.

Trying my best to look casual, I step next to the boy to wait for the elevator, peeking at him a few times, until there's a
ding
and the door slides open. He lets me in first—such a gentleman—and then steps in behind me.

The doors close.

Silence descends.

I lick my lips, turning my head to the side to take a full-on look at him. He senses the movement and reciprocates. I smile. He smiles. I coyly look away for a moment, and then glance back. He's still looking at me. Cue second smile, friendlier this time.

Wow.

We're totally vibing. This never happens. Maybe this job was the good luck charm I needed.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hey," he says.

"I'm Skye." I shrug.

"Neal." He shrugs.

A very long second of quiet passes.

"Hey—" I start, unsure of where I'm really going, but then the elevator swings open, cutting me off.

"Have a good night," he says over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you too," I call after his disappearing body just as the doors are closing.

But hey, I think that went well. I take it for a win. We had a conversation—sort of. Words were said. Introductions were made. That counts—I think.

"Bridge!" I shout when I walk into the apartment.

"On the couch!"

"Bridge," I say, turning the corner into the living room and dropping my bag on the coffee table. "I think the first day went really well."

"Awesome," she says, and then turns away from the TV, giving me her full attention. But she flinches when her eyes land on my face. The flinch turns to a bitten lip. Which then turns to a grin.

"What?"

Now she's shaking her head. God, she's just like her brother.

"What?"

"Nothing," she sputters. "Might want to check the mirror though."

I race to the bathroom, heart stopping as my eyes land on my reflection.

There's a freaking forest growing in my teeth. A forest!

"Crap!" I shout, digging for the spinach that's nestled in the gaps between my incisors. I ate that like two hours ago—why didn’t anyone tell me?

And then I remember the elevator, the boy, the vibing…

No wonder he was smiling!

And the rest of the week passes in pretty much the same fashion. Even though I've never seen Neal in my building before, he's miraculously on my elevator the next morning.

"Skye, right?" he says when he steps on. I smile politely. To which he exclaims, "Hey, you got it out. I wasn't sure if something was stuck or if it was just some weird medical thing. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings."

Weird medical thing? Did he think I had fungus growing in my mouth? Ugh!

There are no words. I just nod and stare at the floor for the rest of the ride. That night I make sure to sneak onto the elevator when he's not around. Thankfully the next morning he's nowhere to be seen and I can rest easy. But that night, I time everything incorrectly and he sneaks onto the elevator at the last second.

"Skye," he says, smiling. But I can't tell if the smiling is cordial or if he's still laughing at the memory of my green, fungus-infested teeth.

"Neal," I force the words through closed lips. I'm too embarrassed to do or say anything else.

I hide in my room all night writing a column about how dating where you live is the worst idea possible. I've been reduced to a bundle of nerves, unsure where and when Neal might show up, heart pounding anytime I walk into a common space. I'm the opposite of a stalker—I'm an avoider. But I have to admit, writing about the experience is a little fun. With help from Bridget, I throw a few R-rated tidbits into the story, and voila—my first sex column.

Victoria loves it.

She makes me rewrite it five times—but she loves it.

And it's finally Friday, meaning I have two blissful days off from the stress. Or I would, except Bridget decided it was high time I learned to flirt, so she dragged me to a club downtown and now I'm leaning over a bar, trying to get the bartender to notice me long enough to order a drink. Looks like the key to my success would be to pull my shirt down by about three inches.

Yeah, not happening.

"Bridget, you try."

Ten seconds later, we have cocktails.

"So, what are we—holy crap, what did you just order?" My entire face spasms as I take a sip of whatever beverage Bridget just bought.

"Long Island Iced Teas," she says with a shrug, easily taking a sip of her drink.

I shake my head. Bridget and I are both creative types, but while studying for my art involved a lot of reading and even more writing—alone in my room I might add—studying for her art involved lots of experimentation—the typical college kind filled with boys and alcohol and things it might be incriminating for me to mention by name. "I thought the purpose of this evening was to teach me how to flirt, not to get me drunk."

Bridget slides her gaze away from the cute guy at the other end of the bar, meeting my eyes pointedly. "The purpose of tonight is to loosen you up in whatever way I can. We start with a little alcohol and then we move onto the rest. Come on."

She grabs my hand, pulling me away from the bar and into the throngs of people pressed up against each other on the dance floor. So not my scene. We weave in and out, pushing people around, being pushed around in return, making our way closer to the music. Finally, we find a small space to claim as our own and hold steady, rocking to the music as we sip our drinks, keeping our elbows out as defense against the dancers bumping into us from all sides. But the longer we drink and the longer we dance, the more relaxed I feel.

And I'll admit, it's fun. Especially when our favorite songs come on—mostly girl-power pop anthems—and we both belt out the words, totally and completely free in the moment because no matter how loudly we sing, no one will be able to hear us.

But then the inevitable happens.

"So," Bridget shouts, but I can still barely hear her. "Let's find some guys to dance with."

My heart sinks.

For a moment I wonder, why? Why can't we have fun with just the two of us, like we normally do when we go out? With Bridge, I know I can trust her. I know I can depend on her. I know we have a great time together. I know she's not a creepy a-hole who'll ditch me as soon as he realizes I won't go home with him. You know, the usual stuff.

But then I remember the column, the research, my desperate search for a topic to write about next week, and I relent.

"Okay!" I shout, nodding to emphasize the point in case she can't hear me.

We drop our elbows, no longer keeping the crowd at bay, and it's as sure a sign as any that we're open for business

Wait—not business. Open for fun? For a good time? For… Okay, there's just no completely innocent way to say this, but you know what I mean! We're available to dance.

In less than ten seconds, a guy comes up to Bridget, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, and she accepts the offer, unsurprisingly. Shall I count the reasons why Bridget is a boy-magnet? I mean, aside, from her dazzling personality of course? Well, number one—red hair. Number two—tall and thin figure. Number three, at least tonight—ridiculously tight little black dress.

Shall I count the reasons why I am not? Well, you probably already know them. Neurotic. Shy. Book nerd. Oh, boys come up to me sometimes, sure, but my usual response is to run in the opposite direction rather than, you know, do something drastic and actually say hello.

Hmm.

I sigh, looking around, dancing by myself, trying to stay close to Bridget and her mystery man so I don't look completely pathetic.

Soon enough, a boy takes pity.

Hands grip my waist, pulling me back into a waiting body. He starts gyrating against my hips, not really to any rhythm I can follow, but I try to just relax and let him take the lead. There's no greeting. No asking if I'd like to dance. No manners.

Is chivalry totally dead, people? Come on.

I turn, peeking over my shoulder, and yell, "Hi."

He doles a lazy smile in my direction, but doesn’t bother to say anything back. His bloodshot eyes are still scanning the dance floor, checking out other girls.

Ick.

No, thank you.

Without so much as a goodbye, I shrug out of his embrace, trying to hold back a grimace. A few minutes later, another boy approaches. Pretty much the same thing happens. And two times after that, I'm done.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I shout in Bridget's direction.

She motions, using girl sign language to ask if I want her to come with me. But she's still dancing with the same boy—who is pretty cute, I'll admit—and I can tell she's having a good time, so I tell her to stay put.

A few minutes later, I'm free of the dance floor, standing close to the exit, reveling in the gusts of wind blasting in my direction every time the door opens.

Air.

Blissful, cool air.

I breathe in the sweat-free smell, closing my eyes for a moment as my entire body drops a few degrees. So much better. I can actually reach my arms to the side without touching another human being.

Being alone is wonderful.

"Skye!"

Well, it was fun while it lasted. My eyes shoot open, searching for the voice I could barely hear over the ringing of my own ears. "Ollie?"

And there he is, smiling at me with a questioning knot in his brows. "What are you doing? Where's Bridget? She told me to meet you guys here after the restaurant closed."

"What time is it?" I grab his arm, bringing the cell phone in his hand closer to read the clock. 1:37? How did it get so late so quickly?

But then I stop, realizing I'm touching Ollie's arm. Touching him. And his skin feels warm and soft, contoured with muscles, firm and strong. And my fingers tingle, too aware of the contact. My entire body goes still, frozen, as my mind focuses on the tiny little space between us.

Since that first night, I haven't seen Ollie the entire week. The restaurant life is work all afternoon, work all night, mornings off. He's usually asleep when I leave in the morning and working when I come home.

But now he's here. Inches away. And we're touching.

I look up.

Ollie is still watching me.

My heart leaps into my throat.

But then I remember, and I drop his arm. I remember that I already went down this road, already spent most of my life crushing on Ollie, and I won't do it again. "Bridge is dancing with someone," I say, and take a step back, licking my lips. "I just needed a break."

His ocean-hued eyes flick to the dance floor, darkening with a hint of overprotectiveness, but then they find their way back to me, filled with something I don't recognize. He blinks, and the storm clouds dissipate. "Do you want anything from the bar? I need a beer. The first Friday shift at a new restaurant is always tough."